Becoming UnVeiled

Breathing while not alive isn't easy. In fact, it is HARD! You can see, smell, eat, laugh and participate in all of the activities in which living humans engage. But when you're breathing while not alive, a veil covers your senses. Your sight is not as sharp, smells are not as sweet, food is not as savory and laughter is not as authentic or deep, as that of the living ones. You walk around with the barely audible, but ever present question - What is wrong with me?

In my particular case, there were many clues that I belonged to the not so select group of merely breathers. The first one was my relationships, or should I say, lack thereof. I found it nearly impossible to bond with living ones. They laughed deep and loud at even the slightest hint of humor, enjoyed talking on the telephone, going to the theatre, turning the volume all the way up for their favorite song, and on and on. Their presence was a constant reminder of how full of life they were, and I wasn't. Their lives were confirmation that something was indeed wrong with me.

At a particular point in time, the inability to connect with the living became unbearable. My senses had become more heavily veiled. I had to do something. My breathing was at stake. I began searching for something or someone to help me. I called a couple of therapists but could not bring myself to actually go to one. After all, others might have thought I was crazy or something. Instead, I quit my job. I figured I was just tired and needed a break. I was hoping and believed that if I could simply rest and get away from having to face the living every day, the veil would not only thin, but eventually disappear. I was, I thought, journeying toward life.

With nothing but time on my hands, I was asked to help start a computer training program. Teaching afforded me the opportunity to control the veil, and I enjoyed it, so I agreed. For the first two months of the program there were no students. Zero. Null. Zilch. Then one day, a woman with a cane walked in. She held a crumpled up flyer that she'd found on the ground on her two mile walk. "I'm so glad I found you, I would like to learn how to use the computer," she said, smiling at me the entire time. Discomfort entered the room. She handed me the piece of paper, wrote her name and telephone number on it, and said she would be back tomorrow.

For three months, I taught one student how to use the computer. The woman with the cane. I grew up without a mother and she would have been my mother's age. I began looking forward to her visits. We'd laugh, she gave me advice. I taught her how to use Excel and Word. She invited me to her church. I declined. She didn't push. I was glad. It's not that I didn't want to go with her. It's that I didn't want to go to church. One of the last church experiences I remembered before the day of her offer, is being escorted from a regular member's seat to a seat for visitors, many rows behind where I chose to sit. That was not a happy moment for me. Rather than stay where I was placed, I left, vowing never to return. Another time, many, (many), years ago when I was about eight, I was singing in a choir in the church around the corner from my Brooklyn house. After rehearsal, I ran outside to get on my bike and ride home. The problem was, someone had stolen my bike.

My student invited me to church three times over a four month period. She was so kind and still my only paying student, so I accepted the third invitation. And, she promised I would enjoy the experience. My family and I visited New Life Baptist church in the spring of 1999. We were greeted with open arms and hugs by all we encountered - none of whom we personally knew. Different, I thought. We walked into the sanctuary and the worship music lifted me off of my feet, such that I floated to the seat I was being led to. My feet did not land until I reached the pew section to which I was assigned. I looked my husband in his eyes and tried without success, to share with him what my soul was uttering. I hoped he was able to tell. I heard beautiful music. I saw kindness displayed to strangers. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that there was a God, and he was in that place. I felt Him. I knew He led me there. I was sure I'd never be the same. I did not know how to do church. I didn't know the lingo, the vernacular, or the culture. But after that first visit, I never stopped going. Over the months, I began to feel a love, a cleansing, a healing, I never thought would be possible for me. My smile was reclaimed. Flowers were brighter and smelled sweeter. I met wonderful, new friends. I cried. I laughed. I was beginning to live.

In April of 2000, the pastor invited all who wanted to accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior, to come to the altar. I had been attending New Life for one year and I knew exactly what that meant. I was sure of what accepting Him would do for me. I understood and agreed that I was in a terrible place. I realized how horrible sin is. That because of it, I had suffered greatly and because of my commiting it, was overwhelmed with guilt. I knew that the only way to become fully unveiled and live was to be reconciled with the God who created me, loves me and wants me to love Him too. I excused myself past those who sat beside me in the pew. I walked down the aisle to the altar. People clapped. I reached the pastor. He reached out his hand, looked me in the eye and said, "This is the best decision you can ever make. Do you admit that you are a sinner?" "Yes." "Do you believe that God raised Jesus from the dead?" "Yes." "Do you accept Jesus Christ as the Lord and Master of your life?" "Yes." Claps and band music filled the sanctuary. I was ready to return to my seat, but the pastor didn't let my hand go. When the music subsided, he had one more thing to say to me, "Jesus died for you, the least you can do is live for Him."

Nine years ago I was given a new life, just as God promised. Today, I am alive and loving it. Life is by no means perfect. There are times when I want to stay in the bed all day to not have to deal with whatever. And there are times when I wish I could keep reliving a particular day. But unlike in my old veiled life, I am able to face and take on, each day's challenges. The last statement my pastor made to me on the day I was saved, "Jesus died for you, the least you can do is live for Him," has called me to more than just taking on challenges, however. I want to live for Him. I want everything I do, to bring Him glory. I want people to know what He did for me. I want to thank Him and show Him how much I love Him, by living my alive life for Him. If you also know the life found in Jesus, will you join me in doing the same? If you have never experienced the saving grace of Jesus Christ, I invite you to open yourself to the possibility of being alive in ways you cannot imagine.