Church in Trinidad

Alyssa is starting to realize there is only one answer to her problems. The world offers so many "solutions," but none of them really seem to solve anything.

Christ is the cure. There is no remedy except God's love. We can run in crazy circles and tell ourselves that we are fine, but it's a lie.

Alyssa is beginning to understand this. She still has a long way to go.

Love, Lisa




I roll over in bed, reaching for my blanket. It’s all the way on the floor. Gremlin chants pound against my skull. My head feels like it’s been slammed in a door. I’m exhausted, but I need to get up. This is the last day before classes start; there’s a lot to do.

I throw cold water on my face and brush my teeth in a hurry. There’s no point showering; I’ll get dirty by walking to church anyway. I’m getting used to being muddy and sticky all the time.

Returning to my room, I select a flowered dress. Its silky material clings to my legs and waist. I touch my stomach briefly, and instantly I regret it. There should be a crevasse, a void. A dip where my ribcage ends. It used to be there; I would touch it every day. I want it back. I want to be a straight line.

It’s early enough that the streets are quiet. A few maxis pass by, but I keep walking. My legs are aching, which is a good sign.

A car drives by, kicking up dust. Black flakes cling to my skin.

“How it goin, whi-tey!” the driver hollers, whistling at me.

I’m gross, I silently tell the driver, even though he’s practically out of sight now. Don’t pretend I’m attractive. It’s a lie.

I sigh, because this fight with myself never results in victory. Never.

Eastern Main Road feels strange on Sunday morning. Stores are closed. Not just a couple of shops, but every single one. It’s a ghost town. A bird leaps from the sidewalk into the air. Its flapping wings echo down the street, the loudest noise for miles around.

My legs begin to tingle, the way they sometimes do when I’ve walked too far without eating or drinking. I pause for a moment, enjoying the sensation. This means I’ve worked my body past exhaustion.

Squinting down a worn-out alley, 5th Avenue, I spot a white building with a cross on top. It’s small, the size of a house. There are no people out front, just a home-made sign that reads “Jesus is Lord, Amen!”

The tingling grows stronger as I approach the church. I’ll need water soon, I know, to avoid blacking out. My heartbeat erupts in strange places, like my shoulders, ankles, elbows. I grasp the wooden door, leaning against the handle for a moment.

After catching my breath, I slip inside. Immediately, a wave of music hits me. It’s a gospel song.

I grab a seat in an empty pew. This church is relatively empty. Some of the rows only have one person, some two. Mine is empty, except for me. It’s not lonely, though. God suddenly feels much less distant than before.

Surprisingly, I know this song. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it before. Behold, He comes/Riding on the clouds…I try to join in, but my throat is dry. I barely make it through one line of the song before my vocal chords give out.

Suddenly I choke on my tongue.

I have to stare at the ceiling so I won’t cry. Uncle Chris is gone. He’s really done it this time; there’s no turning back. No joking or returning to the family.

Why him? I wonder, closing my eyes. There are people like me, people who make no difference and have no real ties to anyone.

Why wasn’t I the one who was killed?

I’ve been far from home for years now. Kevin picked Megan and my life became meaningless. I successfully alienated every person that ever loved me. It was like a twisted game where I earned a point for each relationship I destroyed.

Uncle Chris should be at home with his family. I should have been the one to flip over in a car on the side of the road. Chris has children and a wife. I have friends and acquaintances who won’t remember my name in a few years.

What the hell, I ask God, throwing up my hands in frustration.

“Out of Zion’s hill, salvation comes!” the people in the pews shout, raising their hands in worship.

My hand is high in the air, too. But it’s clenched in a fist.

And then it hits me: I have two options. I can continue to be angry, to feel that the world has screwed me…or I can turn to God, trusting that He is greater than these foolish problems.

“I’m sorry. I can change,” I whisper.

The words are drowned out by the loud singing, but God can still hear me. He hears every single word, tear and thought.

“I can change,” I repeat. But the growling in my stomach, the angry acid churning there, indicates otherwise.