Death is Not the End, Daddy

by Nate Allen

will hate me. They will give anything to see me suffer because of the pain I have caused them. There is no escaping what comes after I leave. I will be seen as the monster that killed fifteen children. Nothing else.

  This is a walk I never thought I would take. I’m as close to free as the shed is to me: feet away. The door is halfway open. The dark of the outside matches the dark inside. But, now there is a small light. Cleaner than day.

  It’s never too late, John. Even though I don’t know what Jesus is talking about, those words calm me more than I can describe. I step into the shed, and see the source of the light: dad’s pack of cigarettes. What you call Teddy wanted to bury this with your dad’s body. But, it isn’t powerful. It’s weak and small.

  I walk over to the pack. The light is the same that shone up at me from M’s teddy, the same that passed through me, and wrapped every part of me. As soon as I grab it, the light disappears. And suddenly, I feel like I found dad’s body again, or, how it would have felt if I wasn’t controlled by Teddy when I did. It’s sadness. Simple and heavy and painful. But, also necessary. I never did feel this. I only knew hate.

  My fingers have pulled open the pack. I’m digging inside. What I pull out is a paper folded three times unevenly:

  Son,

  I don’t deserve to live. I don’t want to. I’ve taken away your innocence, and left you with monsters. I see them when I close my eyes. They are the same monsters that have destroyed me. They have made me do things I never wanted to do. I betrayed your mom, my beautiful Anna. And I have destroyed my last love, my wonderful son. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know what I was doing. I chose to betray your mom. I chose it. And everything that has come from it is my fault. I’m so sorry, John. I wish I could ask you to forgive me.

  But, there are no words I can say. Nothing to make it better. I can only leave you with a message. Jesus is the only light. He’s the only one who can take away those monsters I have left in you.

  What I deserve is punishment. But, all I can think about is how Jesus forgives, even as I prepare to die. And how maybe He will forgive me.

  I love you, John

  Goodbye

  There are no words to describe how this feels. The sadness isn’t simple anymore. There is nothing simple about it. These are the words of a broken man who thought he had no other option. But, he didn’t have to die. Had I only known that he was sorry, it would have changed everything. I could have had him in my life, instead of the monsters he gave me. I would have forgiven you, dad. If you had just asked me, I would have forgiven you.

  Tears are starting to cover my cheeks. This is grief I’ve never known. Pain I’ve never felt. I am now entirely aware of everything I have lost. And with it, everything I could have kept.

  Close your eyes, John. it’s a soft command. Even though I have been told this very same thing many times today, it feels new. It always feels new.

  I close them. Immediately, I hear the sound of life. I feel the warmth of light. My eyes open. Not far away from me, mom and dad are sitting together on the bench, holding hands.

  Matthew Mills

  With my eyes closed, I have sat in the quiet of this bedroom and thought about the poison in me. About when it began: Dad’s funeral? His diagnosis? Somewhere in between? I thought about when my relationship with Jesus lost the close connection it once had. I thought about the first moment that I truly hated Him. It was when dad didn’t come back from the dead, when the lid closed, and the casket was lowered. And then I thought about how it has only been buried, deeper and deeper.

  There is a poison in me. Even now it is trying to drip doubt into my faith. It’s trying to ruin my encounter with Jesus by making me guilty over the peace I have: If you love Marcy so much, how are you okay now that she’s gone? I loved Marcy so much, that she became the air I breathed, and the blood that kept me alive. She wasn’t just my little girl. She was my idol.

  But, I remember when she was born. I remember how much time I spent with Jesus. Even as she started growing up, that didn’t change. When Janet got pregnant the first time after we had Marcy, it was planned. We had been trying for many months, seeking the Lord through every attempt. And as Janet slowly started to expand, we began to prepare for our little Michael. I pleaded the Blood of Jesus over him from his day of conception. And whenever I spoke about Jesus, something in me would come to life. But then, twelve weeks and three days into the pregnancy, Janet lost him.

