Ashwood Lane

"Just bring them back to me." I plead, my hands clasped together tightly in prayer, bonded by the cohesion of sweat and the friction of skin as I tremble on my knees in the Lords Light. I know not to abuse prayer for selfish gain, but things are just really hard for me right now. I would hope that in all my time of serving the Lord, preaching his name, living by his rules, just once it could come back to me in an observable form.

The rosary sits just above my bed. At this point, I know not if it guides me, or if it mocks me. The lord has always led me, strayed me from darkness and kept me on the righteous path, but sometimes, that just isn't enough.

No, lately, it seems my Father demands more from me. More than prayer. More than the Sunday visit of indulgence in his good word. Now? Now it appears he wants to teach me a lesson. Humility, perhaps. Or maybe to strip the humanity from my very soul to return to the purest form of his creation, his true intent.

You see, it all started, as fate would have it, last Easter. My wife, raised loosely Jewish, but not necessarily a religious woman, certainly not a Christian, had a certain quarrel with me. She had always been opposed to my "devout" brand of worship, but still, we loved each-other all the same. Her name was GiGi, which I would joke stood for "God's Gift".

You see, it is my duty as a servant of the lord to ensure that his word lives on not only through me, but through my family, my children. So, naturally, I insisted, nay, I demanded my family accompany me to Church, at least for Easter Sunday. It is only right.

My wife always hated this quirk about me, as did my daughter, Maggie. For 8 years we had gone as a collective, but last year of all years, it had to be a problem. Not that it was always a hassle-free ordeal, but never to this extent.

You see, my daughter Maggie, only 6 at the time, hated the visits the church. She was unsettled by the large gothic nature of the structure. She was disoriented by the loud blare of the organ pipes, and disgusted by the blood that ran from the Lord's head and hands on the crucifix.

Of course, this is only natural for a child, hell I was the same way. Only difference is, I paid attention. I never let the fear consume me. So as the tears ran down her face, I saw no sympathy, I saw cowardice. I saw refusal to accept God, refusal to even entertain his wishes as a mere passing thought. So, I screamed. What did I scream? Maybe it's a sin to even repeat it, and I have already atoned.

Deep down, I did feel guilty. Maggie, my only child, was maybe the thing I cherished most in my life behind the Gospel. I didn't look to agitate her to upset her or make her cry, I only looked to steer her right, to instill the lessons instilled in me and my parents before me. I just wanted to set her on the right path so one day, I could smile upon her watching my daughter that made it. So that when both of our times come, I would be waiting for her in Heaven with open arms.

Of course, my wife didn't like the scene I had made with my daughter, especially in public. But where better to set young Maggie back on the Lord's path then right outside of the cathedral? She was now dragging her feet in refusal to enter the Church.

"Thats enough Richard." I hear her say.

"What? What did you say?" I responded in outrage.

"Every single fucking year, every single year we have to go through this whole song and dance. You just HAVE to be the hero, the prophet, you have to play motherfucking Gabriel. In 2022, in 2022 you still insist on dragging us to this NONSENSE, and for what? What has God ever done for you? What has God ever done for us?"

The sound of this clear and concise heresy, well it just sent me off the handle. In no uncertain terms, she just announced her disbelief in God and all he does for us, blasphemed the name of the great prophet Gabriel, and maybe most of all, disrespected me in front of the Lord.

"What has God ever done for us? What has God ever done for us? You come home every single night, to your fucking sandwiches," Maggie was crying now, lying on the floor in absolute hysteria, but it didn't matter.

"To your fucking sandwiches and your TV dinners. To your warm bed and clean air. Your insulated walls, MY money, the very blood that runs through your veins. You watch your television and text on your phone and you pay 30 dollars for a man to bring a full meal to your front door while he makes penny's per delivery. You dare question what God has done for me? What God has done for us?"

"You know what," She responds. "I'll show you what God has given you. In fact, I'll show you what you have given yourself. Maggie!" She yells. Maggie quickly drops the theatrics and perks up at the sound of her mom's voice. "Get in the car, we're leaving."

"Oh, so what, you're just going to leave without me then?" I say, less angry than I feign. See, this isn't the first time she has done this. Not even the first Easter, in fact. She will just drive off in a puff, take Maggie out for Ice Cream, meet me back at the Church just as it is ending, and everybody will be in a good mood going back home to enjoy Easter, as a family, no matter how much their refusal of the truth may offend and infuriate me.

"Yeah, we are, and since God is so great, you can ask him what to do when you never fucking see me again!"

Those are the last words she ever spoke to me. See, I will never know if she intended on coming back or not. On that fateful Easter, at 11:45 A.M., My wife, Gigi, and my daughter, Maggie, they both died on Ashwood Lane.

I know you know all of this already God, but now I come to you, a year later, my hat in hand, begging you only one thing. I only wish on that day, when she had asked me what God had given me, I could tell her, "God has given me a family that transcends anything that could await me in Heaven." At this point, I don't know whose fault it truly was what transpired on that day. All I know is I would take it all back.