Lē Weaver

Church was a building with cool cement block walls coated in white glossy paint. Her floors were 12" squares of highly polished asphalt tile, except for the rough slate floor in the sanctuary. She was big, with long halls and a hundred different rooms and areas. Tall water fountains, some colder than others, and pianos, some more in tune than others, were scattered here and there. There was hardly ever anybody home, except on Sundays. I wandered her halls with my choir buddies, often disappearing for half an hour at a time to spend time alone with her, in what was a seventeen year game of hide-and-seek. I was Lēety, her daughter. She was safety, and protection. She is still a powerful setting in my dreams.

I served her with my music. I shared what I knew of her with the children. I hoped that they could catch sight of her spirit and be comforted by her as I was. I was comfortable knowing that this was where I should be, where I was meant to be, and that she could remain my home for the rest of this life.

One day, after my childhood was over, I told a minister in the church that I was gay, and he told me that he would no longer allow me to work with the children. I don't know what I expected from him. I didn't think that anyone could interfere in my relationship with her.

Slowly it dawned on me that my life with her was over. No loss has ever been so painful. I found myself torn open, like a tortoise whose shell had been ripped off. The last time I was there playing her pianos someone asked me if they could help me. As if I didn't belong. I used to be invisible, blending into her. Now I stand outside, and I doubt I will be alone with her again.

I hurt, wanting to return to touch her walls, play her pianos, hide inside her. But I know she is lost to me. Because even if the people inside her now would want to welcome me home, I could not return to what I shared with her. I am not the same. She is not the same.

Next - read about the church wound...