Dear God Jones
“I don’t know what to say,” Riley says, something very likely often true, only now, while my knees carve moons in the carpet beside her bed, she feels vulnerable enough to admit it. I smooth Riley’s hair with my hand, playing with the tiny, curling strands about her ears, thinking that the only thing she ever pretends is that she doesn’t stumble over words.
We’d stood before her mirror while I gently loosed her ponytail with my fingers; she’d told me how she wanted her seizures to go away. “I don’t like them,” she’d said. Her tears clogged up the syllables.
“Just say what’s true,” I tell her now, tracing the slope of her cheek with my thumb. For nineteen years, I’ve been helping my children find words. “Tell God what you told me about how you feel, what you want.” I smile right into her stormy eyes, then I bend my head.
She draws in a long breath; I can’t tell whether it’s just an inhale or the crest of a sigh. “Dear God Jones,” she starts, and I smile more deeply, lips pressed into my arm. Years ago, inspired by a running joke with my mom, Riley began to call everyone she most loves by the name of Jones. I am Mom Jones, Kevin is Dad Jones; even Riley’s boyfriend, who actually doesn’t care much for nicknames, chose to be a Jones. Well, it fits then, I’m thinking, because I figure if God has a last name it would have to mean Love, and for Riley, that’s Jones.
“I know Dad Jones prayed for me,” she’d said, just as I pulled those deep purple sheets up to her chin, thinking they looked rich, the color of ripe plums.
“Yes, he did,” I’d said, considering her, realizing in two turns that she needed to pray right now, and that when it seemed unclear if she could hear at all, she’d heard Kevin pray for her. Remembering, I thought of him bending over her while she blinked silently after a seizure, the way we searched for recognition in her eyes. I could still feel the sweat I’d wiped from her forehead with my fingers. Kevin had asked God to bring her back to us, to help her speak.
“And I’m gonna pray again for you right now,” I’d said out loud then, drowning a little in the memories, “but first, I think you should pray.”
So now, I kneel beside her bed and I listen, while she talks to God and her voice shatters. “I don’t like them,” she prays, and the words fall hard, as close to angry as Riley will probably ever sound. “Please, I don’t want to jerk my head anymore; I want to be able to talk when people talk to me.” This last bit, it seems to cover a lifetime of pain.
She finishes, falling silent with a weariness I feel, and I pick up the prayer. It falls from my mouth as, “Oh, Lord,” like some say in incredulous slang when everything’s falling apart. And then I worship, thanking God that He’s always present and always good, even when I don’t understand. I agree with Riley in prayer, right there with the carpet etching my skin. I know one day God will heal her, but I ask Him to heal her now, while I can still lay my hand against her soft cheek.
“Mmmhmm,yes,” Riley says softly. I can feel the bed tremble as she nods her head against the pillow.
In the thin things, in these carved out places of faith, we’re just two children seeking after the same Father, knowing we’ll keep on believing Him, even if He says no.
