Mirrors
by Jacqueline Johnson
May 8, 2007 — Published in Accounts & Glimpses
I peer into the mirror, mascara wand in hand, on this routine Sunday. Focusing on my left eyelash, I’m reluctant to meet my own gaze. I know what happens when I catch my own eye; simply through a reflection I can see my innards crumbling into a heap of debris as if one of the attacked twin towers on 9/11. I continue applying this mask, one product at a time. Able to conceal my despair with name brands and chemically-formed liquid, I add the final touches to zip up my secret.
For an extra dose of poise, I spritz perfume onto my neck while slipping into heels just in time to meet the church bells down the street. Now I can face the congregation. I hide nothing from God; he’s the only one I allow inside this weakness, He’s the only one with strength to offer me. Before dashing out the door, I debate whether to bring a Bible. If nothing else I can scan through verses for potential controversy, ideas to contemplate.
In the brief drive to the sanctuary, I distract myself with the radio and attempt to ignore my jittery hands and uneasy conscious. I realize I’m praying not to fall apart at the altar this time. I don’t need strange glances straining over bifocals from judging eyes; it’s bad enough I’m wearing a sweater from last season.
My two girlfriends are probably waiting for me, and saving a seat for me in the overly cushioned pew, and I’m glad I’m carrying my notebook for impromptu, private thoughts that should never be whispered, let alone thought, during a sermon.
Upon entering the parking lot, I finally decide on a distant parking slot, guzzle the rest of my latte, pop a piece of gum, and begin my womanly strut up to the church. The stark sky surrounds my vision and I suspect the weather empathizes with my internal state.
At the church entrance, I consider turning back and crawling back into bed until this sudden surge of weakness passes. Having to make human connection opposes the blank feeling inside. Instead, I force myself through the door on what is left of my will with a sincere, although concealing smile to the greeter, and take a bulletin from his worn hands. Anything to avoid further questioning.
Church greeters have this silly way of attempting to decipher whether you’re a visitor or if they should know you. If they think they know you, they try to read you, hence the reason I feign nothing is amiss. After all, what would I say, “Oh, my depression is just eating at me today, don’t worry about me?” Exactly. There is nothing to say because people make judgments and preach that depression is caused by not following God’s will. Have they ever considered that maybe depression is a part of God’s fallen creation?
My mind reminds my body that we only have to endure an hour and half, and as an added incentive, my body can have the rest of the day to lie in bed with the comfort and refuge from the quilt Mom made.
In the midst of my thoughts, an old family friend approaches, “Jane, how have you been? I haven’t seen you in awhile!”
“Oh, you know, just exhausted from the daily routine! Good to see you,” I say, with an inward grimace.
Our superficial interaction annoyingly interrupts my tumultuous thoughts.
Not until I finished walking down the corridor did I notice how I deflected eye contact with my mother’s old childhood friend. He reminds me too much of my mother, if only I could call her. But I’d have nothing to tell her; our connection was too deep for me to confide. If she knew the pain I was brewing, she’d worry unnecessarily. This taste of despair will blow over, I can feel it. I soothe myself with a reminder that I haven’t fallen into raging at God, I haven’t begun to doubt Him. If I begin to lose myself on this path, I will tell her. I will seek my mother, but not yet.
I remember my first day of kindergarten, when my mother had bent down to kiss me, look me in the face, and whisper she’d come to pick me up at the end of the day. Before the well wishes could leave her mouth, tears had already formed and were cascading down her high cheekbones. At this memory, knowing my mother would lie awake through the night concerned me. You see, our hearts have been connected since I was formed in the womb. When one hurts, the other twinges in pain as well. I had to protect her, along with the outside world, from myself.
I was cautious not to drag the hurt of my injured spirit into the sanctuary; after all, I was here to praise and worship God, not to show a bunch of cheerful strangers my dirty imperfections. No one circled around troubled members to lift them up to God. It was much more comfortable to deny negative emotions. The common belief was that God’s children did not have pain. But low and behold, there it was, pulsing steadily and silently through my veins in this so-called sanctuary.
Strangers around me clap to the unmoving guitar beats and do their best to sing the breathy verses in their untrained voices. I imagine God rolling his eyes at the women who feel the need to bounce their whole bodies to the overly exaggerated simpleton tempo. Even church services have been reduced to mediocrity. Nothing about this church rejuvenates me. I imagine myself standing in front of my Father, handing Him my depression in a tidily wrapped box, but the pastor’s sermon about Ephesians is only the third time I’ve heard another misrepresentation of the truth.
The pastor causes my ability to hand everything over to God to come to a screeching halt. Why does he insist on emphasizing women should be subservient to their husbands, but doesn’t remind the men that they must be able to sacrifice themselves for their wife and family as Jesus did for the Church?
Even the church’s warehouse appearance with no windows and cushioned seating leaves me empty inside. In the void I see, it is as though everyone around me is reducing their religion to an MTV all-access pass. I cannot understand how people condense their faith into trite testimonials meant to save the masses followed with emotional altar calls that offer no spiritual sustenance once the service is dismissed. The service changed emotions, not hearts.
I try to chalk up my bitter thoughts to this present mental state, but I can’t shake my outcast views. Suddenly, I feel like a denying hypocrite for even sitting in the same row with people who find joy in this corrupt version of worship. I keep hoping that one day I’ll surrender and suddenly find God in these surrounding falsified smiles and this version of adult dress up. But not today, I decide. I’m not prepared to surrender to something this unfulfilling. There has to be more, and I will search until I find it. For now though, I will come to this church to please my friends, and let my faith for more drive me toward God, and freedom from this façade.
Illustration by Lacey Anderson.
Jacqueline Johnson
Jacqueline Johnson is a published freelance writer and has been involved in magazine journalism for seven years. She has interned with Smithsonian Magazine and several local newspapers. Jacqueline studied journalism and women's and gender studies at Mercer University.
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