Death is Not the End, Daddy

terms. She didn’t have a gender. She didn’t have a name. She was body or the deceased.

  It was a short call. And when it was over, I took Marcy from Janet’s arms, carried her upstairs, and laid her on the couch. Janet didn’t try to follow. She didn’t say another word. She looked at me with grateful eyes, like I was taking away a burden.

  I kissed Marcy’s cold forehead once and then covered her up with the throw from the couch. I didn’t stay with her any longer. I joined Janet at the bottom of the stairs and held her close…

  Even now that the knocking has started, I haven’t let her go. She needs to know that this isn’t going to break us.

  “We’ll get through this, sweetie.” I whisper as I stand up. “I promise.”

  It’s Jesus within giving me the strength to stand and walk toward the door. It’s the promise of the five words He gave Janet; and the responsibility of the four Marcy told me. I have to hold onto what I know.

  I’m opening the door for them to take her away. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It’s the very thing I avoided when my dad died. I was there for all three years of his battle. But, when he took his last breath, I had to leave. That small boy still exists in me. He still wants to leave, to hide away, and to avoid this reality at all costs.

  He still exists in me, but I am not that small boy anymore. I’m opening this door, because I trust that everything is going to be okay. Despite the questions I have, and the deep pains I feel, and all uncertainty that remains, I trust in Jesus. He’s my Rock as the rest of my world crumbles beneath my feet. He’s my joy. My peace. My comfort…

  Two men are waiting at the door. One is a cop, the other a coroner.

  “Have you said your goodbyes?” the coroner asks.

  I can only nod my head as I look back at Janet. She nods the same with a sniffle.

  John Doe

  I’m like garbage in the backseat of this cop car: my very presence causes disgust. The officer cuffed my wrists, read me my rights, and then said nothing more. He already sees me as filth. And he doesn’t even know how dark it goes. He only knows that I kidnapped fifteen children. He doesn’t know that fourteen are dead and buried.

  If he did, I don’t know how he would react. He won’t look me in the eyes as it is. I’m already a monster. Already. And he has only heard the beginning. If this is how he sees me before knowing everything, what will I be after? If I’m already a monster, what’s left?

  He’s talking to someone else over his handset about the situation: the Mills girl was deceased upon arrival; another officer is with the family; the coroner is examining the victim’s body; the culprit is in custody; I’m bringing him back to the station now—

  As the car pulls away, my eyes scan over the remains. The red and blue lights make everything look hollow. The white van parked in the driveway is there to take M’s body away. This is what I leave behind. I take happiness away and leave nothing. The Mills’ home is now just a crime scene…

  Matthew Mills

  The only way I know I’m awake is because I’m not reliving last night anymore. It still feels like I’m sleeping. Or it feels like I’m awake, but from a terrible nightmare where I lost my little girl. It feels like I could leave our bedroom right now and find Marcy watching Saturday morning cartoons in the living room. If I let myself, I can even hear it. And if I let it, it could make me incredibly sad.

  What I’m feeling is too familiar. After I lost dad, every day was a struggle to feel anything at all. It was easier to exist in a state of suspension, where time didn’t move and life didn’t continue. It was easier to hate God than to trust Him…

  I’m faced with the same choices now. But, I understand so much more than I did after dad died. The Lord didn’t take my little girl to hurt me. He took her because He had become a footnote in my life. He took her so that I could finally see the poison that’s been slowly killing me. He took her because of my wife. He saw what Janet had become to me. And he saw what Marcy had become to her. He took her to save that man. There are so many facets, so many reasons why.

  But, it doesn’t make it any easier. My little girl is gone and isn’t coming back. I can’t change that. The only control I have is over what choices I make: Will I trust that Jesus has me secure in His hands? Or will I get lost in the sadness?

  It’s not even a choice anymore. It’s a necessity. It’s my only hope. He is my waking thought. He is in every breath I take. And If I don’t trust Him now, I never will. I can’t make that mistake again. I can’t listen to the sadness, that’s telling me that I’m completely alone, and that all the things that have been repaired are just going to break again: my marriage isn’t going to last; my faith isn’t going to be strong enough.

