Sitting on the cold metal chairs with all the other basketball players on the team, I scanned the bleachers looking for my father. All the people standing in the bleachers looked the same, since the game was away. They wore orange t-shirts with black lettering and occasionally I saw people wearing red and black representing fans from my school. I didn’t see my father the first time, to make sure, I scanned the bleachers again, this time just focusing on the males. Continue reading “Dying Embers – Megan Spencer”
(I want to clarify that this is part of my faith story, even though it is rendered through a second-person pronoun. I did that deliberately. This device draws attention to the fact that every testimony is a way of talking to oneself, of dialoguing with the multiple voices that God has spoken to one over the years. I also wanted to hide myself, better put, to point beyond my self to others – my grandpa, my chemistry teacher, the fluorescent Dutch, and bearded Anabaptists – who have really shaped my self. And finally, this device has also allowed me to be even more self-aware while hopefully drawing the reader, you, into my faith journey.)
You wake up in the morning, after snoozing the maximum amount of times, and your chest feels like August, warm and slow, you say that it’s because you slept so well, but you remember, you didn’t really sleep at all. Your night was spent staring at the ceiling dreaming that tomorrow would somehow be cancelled. You play the reruns of past mistakes and lonely Christmas Specials on the back of your eyelids. You would kill for just five more minutes… or months… you supposed minutes will just have to suffice. If your life were a movie, its soundtrack would be like the sound of a funeral. You’re realize that the warmth you feel isn’t a comfortable kind of warm, it’s really just what’s left of your heart melting away.