THE MIDNIGHT FUNERAL

(Written in 2020 - during The Covid Lockdown)

It was 10 years ago… the last time I was kept indoors.

It was late, probably after 11. I had just found the article in the obituaries… Marilyn Schipp had passed away on September 30, 2010 from cancer, leaving behind 6 children, many grandchildren, and a few great-grandchildren.

Marilyn was my grandmother…

…and I didn’t even know she was sick.

I had to get out from under that roof. I needed to feel the air.

I remember how the cement felt against my cheek. Cool… wet… and unforgivingly hard.

He hadn’t visited in a while… but even if he had shown up that night, my grief outweighed the fear of him finding me outside.

I remember lying on that little concrete slab outside the small, dilapidated two-bedroom house I was living in, staring up at the stars for hours.

They were countless.

The only thing that matched them in number… were my tears.

I hadn’t been home or had any contact with my family in almost a year. I’m not sure what made me pick up my little track phone that night and search for her… maybe my heart somehow sensed she was no longer here on earth.

Whatever the reason, I broke several “rules” that night.

I wasn’t “allowed” to be on the internet.

I didn’t get “permission” to be outside.…

I didn’t send the "daily picture" of what I was wearing that night.

And although I knew breaking those “rules” came with consequences…

…I just didn’t care.

That night, the stars illuminated the graveyard directly behind that little house. And even though I knew she wasn’t buried there, I went to a funeral that night.

Alone... Isolated... Without family or friends, or even the chance to say goodbye.

My grandmother died without knowing where I was…

…or if I was even alive.

My punishment for breaking his “rules” usually involved some sort of surprise visit that could happen at any time of the day or night.

If he came during the day, it meant I had to put my children to bed early. Sometimes it was as early as 4 p.m. I’d put them in their pajamas, pull the curtains shut to hide the daylight, and tuck them into bed.

My daughter, who was 3, never seemed to mind going to bed early. I think she rather enjoyed quietly getting back out of bed after I left her room so she could put on all her tutus and pull out her toys. I caught her doing this several times… and I was never upset.

Instead, I remember feeling relieved that she could still find happiness in such a dark place.

My son, who was 4, responded differently. He would lay quietly in bed until the next morning. I distinctly remember the look on his face… he didn’t understand.

I can still see him looking up at me — his little thumb in his mouth, his big-eyed horsey and big-eyed dragon laying on either side of him, all three tucked beneath his soft Thomas the Train blanket.

I can still hear the sound his mouth made when he pulled his thumb out to ask, “Why, Mommy?”

He didn’t complain. He didn’t even cry.

He just knew it wasn’t nighttime… and he knew my heart was sad.

By then, my heart had become like a raw onion, with heartache after heartache painfully peeling back layer after layer.

And now, when I think back to his little face, that tiny dark-green room, and the horrid closet filled with visible black mold…

...…and even now, writing about that little room feels deeply exposing, as though time never fully covered the shame that lived there.

I sat on the edge of his bed and reassured him it would be okay, even though I didn’t really know if it would be. I kissed the top of his thick, wavy auburn hair, breathed in the sweet smell lingering there, looked deep into his big blue eyes, and told him how much I loved him… that I would see him in the morning.

Before I left the room, he slipped his thumb back into his mouth…

…but he never closed his eyes.

I’ve often wondered how long my children stayed awake on the days of those surprise visits. Did they lie there for hours listening to what was happening in the other room? Is that why they stayed so quiet? Is that why they never came out of their rooms?

Even then, I knew they were afraid of him.

And deep down, I think they knew he was coming too.

I also knew he hated them, and I wasn’t sure how long it would be before my punishment became theirs as well.

I’m not sure what they heard on the other side of those doors.

Some men use their fists.

Other men unleash their rage sexually.

…he always chose the latter.

I never thought I would be shut indoors again, or that even a small part of my life today would resemble the life I lived 10 years ago. Yet being quarantined alongside the rest of the world has made me realize I’m looking out the window much the same way I did back then… longing to break through the glass and somehow return life to what it once was — normal, carefree… safe.

I share this with you because there have been numerous reports that domestic abuse is rising worldwide due to people being quarantined inside their homes. Isolation gives more power to the abuser… and more silence to fear.

The truth about fear is that it isolates. Fear cripples the strong, blinds the truth, binds the heart, and suffocates the mind. It has the ability to immobilize rational thought completely.

It is an enemy of peace.

A zealot for dysfunction.

Fear is everything love is not…

…and fear almost killed me once.

10 years ago, it was abuse that kept me indoors. Today, it’s a virus.

The monster is different… but the weapon is the same.

Fear.

It has taken me 10 years to muster up the courage to begin writing about what happened inside that little house. But as I watch domestic abuse continue to rise, perhaps breaking my silence will help someone else break theirs.

I wish I could tell you that after that night, I walked back inside, grabbed my children, and left…

…but I didn’t.

Fear kept me trapped for almost two more years.

And it cost me far more than I can put into words.

If you are reading this today and you are in an abusive relationship, please know that even in your darkest place… Jesus is there.

He put fear on the cross for me, and He put it there for you too.

He is waiting for you.

Draw near to Him. Let Him show you the way out. There is, a way out.

And when the season finally comes to an end — because one day it will — I can promise you this:

Freedom will not look anything like you imagined.

It will be so much better.

Take it from me… He has already restored more than I could have ever dreamed. And even now, He is still redeeming what was lost, what was stolen, and what fear tried so desperately to silence.

And in its place, He is bringing justice.

Victory.

Truth.

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I found out years later that on my grandmother’s deathbed, she asked for me. She wondered if I had been found.

The truth is…

I was.

Somehow, that little concrete slab became a familiar place to meet with God. In the darkness, I realized He had never forgotten me.

He was waiting for me there.

And in the waiting, He reminded me that He too once laid upon a cold, damp concrete slab…

…and He laid there for me.

He knew firsthand what it was like to be at a midnight funeral.

His own.

But He didn’t stay there.

And by His grace…

…neither did I.