A Change in Time

Chapter 6 - Awakening

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

I am a child again, rolling from under the church pew to sit up and hear momma sing, “Were you There?” With her raspy voice, I swear she sings that song better than Mahalia Jackson, Aretha Franklin, or any other famous Gospel singer. How daddy got her out of the lounges to sing in church with him I will never know. She must have told me a thousand times how she broke her two friends’ hearts when she gave up a Motown record deal to marry daddy and sing in the church. It is one of the few songs to bring a smile to my normally reserved father as he sits in his high backed chair next to the choir, eyes closed, swaying, and humming the words.

Were you there when they nailed him to the tree?

Were you there when they nailed him to the tree?

Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.

Were you there when they nailed him to the tree?

I was thrilled when members perked up at the end of the service when momma slides from behind the piano in her purple and gold robe to sing. She glides up the platform so gracefully, clears her throat, faces the congregation, and waits for the choir to get in place. She does not need a microphone in our small church. Anyone sleeping during daddy’s sermon woke up now. At the time, it felt good believing the church liked momma more than dad because of how angry I felt at him for making me go to church. They loved her voice. The church came alive when she really got going, balling her hand into a fist and stomping that old wood floor when she sang “tremble, tremble, tremble.” Even then, I felt something, a presence, stirring deep in my belly, softly moving along the nave of my neck

Just as quickly as the memory appears, it fades, leaving me in the darkness of the void. I never realized how much I missed those days. So here I am again. I must have failed the test. Was I not sorry enough? Did I not feel enough shame and guilt? Where are you Joshua?

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Jesus,” I shout as loud as I can. “Give me another chance and I swear, I promise I’ll be different. I will not be ashamed of you. I will not live ashamed.

My eyes fill with tears. I have never cried so much but I have never had so much to be sorry for.  I fall to my hands and knees.

 “Lord Jesus, I know that I hurt you and I’m sorry for that. I know that I hurt others by not telling them about you. I see that now. Give me another chance to tell people how much you cared for them. Give me a chance to tell them how much you suffered for them. Give me a chance to tell people how . . . how much . . .”

I weep uncontrollably for several minutes. The images of Christ battered body are fresh in my mind. I scream, sob, and beat my chest. Unable to speak, I think of what I might do given to chance to live again.

Out of the darkness, a light shines brightly. Night becomes day. The brightness forces me to close my eyes. When I open them, I see bare feet in front of me. Slowly, I look up to see a white robe just above the ankle, a thin gold band around his waist, and an outstretched, olive skinned hand with scars on the wrist. I cannot see his face but I do not need to. I grab his ankles, and while crying, press my lips to his feet and kiss them repeatedly. I feel a tender touch on my shoulder. A warmth floods my body and somehow, grief, guilt, bitterness and anger turn to joy. I was never good at memorizing scripture, but somehow, a passage my father quoted often from Psalms 86 comes to mind, “I will give thanks to you with all my heart, O Lord my God. I will honor you forever because your mercy toward me is great. You have rescued me from the depths of hell.”