Tears in my Ticket

 

 

I used to have nightmares about demons. Red-eyed monsters in my closet, under my bed, hanging in the shadowed corners of the ceiling of my bedroom. I’d wake up screaming, thinking they were still there, watching from the darkness. Waiting. 

Growing up in the church made it worse. Because they tell you an eternity of demons and fire waits for you on the other side of death. It was then that I started having dreams about my guardian angel, dead, hanging from a noose. 

But they also tell you that by grace, by faith, by the mercy of God, you are forgiven. Redeemed. Rescued. Given a first-class ticket to the forever paradise if you believe in Him, if you follow His ways. 

It was only a comfort until it felt like a threat. Because every sin was a tear, every knick a mistake. 

Because, in the end, a torn ticket is no ticket at all. 

One life, one ticket, one chance. 

And soon I’d be counting every tear.

​

~~~

​

My first time back to church in years and we were going to be late. I was two seconds from telling Kaleb to turn the car around. But Pastor Greg was one of the most real and honest pastors I’d ever met, and we had friends who went to this church. So, we were going. Even if we were late. Even if it was another tear.

I rehearsed my story in my head, the one I practiced in case anyone asked. I moved to town to be closer to Kaleb while I finish my masters. That’s all. Wasn’t wrong. Wasn’t an outright lie. I just had to be sure to leave out the part where I moved in with Kaleb, before marriage, to avoid getting ostracized from the church. Like I almost was from my entire family. Check, check, and double check. 

Shit, I was planning to lie to a pastor. In the church. In front of God. And now I was cussing in my thoughts. God could probably hear that, too. Double shit. I sent a silent apology to the sky as we hurried across the church parking lot. Kaleb held open the door for me. I shot him a quick smile. 

It wasn’t a big deal—it really wasn’t. Being late, and also the living together thing. It’s the twenty-first century. People live with each other all the time. We were two consenting adults. And we were engaged, at least. Right? Right. I repeated it to myself, over and over, until the clenched fist around my lungs stopped pressing. Until I (almost) believed the words. 

The sanctuary was a long rectangle shape with tan and red bricks lining the stained-glass windows along the walls. A large silver cross loomed above a white marble altar. The ceiling spanned high above, making me feel like an ant under a microscope. We searched for an open spot in a pew. 

Were people looking? It felt like they were looking. Even the stained-glass saints seemed to be watching, whispering about my premarital sins like it was a wine stain on a white dress. 

The service began. I startled when Pastor Greg came out in a casual button down instead of the traditional long white robe I was used to. An older gentleman from the congregation came up to do the scripture readings. I tried to focus on his words, but the ceremonious way he read the scripture made me want to laugh. It somehow reminded me of the wobbling vibrato of the turkey mayor from Chicken Little.

Kaleb caught my smile. He leaned into me, smelling like mint and soap. 

“Turkey mayor. Chicken Little,” I whispered in his ear. 

He was smiling before I finished the sentence. The corners of his lips tightened and tilted downward, and a wheezing breath passed through his nose. My chest warmed at his suppressed laugh. I lived for those moments, those unexpected laughs, those smile creases and crinkling freckles. I hoarded them like a magpie with shiny treasures. He got my jokes. He got me. And coming home to him every day—it was the biggest treasure. 

We rose for the song. The looming metal cross spanning ceiling-to-dais caught in the light as we rose. Comforting and frightening, frightening and comforting.

Inside these walls my hoarded treasure was wicked. Impure. Immoral. But I couldn’t understand why God would give me Kaleb then condemn me for loving him. 

Chicken Little believed the sky was falling. I was pretending mine wasn’t. 

The dog-eared corner of my ticket folded further in on itself, tearing just a bit at the seam. 

But my world slowed when the chorus began. 

It was full and repeating, and I was lost in the finite space between chords, in the echoes of notes against marble and brick, in the way vocal cords vibrated in tandem, miraculously, strangely, with every note. Just for a moment, my thoughts quietened, and my chest felt full. I loved the sensation. I wanted it forever. 

But the song soon ended, and the world got loud once more. 

 

~~~

​

Everyone talks about the pressures of being the first child in the family. But no one talks about the pressures of being the “good” child, or the grandkid of a pastor, or the expectation hidden behind the phrase, “at least we did right by you.” 

I was too young to remember the divorce. My brothers, who were teenagers at the time, lived through it. 

It made all the difference.

The drugs, teenage parenthood, close shaves with the justice system—by the time I was their age, my parents were eagle eyed. So, the pressure remained. To stay out of trouble, to not do drugs, to not party, to get good grades, to go to college, to go to church. So, I did that. I found value in it. Was valued because of it. I found joy in school, in the challenge, in the accomplishment. 

But then my accomplishments turned into the usual. The baseline. Straight As was no longer an achievement; it was the bare minimum. And suddenly, none of it was ever enough. 

It was perfection, or it was nothing. 