  It is easier to hate than to trust. It is easier to slip under the waves than to keep a heavy head above water. In the book of Matthew, Jesus talks about easy: easy is the road that leads to destruction; but, narrow and uninviting is the path that leads to salvation…

  This is a new day. But, I don’t know how to navigate it. Where do I begin? Just one step after another? Part of me still thinks I’m going to see Marcy in the living room. And even though I know she’s gone, it doesn’t change my expectation.

  How do I navigate through this, Lord? I’m split in two. I’m a dual person. She’s gone, yet I still expect her to be here. How can I fully trust You if half of me is still telling lies? How can I know that losing her was necessary yet want her here so badly?

  Take care of mommy. It drops into my mind like a heavy stone. I look over at Janet. She’s sleeping sound, but the sadness from last night has left a deep crease in her forehead. When she wakes up, she needs to see that she’s not still second to Marcy, because a new day can erase any progress that was made the day before. I made her a promise last night. This new day isn’t going to change that.

  I want to see her smile again. Not a smile that falls away after a moment, but something that leaves an imprint in her, something that causes random reoccurrences because she knows she is enough for me. I remember when she used to smile like that before the first miscarriage. She hasn’t smiled like it since.

  I remember the way she smiled when I woke her up with breakfast in bed the day after Marcy was born. I scrambled the whole carton of eggs, made probably a dozen waffles with our waffle maker, fried up a whole package of bacon and poured her a very big glass of orange juice. I was so proud of her. She had worked so hard to get our little Marcy into this world—

  I’m going to make her breakfast in bed.

  John Doe

  I’ve always believed that freedom happened in a moment, that the chains would fall away, never to weigh on me again. I never realized it was a daily choice. I never realized that every day was a new beginning for either freedom or bondage…

  I saw Teddy last night. He was at the foot of this small bed. He wasn’t a bear anymore, but a mouthless man with a face full of eyes. He looked like me, but different. Deformed. Soot colored. And bleeding from many places.

  Then my eyes opened. And I haven’t closed them since. The message is more than clear. He isn’t gone from my life, but he is bleeding. He doesn’t have a voice anymore. He doesn’t have the hold he once did. He is a mouthless memory, a dog with no teeth left to bite.

  But it also means he isn’t gone. And if I let him, he can come back again. Just like the memories are footprints, what I saw last night is a warning sign. No matter how hard this gets, I have to keep stepping forward, because Teddy is looking for a way back in.

  It’s a familiar fear that I feel. The same fear that followed my nosebleeds. The same fear that Teddy has controlled me with for most of my life. It is in the familiar that I forget the new. I know Jesus has set me free. I also know that I have to keep stepping forward for that freedom to stick—

  This walk is so heavy, Jesus. It’s already almost more than I can bear. It’s not just because I’m afraid to face the consequences. I know I’m not strong. And if every new day er
ases what came before it, how long will my freedom last? If this is just a daily race, how long will it be before I lose?

  You are mine, John. You can’t lose. Immediately, these words sit on me like a crown. You were made for the very road you now face, which means I have already given you the strength to walk it.

  I always know when Jesus is done speaking. He says exactly what I need to hear. He never leaves me in my worries. He gives me the words needed so I can step out of them myself. He gives me sight past my circumstances. First with Teddy, and now this.

  This jail cell is one of three in this room. The other two are empty. The police are just through the door to my left, in a big room divided into small offices. I can hear voices starting to gather. The night crew must be switching over. The officer who brought me here last night said only what was required of him before locking me away. He said that the interrogation would start today, when the officer in charge of Marcy Mill’s case came on duty.

  Matthew Mills

  We didn’t have many ingredients on hand: frozen waffles, three eggs, a handful of hash browns, and enough orange juice leftover for a small glass. But, the breakfast is untouched on the tray at the bottom of her feet. She isn’t hungry. I guess it was more the thought that counted this morning. She smiled warmly at my attempt