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.