Perfect Daughter. Perfect Granddaughter. Perfect Sister. Perfect Girlfriend. Perfect Christian.

Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier to be nothing at all.

​

~~~

​

Kaleb and I went back to church the next Sunday. I wanted to hear the music again.

We were early. Claimed a spot in the second row. I breathed easier when I was early to things. It felt like an achievement. I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter, that no one would be giving me a grade or a trophy for how many minutes I was early to church, but it didn’t matter. Still, I was able to focus better this morning. That was, until I accidentally sat a little too close to Kaleb. He folded an arm around me, keeping me close. It was nice. Warm. Our knees touched, and I stared at the point of contact. I didn’t think this closeness was appropriate, not for church, but it felt too nice to move away.

I tried to refocus on Pastor Greg’s sermon. He didn’t stand above the congregation. He talked of forgiveness and light rather than fire and brimstone. It was a nice sort of strange. 

“—just as he says, dear friends, I turned my face to the Lord God, seeking him by prayer and pleas for mercy with fasting and sackcloth and ashes,” Pastor Greg said.

Did he just say sackcloth? I didn’t zone out that long, did I? What the hell did I miss?

Kaleb brushed his thumb over the skin of my shoulder. I stole a glance his way. Hazel eyes under dark lashes were focused, relaxed, yet I wondered if his mind was elsewhere, too. His thumb made another pass across my skin, this time in a slower, wider arc. A small shiver danced down my spine. 

Sinner. 

I scooted away from Kaleb and folded my arms tightly around my middle. God is a mind reader, Bekah. Stop thinking about Kaleb’s knee touching yours and his fingers on your skin. And now—stop getting distracted with feeling guilty about thinking about being distracted. 

Now I was just making myself mad.  

God, why was I like this? Why did you make me this way?

The questions stopped me cold. They do every time. They are old bruises, ones I can never stop poking, poking, and poking. But the constant ache was better than voicing the words aloud to someone who may never hear me. My stomach dropped. Someone who—who might not even—

I didn’t finish the thought. I couldn’t. I was going to be sick.

I felt my ticket tear a bit more. 

I sang along with the final song. I didn’t hear the words leaving my lips. 

 

~~~

​

My mom pinched me for misbehaving in church, once. She always kept her fingernails on the long side, always perfectly manicured and colored. I was ten, I think. I was crumpling up the bulletin, loudly, trying to make a four-sided, origami fortune teller out of it. She whispered at me to stop. I made a petulant face and made sure to crumple it even louder. 

The woman in the row ahead of us turned around to side-eye our family. I made a face at her, too. That’s when mom pinched me. It left a little red mark. I stared at it until it faded. In the silence, I heard my ticket ripping. 

It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. 

My mom felt terrible about it. Apologized afterwards. Never did it again. But I stopped making fortune tellers in church after that.

 

~~~

​

Pastor Greg said that God loves us more than anyone, that he knew us better than we even know ourselves. I think it was meant to be a comforting thought. So why did I feel only terror?

Did God see the person I was trying to be, wanted to be, or did he see only the darkness and doubts that lingered below the surface? Which part of me would I be judged for at the end of my borrowed time? 

I thought of Lilo’s drawing of Stitch, marked with blue and red percentages. This much of you is good, this much of you is bad. Bad side was winning. Then Stitch, building a city of toys and lamps and cars, and destroying it. I always related to Stitch more than Lilo. Jagged reds, tentative blues. 

Everything I did was to make up for the bad. Everything I did was to prove I was worth it, that I was good enough for a chance. But I feared my unrepentant reds were damning me.

We kept going back to church. I needed it. I think Kaleb needed it, too. 

 

~~~

​

They asked me and Kaleb for our addresses to put in the church member directory. Addresses, plural.

 I didn’t know what to say. 

The more we went, the more I felt like an imposter, a hypocrite, a sham. I felt stripped of my defenses, every flaw on display, every sin shining like a stain under a UV light. 

Is there a tear for every lie I’ve told? Is there even a ticket left to tear?

​

~~~

​

 My brain is too loud today. I can’t find the volume switch. I don’t hear the reading. I don’t hear the sermon. I stare up at the cross like it’s my last lifeline in the sea.

I’m sorry I’m a bad Christian, God. I’m sorry my brain won’t stop buzzing, breaking, doubting, constantly, continually, even if it’s for you.  

Am I on or off it, God? Your path, I mean. 

(Or am I just a meaningless speck, floating through a vast and unending universe?)

Actually—don’t answer that. 

We stand for prayer. My heart is in my throat. I fear what waits me at the end of this path. 

Our Father, who art in heaven, 

Hallowed be thy name.

My mouth is full of desensitized words, my tongue heavy with the weight of unasked questions. 

Lead us not into temptation,

But deliver us from evil,

But faith without question is no faith at all. Or is it? Or is perfection—salvation—found in the absence of questions? 

For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory. 

Each word sucks the air from my lungs. Kaleb is gone and I feel far away.

Forever and ever,

Amen.

I was Chicken Little and the sky was falling. I was Stitch alone in the woods, his crayoned reds and blues jumbled and scribbled and broken. The stained-glass saints are closing in and I’m lost in a cavern of uncounted questions, only dead ends no returns no pick-ups no trade-ins and no one can see me, no one can hear me and if I scream right now would that stop the questions would it hurt to try? Would anyone even notice if I did and if I leave—if I finally leave—would the questions leave, too?      

I 

drown.

