THE DAY GOD BROKE MY DAM

      

               The Day God Broke My Dam                        From Memoir, A Dot In Time           

       

       "Chaplain Marggie," I heard the call and turned fast. The nurse rushed out the door of the clinic at Busch Gardens, where I worked as a volunteer chaplain for their employees.

        "We have an assignment for you. Can you take it?"  I nodded.

         It was an early afternoon at the park. I could hear the clicking of machinery ... rides worked overtime and patrons stood in line wiping sweat from faces.

         "It's a worker," she said. "She's depressed. Can't see our psychologist till tomorrow."  I nodded again.

         "We don't know if she can wait. Will you check it out?" She reached out and touched my arm. "It could be serious. She wants to talk to you."

       

          I bought a diet coke and sat waiting at the Mc Donald's where the Busch Gardens employee wanted to meet after work. I chose a small table toward the back. I recognized the uniform right away, the olive-green pants and the shirt with the animal prints we both wore. She was young. So young looking. Like a little girl. Latin.

         I motioned. She found me and walked slowly toward the small table I occupied and sat down at the chair across from me. Before I could ask her if she would like something to eat or drink ...

         "I'm Maria," she said. "And I need help."  She clasped her hands and lay them on top of the table as if to pray. Her hands were small and her nails, like her lips, dark red ... her voice, a soft breath. My heart very fast drawing unto hers. I silently prayed, "Let me help her."

           "How can I help you, Maria?" I asked.

           Her clasped hands moved up and down while she spoke.  "I need to cry. But I can't."

           I listened quietly for quite a while as she told her story. Married very young. Pregnant right after. She had married on a whim and found out later her husband was clinically depressed.

The night it happened she and their two year old slept through it.

           "I called to him but he didn't answer. I went to the kitchen. He wasn't there. Sometimes he would go down to our basement and listen to music. I made my way down the steps...." She unclasped her hands and placed them face down on the table.

          "I saw him. Hanging."

          Somewhere inside me I felt the bang. Sorrow. I quickly worked within myself to put my feelings on hold. My counseling training called for control to do the job. I also relied on these occasions on my grandmother's teaching from my childhood. Be strong. Don't show sad emotions in the presence of others.

         I reached across the table and touched her hand. "Maria, how long ago? When did it happen?"

         She held my gaze. "Seven years ago, today."

         I squeeze her hand and breathed in deeply. "That's why you need to cry today?"

         She shook her head. "No. I never cried," she said. "Not even then."

         The mighty force came unexpectedly and tore through the wall. It ripped through all my counselor's guards. I broke into sobs. "I'm so sorry, Maria."  She held my hand tightly and then ... she cried. She cried and I cried, not caring who saw. Two women with broken down walls. Seven years of held crying in long minutes of sobbing. We picked up napkins from the table and wiped our faces. She smiled, still holding my hand. "Thank you," she said.

         I stood and pulled my chair next to hers. We reached out to each other and hugged.

        "I needed that," she said.

            

      *These events happened years ago. The young woman's name has been changed to protect her identity.