I was exhausted after the half-hour jog. I stopped and lowered my body and supporting it with my hands on my straightened knees. I could feel the blood in all my body, not only on my muscles, but also in my throat, my lungs. I could also feel the tears streaming down, slowly, mixing with the little bit of sweat accumulating on my face. I raised my torso and wiped off some of that mixture, defying of the heartache and the muscle-ache. I had better start walking a bit to cool down from this run.
And before me stood the church I was attending once a week, where I sought solace from a religion I didn't belong to. I hesitated. Sure, I had to cool off more, walk at least another ten minutes. But that was probably an excuse to silence the desire for some real peace. I'd been running that half hour to channel out the unbearable pain from the news earlier. I touched my heart with my right hand, felt that it was still throbbing hard. The important point, however, was that it was still throbbing. It still had the energy to move my body and soul forward. And I felt that the some of the emotions have come out already, seeping out through my legs, my lungs, my nose, my skin, my eyes that were already red before I had left, before I had decided the change into my jogging clothes and put on my jogging sneakers. It was not all gone; just a small glimpse of peace was felt replacing the turmoil that exploded a few hours earlier.
At least I no longer felt hatred.
So I walked up the plain steps of this Catholic church of modern design, opened the glass doors, walked through the familiar carpeted hallway, and opened the wooden doors to the heart of the building where worshiping was every visitor's main objective. Mine was worshiping the embodiment of love and peace. I sat at the last row, in the corner, where it was darkest. I was in darkness, of course. I didn't know what to do. It was as if there was so much racket happening but all in the darkness, like when assassins come in the night when all the lights had been extinguished and only screams and piercing of the flesh and breaking of lives can be heard. And without looking around except to make sure the nearest worshiper was far enough away, I buried my face in my hands and shed my tears quietly. They weren't merely tears of sadness, but also frustration and anger, remnants of the hatred, though hatred was welcome to be released here too.
And I poked at my wounds by remembering the rattling that happened a few hours ago. The rattling of my heart when she told me she officially had a boyfriend. The chill of the church moved down my spines and into every bone marrow I had. Where was the warmth? The love? The only warmth was from the tears that didn't stop coming out. I thought I had none to shed, but now there was more. After a few minutes, I felt ashamed. Perhaps that was the first step of enlightenment; after shedding enough tears the newly gained territories of peace allowed me to have some perspective of the situation.
I was making a big deal out of something small, perhaps.
I didn't have any tissue with me so I couldn't wipe my eyes. I wasn't prepared. I left the house only to run so I can expel my anger and frustration and hatred, all against life, not against her. The word "boyfriend" still rattled me as I sat peacefully in this quiet, dim hall of the Lord. I wiped my face, therefore, with my sweatpants. Then I finally opened my eyes and looked around me. This church resembled more one of those modern Protestant churches, with all the religious references in abstract, cubist form. But it's Catholic all right. The body of Christ was at the far end, looking down forlorn on his cross. I looked at his face for a good few minutes. It was a cubist-like sculpture, which made it even more sad. But what was he so sad about?
About humanity, about his need to suffer this miserable death in order to save humanity from itself.
He didn't seem to be in pain for me, although I could imagine, as always, the unbearable torment of crucifixion, not to mention what he had to endure before they raised him on the cross. He was just sad. He was going to be resurrected, he knew that, but on all the crucifixes, he always looked sad. But his sadness put mine in some perspective. His embodiment of love put my anger and hatred also in some perspective. And then the tears came running out again.
I decided to hang out in one of the mid-week evening, short masses the past few months, after being inspired by this book I was reading. It's called "Life of Pi" and in it the main character decided to convert to Christianity because he was touched by the idea of a God so loving of humanity that he would sacrifice his own son to save it. So I started going to mass to listen to sermons of the rather progressive priest talk about love (as opposed to the sometimes hateful messages against gays and women found in the modern Catholic Church). But the message in the end is always that simple one of love.
So after my tears were done shedding, at least for now, I raised my head again and looked at the cross again. And then I let my mind wander freely. It felt like a big Sunday market where so many things were happening but you couldn't really capture a single image. Then after some time, the market started clearing off, exhausted from its own energy, and got a bigger plot of my peace. At that point, I sounded out the bell of that word again, "boyfriend."
A slight pang deep in my heart stirred noticeably.
But it passed.
My eyes remained dry, though it was probably still red.
I focused on Christ's face, his body, his whole gesture, again. If He loves us so much, why can't we love ourselves too, at least that much? And that's when the soothing words started to caress my soul like the calm sea does to the pebbly beach. There's movement, but not violence, there's sound, but not explosions. Like a lullaby sent from that sad cubist face.
"Boyfriend."
It didn't feel so sharp anymore. What felt like a stab of a sword was really just an irritating sting from a splinter. It slowly became clear to me again, as I had always known but didn't remember when the pain was too overwhelming, that it wasn't about that word itself. It was about this love. That word was a prize for love, and whenever I didn't get that prize, the world collapsed around me, in me. There were other prizes of love, but this one was the most elusive and therefore meant everything, trumped all other prizes. And after sitting there for some unmeasured amount of time, I could smile a little while adoring the sad face at the far end of this hall of worship. I was still sitting in darkness, but I felt the night in my heart was slowly giving way to a twilight of some renewed hope. I don't know how long it will be before I felt pain again, but I was just enjoying the prospect, now, of some renewed hope.
I lowered my head and gave my thanks for a world where there was a place like this for me to go to, for a city where I could run using the energy of my anger, and for just being here. And I sat there a little longer in silence, just enjoying the peace.