~~~

​

Will I go to Hell for living with Kaleb before marriage or did I finalize my own damnation long before him Are there too many tears in my ticket Why am I like this Why did I have to overthink everything Am I off the path Do you hate me Did I have to be ashamed of my life Could I ever erase make up for my reds Could I ever be enough for you Can you stop the questions Was I even worth it Why was I like this Why was I like this Why was I like this— 

I run down the aisle. I kneel at the altar. 

I press a finger to the cross. I let the metal slice my skin. 

I shout at the pulpit. I cry in a back pew. 

I tear up my ticket. I walk out the door. 

I stay, frozen in place, paralyzed by self-inflicted wounds. 

​

~~~

​

The final song begins. I barely hear it over the off-key ring of ifs and buts and not enoughs. 

Still, I stir at the sound, staring blankly at my hands, at the silver engagement ring on my fourth finger, at my cracking knuckles, white with the grip on the pew in front of me. My chapped lips are chewed raw. I lick at them. They sting. At least I can feel it.

The song is louder now, as if twisting a radio dial up in my ears, and the chorus begins. Even the encroaching darkness, the numbness in my bones, seems to pause at it the soft melody. The notes begin to catch on the gaping hole inside my chest. I close my eyes at the strange sensation. The hole still feels empty but now it feels like something’s there, like a loose ribbon tugged into a tie. And when the chords soar through the room, when the music oozes in a pleasant putty across the pews, the ribbons pull my neck upward and I open my eyes.

I’m hallucinating. 

My cloudy eyes and stiff joints are met with a mosaic of kaleidoscopic fractures. Oranges and blues and pinks and reds sing in slanted lines of light, the brick, the marble, the altar, the cross, all beaming with color. Even the flecks of forgotten dust wandering through the air are imbued with glittering rays. And as the stained-glass saints glow with the rising light of day, I realize no, no, it’s not a hallucination. It’s real. It’s transcendent. It’s magic. 

It’s God. 

And for a moment, everything’s transposed with hazy rainbows and twinkling soundwaves. 

A jarring slip of ill-fitting notes ends the peace. 

​

~~~

​​

I flinch. 

The pianist’s hand must’ve slipped. 

The clashing tones echo in my ears, the dissonance near painful after the beautiful chords and color that came before. A loud silence echoes. 

But then the pianist corrects. The chord realigns. The tension breaks.      

The second verse begins in full, and somehow it sounds…even more beautiful than the last. The colored light from the stained glass doesn’t leave and the song doesn’t end, and I bask in the warmth of this colored light, the grace of this imperfect song. 

And it’s like the answer to a question I’ve never asked before. Because somehow these disparate mixtures of sound make music, and these broken pieces of colored glass make something new. Because faith can be wrinkled, or smudged, or bent at the corners, but it can never be torn or taken from me. 

The song ends with one final, resonant chord, and its overtones linger high in the rafters above. It’s…perfect. Whole, despite its dissonance. 

Because of its dissonance. 

I don’t have a ticket. I don’t think I ever needed one. God sees me—broken pieces and all. 

He’s here. He’s real. And He hasn’t given up on me.

And in the dying embers of the sound, my lungs remember how to work, like drunken accordions finally filling with air. 

I breathe easy for what feels like the first time.      

​

~~~

​

Kaleb’s attention turns to me, then. It feels like an eternity and milliseconds since I’ve last looked at him. He dips his head to catch my eyes, his mouth lifting with a tentative, questioning smile. I curl my fingers around his, mirroring his smile with a soft, shaky one of my own, and it’s like seeing the sun after years in the dark.

I stand on precipice between sound and silence, whole and half, question and answer, and it feels like my chest is split open, my ribs splayed wide, revealing the red mushy mess beneath. Vulnerable. Exposed. But it feels good, too. Like the thing ripping through my chest is also mending it, piece by piece.

Because in the face of all that’s left unknown, Kaleb’s jagged edges have always fit with mine. Because he has stuck by my side through the ups, the downs, the reds, the blues, would stay even if the sky falls. 

​

Because this path is imperfect, unknown, full of jagged edges and frequent questions. 

​

But it’s the one that God meant for me. For us.      

 

~~~     

​

We keep going back to church. We sit close. We make friends. We go home, hand in hand. We dream of our lives together, of sunsets and music and an unbroken sky. Our path unfurls before us, a flower finally, finally, in bloom. 

 

Unafraid, we take our next steps into the lovely unknown.