Walking In Circles

"Cartoon Hand Drawn Girl Holding Mobile Phone Walking Elements" by PngTree is licensed under CC BY 4.0

Excerpt from Dad, Mom, Jehovah, and Me: Part Two - Chapter 1

When I was twenty-four, Keith and I received an unexpected gift—a daughter—who late one evening came into the world wanting not to be whisked away by the nurses but to stay by my side.

Swaddled in a white blanket, she was tucked into my hospital bed after Keith left to go home. Outside, fluorescent lights glared and footsteps ticked past, but all I cared about was gazing at my baby’s crinkled face and trying to get used to the feel of the word “daughter” on my lips.

Soon my days became filled with La Leche League meetings, with hours spent playing at the park, with my daughter on my lap turning pages as I read book after book about animals and the ABCs. She was my constant companion, always on my hip, her big eyes and toothless smile a reason to celebrate every waking moment.

And Keith, who had been a reluctant father at first, grew into that role in the ways he knew how. He never changed a diaper, yet he worked hard and included our daughter on every journey we took.

So to the outsider looking in, my life probably seemed picture perfect. In fact, when our girl was four years old, a snapshot of us—the Stevens family—would have looked lovely. It likely would have found us at our friends’ house—Titus and Cleo—who had three children of their own.

Our weekend habit was to sit at their dining table, a hand-crafted wooden Aggravation board between us. Cleo and I always partnered up, with Titus and Keith as our competitors. Dice in hand, we rolled, time and again, clacking our oversized marbles from space to space. Between turns, we ran to the kitchen, where boxes of fresh donuts waited—maple bars and cinnamon twists that bolstered us until the wee hours of the morning.

During game time, we didn’t need to watch the children. They were in and out of the dining room, running down the halls, all four of them high on sugar themselves, playing hide-and-seek and making up games, never giving in to sleep.

Those were wonderful times, experiences I used as proof that I should stay. Staying married to Keith was necessary. It kept me from losing what I held dear—my Witness friends and the privilege of raising my daughter full time, without the back-and-forth custody a divorce would bring.

Yet those reasons could not forever counterbalance my unhappiness. In my relationship with Keith, I was an insider looking out, my own snapshot taken from a different vantage point. It was one that could be summed up by a memory.

Pregnant with my daughter, I walked with Keith around the perimeter of a Utah convention center—where the summer district assembly of Jehovah’s Witnesses was being held. It was lunchtime, and along with thousands of brothers and sisters from across the state, we circled the auditorium. It’s what everyone did during the ninety-minute break: wandering aimlessly, searching the crowd for a familiar face.

Air thick with the heat of bodies, we scanned the passersby—teenage girls prowling for single brothers, mothers with strollers heading to changing stations, brothers in name badges, rushing to backstage meetings. Amidst the chaos, I hoped to find a friend—a sister from Grantsville with pale blonde hair and kind blue eyes.

For a moment, I thought I saw her and stepped forward, only to realize I was mistaken. That’s when I fell. One minute, the soles of my shoes were slapping against the slate-colored floor, the next, my backside hit hard concrete. My black-flowered red skirt flew high like a banner, then settled around my belly, which was larger than a basketball. The shock raced up my spine, igniting a frenzy of worry.

My baby! my mind screamed. Tossed about without warning, she might kick through the lake of my womb and spill out onto the dirty floor, two months too soon.

One hand against the floor, the other on my stomach’s curve, I fretted as the crowd shuffled past, their glances sympathetic. But they didn’t stop. My husband was there, and like me, they assumed he’d rush in.

When I reached up, however, my hand, its fingers splayed midair, hung untouched in the space between us.

Confused, I found his face—his eyes narrowed, his lips curled not in concern but in embarrassment. His look confirmed what I already knew. He was unnerved by my pregnancy: by my swollen stomach, which he refused to touch, by the baby inside whose hands and feet contorted my midsection into unnatural shapes. It was I, his expression said, who’d gotten us into this mess—his clumsy wife who was unworthy of an extended hand.

Graceless and ungainly, I struggled to my feet, the vibration of Keith’s shame coursing through me. Side by side, we continued our walk, wordlessly—two people with little in common—going around the auditorium, waiting for the next Godly sermon to begin.

It was fitting, I suppose. I was a master at walking in circles.

According to the Bible, it was necessary to stay on the narrow path—the figurative road to eternal life. I’d followed its curves for decades, succumbing to the rhythm of that journey: dresses and curls for thrice-weekly meetings, low-heeled shoes for the preaching work, and an eyeglass prescription, updated yearly, to make the Society’s text crisp and clear.

It was a ceaseless roundabout, and I kept pacing, praying my faithfulness would one day move God to fix my life. When that moment came, in the wake of Armageddon, He’d finally straighten my path.

Then I’d quicken my gait, bounding over piles of dead unbelievers until I reached a grassy meadow.

There, my parents—newly resurrected—would rise from their graves. Clad in fresh linens, their bodies, kissed by the healing air of paradise, would be remade into youthful versions of themselves, healthy and carefree.

That’s when our eyes would meet. Pell mell, we’d run to each other and collide in a jubilant hug—my father’s throaty laugh infused with elation, my mother’s tears overflowing with happiness—a family reunited, with nothing but blissful eternity ahead.

It was worth the wait.