  After that, I didn’t spend as much time seeking Jesus. And when I talked about Him, I didn’t have the same life inside of me. I haven’t ever since. As Janet began to wear her sadness around, Marcy became a bright light. When she would smile, I would too. And little by little I turned to her instead of Jesus, because she was always there. Always close.

  I’ve resented the Lord. Not just because of dad’s death, but because of the first and second miscarriage. And I’ve used Marcy to bury those feelings, to make me believe everything was fine. But, now that she’s gone, there is nothing to hide it. In the past three years, I have become a man who doesn’t love the Lord like he once did. There is a poison in me. And it’s eaten away so much of who I am.

  But, a healing is already starting to happen inside of me, because Jesus is enough. That hasn’t been true of my life since—I don’t exactly know when. Maybe it was the first miscarriage. Or maybe it was dad’s death. I don’t know when it stopped being true. I only know that it is. And that’s why, even on one of the worst days of my life, I am alive.

  Purpose/Helpless

  John Doe

  Freedom doesn’t feel the way I thought it would. I’m standing in this shed, terrified to leave it. I don’t want to be seen. I just want it to be over. I just want to be where mom and dad are, where the endless city is, where there is only joy, only light, only love. I tried to call for them, but they didn’t turn around. I tried to walk toward them, but I couldn’t move. I was just there. And then it faded.

  … This is a freedom I never thought I could have. Now that it’s mine, I wish it wasn’t just the beginning of what’s to come. I am a new man, who will pay for everything the old me did. Am I a coward because I want out? I know the answer to that question is yes. For most of my life, I have taken away so much. Now, I expect to be given a new life without any consequences? Without repercussions? Without being seen for who I have been? There are always consequences. And that is what my freedom will be.

  There is a purpose for you, John. It’s a reminder that drops into my mind like a stone into water, and spreads outward. I don’t know why, but suddenly I’m thinking about Matthew, about the way he hugged M before having her run into the school. There was only happiness on his face when he turned around. Nothing else.

  Before ever bringing her out here, I wanted to take her home. That hasn’t changed. The more I think about it, the more it spreads throughout me. I have a purpose. Maybe it’s as small as being the one who brings her home. But, I have always taken. I have always caused pain. What if my purpose is to bring back some kind of joy, even though she is dead?

  The reminder has reverberated, causing every part of me to come to life with the idea. I grab all of dad’s notes from the shed, and tuck them away in a bottom trench coat pocket. All that’s left in my right hand is the paper I pulled from Teddy.

  Burn the paper, and the thing you call Teddy. Do not take anything from this property with you. it’s a command that has a severity to it.

  I dig down into my pocket and pull out the handful of dad’s notes. I haven’t known about them until today, and now I can’t bring them with me. I want to. This is a part of dad that I never knew. But, I can’t take them. Jesus has guided me all this way. He told me to take nothing.

  But, they are just notes. Why can’t I take them? What will happen if I do? The paper with the eyes is the one I’m supposed to burn, not my dad’s notes. Just take them. This thought has crawled into my mind.

  I’m skimming through dad’s notes again. They are notes of his s
truggle, notes of his pain, notes I can relate to. I fold the full sheets in half, and walk toward the car.

  Matthew Mills

  I’m sitting on the couch across from Janet’s canvas, watching her paint. She hasn’t asked me why I’m not sleeping. She hasn’t said a thing. She is just smiling back at me shyly. It’s the same smile she had when we were newlyweds and I would watch her paint. Her cheeks would get many shades of red. The many shades they are now.

  Our first apartment was a shoebox, with one tiny room leading into another. She used our kitchen as her studio, spreading old sheets across the ugly tile floor. I had only begun working at the factory. It was one of the only reasons we didn’t find a different place to live. The pay was good. The apartments were cheap. The town was safe.

  But, Janet and I didn’t meet in Payne. We met in Anderson, North Dakota, a town that is about an hour away from here. It was where she was born, and where I grew up, from eight years old on.

  The first place I lived after moving out of my mom’s house was a room-for-rent: three hundred and fifty dollars a month, with working cable and internet. It was where I met Janet. She was eighteen; I was twenty. She answered the phone when I inquired about the room at her mom’s; she answered the door when I