When I met God again, I resurrected from the fire—Kim Sisto Robinson
~On May 26, 2010, I died.
Not physically, well, sort of, but I’m talking more mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I’m talking more from the inside out like decay, or something crumbling, or an out of control fire inside one’s brain. I’m talking about experiencing the loss of God.
And for me, the loss of God is death.
I was mowing the lawn, savoring the scent of green. I was thinking about the roasted chicken with little red potatoes and hoping I’d remember to take them out of the oven when I got back inside the house. I was looking forward to traveling to Minneapolis over the weekend for my husband’s soccer game.
Just an ordinary girl with an ordinary life.
But everything changed when I received the call. The darkest, blackest, ugliest call in the world. The call that made me recognize the Devil was real.
“Mike killed Kay. She is dead. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.”
At that moment, I died a thousand deaths. I wonder if that’s what Shakespeare meant when he wrote:
To die—to sleep, No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache of a thousand natural shocks.
I recall the phone dangling from my right hand. I had on a black tank top, no makeup, jean shorts, and a high pony tail. Why do I remember the stupid stuff? I fell to the tiled floor. I screamed out to a silent God.
“Help me. Help me. Help me. Please. Please. Please.”
I wasn’t thinking about my sister as much as I was thinking about myself. How could I move forward? Who could ever fill the massive void of her? Who would I talk to, tell my secrets to, go to Barnes & Noble with, spend my birthdays with? Who would love me as much as she did? I am less, less, less. I am gone.
The chicken burnt. We never made it to the soccer game. Like I said before, I died.
I know what it feels like to go insane. I know what it feels like to drown and not be able to swim to the surface. I had always read Sylvia Plath and now I had become her.
I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Nothing stays the same.
E v e r.
In one minute, we’re here. In the next minute, we’re gone. In one minute, our heart beats wildly from our chests, in the next minute, that same heart ceases to exist.
Nights are the hardest when your sister dies. Nights are insufferable when you’re homesick, but then realize… you’re already home.
After three years of madness, I met God again on the corner of 65th and Cody. The yellowed grass was already transforming into deep emerald and the sky was the color of Jamaica. The heat was strong that day, melting on skin like something familiar and beautiful—like a friend you meet after a long absence, but it doesn’t matter a damn because you begin laughing and talking and catching up as if it were yesterday.
Sort of like that.
I remember two hands on my face, warm fingertips gently lifting an organza wedding veil for a kiss. I remember blood beginning to pump through veins. I remember rising, although I was standing still.
I was like, “Hey, I’ve missed you so much. Where have you been all this time?”
“Kim, I’ve never left you.” A voice whispered. “I’ve always been here.”
And I smiled.
—–Dear, Readers, do you feel gratitude every single day? If not, how can I help you? If you do, has this helped you rise up from the fire?