Beautiful Danger

“If you don’t normally do this at home, then why are you doing it right now?” she asked herself for the third time.  She combed her hair to the side to keep it from whipping into a tangled mess, her eyes locked on the tattoo on his nape. Squinting her eyes, she remembered that back then, tattoos were a taboo, but tonight, she was not so sure. And as if entranced, she closed her eyes and chanted, “I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”  Life is funny sometimes. For the most of your life you think about one thing only to be told one day that you were wrong.

Time says it was well beyond midnight but here she was, letting herself get drawn to somewhere else, with someone else. The roads were barely lit, but she liked it; the stars shone much brighter this way. Maybe not as bright as the stars she saw back home, but a lot brighter than usual.

It was dangerous. And she knew that, even before he started asking her out. But she only counted the stars to keep her sane for a while. “It’s lesser tonight,” she thought, wishing the ride wouldn’t end too soon. It did. And the next thing she knew, they were already in front of a playground – swings still, and slides dusty, patches of grass growing in between the cracks of the cemented road.

“Diane,” she heard him whisper. Ron has been staring at her for a while now, half of his face, covered by a nearby tree’s shadow.  “I’m glad you went out for a ride with me. I mean, it’s a little late now, but…” he trailed off. There was hesitation in his voice when he said it, as if he were scared it would come out wrong.

“It is late, but what else could we do? C’mon! Didn’t you say you were hungry?” Diane flashed him a grin in response. Maybe it was his stare that caught her off guard, but whatever it was that set her chest drumming, she didn’t want to know anymore. It was too risky. She skipped to the stall instead and grabbed a few sticks of barbecue after dropping a few coins and bills on the old man’s palm.

“I didn’t know you had a birthmark,” he said in between  mouthfuls of puso. “It’s cute.” He started to trace his fingers on the pink triangle shaped mark on her left shoulder but she swatted it away. He started doing it again but this time, she moved several inches away.

“What in the world is wrong with this guy? Doesn’t he know how much tingles I get each time he touches me?” It could’ve been loud had she not just thought about it. She pursed her lips instead and pretended she was alright.

He chuckled. “You know, you’re pretty even when you get mad.” She looked up and expected him to laugh and say he was kidding, but he didn’t. Instead, what she saw was so beautiful, it was painful, she had to look away and pretend her eyes hurt.

She wanted to hide. She wanted to get away, but at the same time, she didn’t. She hated getting drawn to every single word he says, but she wanted to get closer. To just feel what it is like to actually like somebody. Even if it were only for one night.

Except that it didn’t last for just one night. It lingered too much, her chest hurt. And it’s been weeks.

“I told you it was all a mistake,” she mumbled to herself under her sheets. “I told you he’d stop because you were never meant to be there in the first place.”

Diane rolled to her side to check her phone for the eighth time.

Are you sure?

I’ve already told myself a couple of times to stop being the storm. To stop being the word of mouth before and after I subconsciously rip and tear everything apart. But I couldn’t help spinning and picking up pieces as if to mend them but only leave windows and doors open. Hearts and souls wounded.

I’ve already told myself a couple of times to stop being the scorching heat. To stop assuming that a little more brightness could help the darkened little corner. That it wouldn’t burn the whole place down like the arson that I truly am.

Perhaps I’ve told myself to stop being the feline as well. To stop purring for a hand to run over my fur, before I raise my claws to scratch it away.

But I am the feline. I am the flame, the storm, and I didn’t know. I come and leave a horrible mark we once thought was beautiful. A little like the scar you’d get from riding the bike with no hands.

No. I don’t think you should get scarred or burnt by me. 

The Trip to Simala

“I should’ve worn a gown instead,” I said when we were about to stop in front of the cathedral’s gate. 

I raised my head to marvel at the castle-like cathedral whilst dodging the vendors by the church gate trying to sell us the bottles of lana they were waving in front of our faces. I cringed remembering how Yahshua (Jesus Christ) abhors making the temple a market place (John 2:15). Not that a church is similar to a Jewish temple, but if a place is supposed to be sacred, should people not treat it as a sacred place? At the entrance of the church I read a framed post on the selling of ‘sacred’ objects: ‘Do not be offended when you see people selling you candles or oil. These things are also sold in malls and outside of the church.”

Although unfinished, it was a grand place, although a little too Gothic for my style. We were one of the few people still inside, including the watchman, the maintenance person, and the young nun who stood behind a stall to collect donations. I wonder how she decided to be a nun for the church’s patron, Mary. I wanted to talk to her, but I didn’t have the courage to ask. I wish I had.

While he was lighting up a candle to pray, I was reading the posts outside the church about why lighting a candle was necessary. Cocking my head to the side, I tried to read the hand painted reasons. What I remember reading was that it was what “God wants us to do”. I ran down the list of verses they’ve used as a reference but not one said anything about lighting up a candle, unless you consider “God’s word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path” a command to have Christians light up candles.

I proceeded to the recesses of the church where three statues stood behind a pane of glass. One for Mary and the child, one for Christ carrying the cross, and one for the newly ordained saint of the Roman Church. It only took a few seconds of staring at the different faces of Mary until I couldn’t take it any longer and went away to sit and talk to the Lord.

If you could see, at the topmost center portion is Mary's largest shrine, the devotees would have to access a different route, barefooted to kiss/touch her to receive her blessing.

Exodus 20:1-4a says, “And God spoke all these words:

‘I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of Egypt, out of the land of slavery. You shall have no other gods before me. You shall not make for yourself an idol in the form of anything in heaven or on the earth beneath or in the waters below. You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I, the LORD your God, am a jealous God…’”

It’s only just too painful to think that a mere human being, no matter how blessed she may be, is more exalted than the Creator of the universe. I sat a little more on the bench, wiping my cheeks and my runny nose, thinking how ironic it was that here I was, in a place of idolatry, being reminded that Yehovah, the God of Israel, the God of the Universe, is the one true God. I felt relieved for myself, but burdened for the people in ways more than one.

Until when would this go on? I’ve heard thousands of devotees visit the place yearly to worship and pray to the earthly mother of the Messiah. Since when did God have dead human intercessors? We could flip the Bible over and over and find not one reference for this. It’s sad how we stick to tradition than what God says is right. We all know there is no one true and perfectly Bible-based body of religion or doctrine today that we could follow alone, due to human interpretation. But despite this fact, we refuse to find the ancient path – the one God has been telling us to search for. That we seek Him, and nothing nor anyone else.

During the ride home, I only kept on thinking about how hurt and jealous the Lord might be right now. Not only are people diverting their devotion to a fellow human being and other saints, but so-called Christians like me are not doing anything to help it either.

The Lord is gracious and merciful, still. I am entirely blessed to have been reminded despite my stubbornness in this city.

Eventually, I shared my thoughts to him on the bus. He nodded. I still hope he understands. I hope he’d start placing his hope on the Rock I’ve placed mine on. The others, too. If not now, soon. May the Holy Spirit work in their hearts as He had worked in mine.