Awaken From Death: The Awaken Saga, #1

Chapter 1: Existence

My mentor is dead. A drunk driver, in one careless action, stole my confidence and guidance. Today, a cloud of witnesses stands around his dark casket, burying our friend and grief. Death is my lone escape from this prison. The abysmal contemplation festers in my brain. Depression and desperation create a claustrophobic sensation inside the hollow cavern of my soul since the notification of my mentor, Keith, untimely demise.

My anxiety disorder only ratchets up the stakes in the dangerous game. Every occurrence of panic escalates from the last. Like a muscle cramp, the torment constricts into the next spasm, sending shockwaves until the excruciating palpitations become too much to tolerate. Internally, I’m a hulled-out skyscraper awaiting demolition. The explosives are attached to the support beams, set to implode at any moment. A riot of torturous notions incinerates my heart.

My consciousness teeters on the abyss, a dark fissure at the base of my blackened spirit where no optimism remains. Every shred of stubbornness within keeps my form from disintegrating in front of the emissaries who anticipate any excuse to punish me further.

All the dignitaries are in place to show prodigious reverence. Bishop Smith presides with his most regal edification. Regional Director Emma Willis, his right-hand woman, stands within feet of her maestro. Her henchmen and my Cooperative Ministry Leader, Larry Rodgers, posted beside her. His steely gaze scans the party for clues he might manipulate later. The only compassionate face in my line of sight is the Director of Probation for the Board of Ordination, Bill Daniels.

All of them wait for something useful, either justification of my grief or condemnation of my solemnity. A whisper of an anxiety attack will rain down wrath on my Ordination process. Of course, the thought makes my fear worse, feeding the beast within. Three deep breaths focus my wayward mind on the reason I stand. I’m here to say goodbye.

To the world, Keith was Rev. Barrister, senior pastor of St. Matthew Community Church in Hudson, Colorado. I served under him for three fantastic years as the associate ministerial intern. In the life I chose, it is rare to find someone as virtuous as him. Everyone who spent a brief moment in his presence became better for the experience. Without his guidance, I’m at a loss to navigate the stormy seas of ministry.

Contemplations dash away like insects scampering from the light. Bishop Smith drones through the scriptures and prayers for internment. In the void of my consciousness. Images and memories flash, bringing with them no solace.

It is a bright, glorious Sunday morning in April, and I am lodged in the oversized, golden chair on the left side of the Altar at St. Matt’s. The medium-size attendance twitters before the service starts. My heart is aflutter when Keith stands.

Dear Friends, this congregation stood to witness these past three years to a spark of a new light in our Denomination, which today becomes a guiding beacon. Pastor Drew will leave us soon to begin her charge as a probationer, and it is only right for her to tell you the news. Come over, Pastor, and recite to our friends the words of wholesome assurance conferred by our esteemed Bishop.

My knees quake under the black robe as I stand. My breath quickens again as my heart thrums a scattered rhythm. I twist my feet in a silly dance behind the pulpit. The joy spreads from Keith as I take my place next to him. My thumb and fingers press a little tighter to the paper in their grasp, quelling the nerves in my stomach.

With immense honor, the Administration proclaims Drew Elizabeth Masen has proven her call by our Lord toward ordination. We hereby confer the status of Probationer in the fraternal order of priests. In the utmost regard, we charge Pastor Masen with the care of St. James Church and Holy Cross Church in Galien, Colorado. Pastor Masen’s commission shall begin on Sunday, May the first.

The congregation erupts while Keith shakes my hand before embracing me like a parent on those rare moments of passage in life. He brushes his tears away before raising our clasped hands in victory. As I realize for the first time, a broad smile and a laugh claim my being. This piece of paper signifies how being Reverend Drew Masen is within my grasp. After all these years of dedication, my goal is tangible...almost attainable. Soon, I’ll be content in this life eternally.

The memory fades, but his image lingers, like the slow fading picture on an old television. I concentrate on the pride in Keith’s eyes until the rumination becomes lost entirely. He belongs to the sands of time, leaving me no way to follow.

A rush of cold, unseasonable wind brings me back into the disquieting reality. The casket blinds my vision. Desolation overwhelms me while trauma rocks my body like a lightning bolt. The immediate shock burns away into a gnawing ache of grief. My anxiety hitches while the creature inside feeds on unfaithful deliberations. How do I go on when my last advocate passed from this world?

Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff—they comfort me. Bishop Brown’s cadence is soft and measured. I focus on the Psalm I identify so well.

Valley of darkness, yep, the Psalmist nailed this. To be holy, one must not walk through but live in a valley of darkness. The voice in my inner obscurity whispers. You understand the darkness, don’t you?

I suck in a breath mouthing the next line. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. A vision draws me away from my current world of chaos.

Keith and I sit in a small coffee shop in my hometown, the halfway point between my parent’s farm and St. Matt’s. I sip my mocha while he plays with the straw in his smoothie.

How’s the defense?

Finding its way. I just wish the Board allowed us to choose our verses. I hate Psalm 23.

You should be thanking your lucky stars; they gave you an easy one.

But the chapter has been plucked to death. How am I supposed to show my potential? If all I can say is the same mind-numbing theological construction regurgitated by every budding pastor since the dawn of time?

Keith chuckles under his breath and sits back to stare at me from a different angle. This is part of his patented Words of Wisdom shtick, but I’m too tired to care.  

Must the Scripture dissertation be over the whole chapter, or can you glean it?

I spin my cup, stalling. But I discern the answer like a genetic code.

I can break it down into the small excerpts I choose. The key is to show clear, defined apologetic illumination of my theological interpretation.

Keith tilts his head a fraction and squints like a director checking the scene before calling for action.

You prepare a table before me, in the presence of my enemies... He retorts softly. The passage must mean something different after the Matheson’s wedding.

Ah, yes, the Matheson calamity. When the children of the two most feuding families fell in love, many people in this territory were forced to sit at supper with their enemies. By the time the reception ended, a pie fight ensued in the fellowship hall, and everyone laughed. I could not hide my smile from Keith, confirming I had reached his conclusion.

Write your apologetics on the positives of the 23rd. The parts Psalmist is trying to tell you not to see what’s been taken but what you gain in following the Lord. This will transition nicely to your homiletic on the redemptive power of Christ. As well as complement your overall theological defense of current Pneumatology practices in modern society.

I stare in awe at the man who can right my world with a single plan, who now sits comfortably sipping his pink raspberry concoction with contentment.

Isn’t it best to find virtue? I tell you constantly, but you continue to allow the darkness so much control. That fact alone in this life will put you in an early grave.

He goes back to his smoothie like we hold all the time in the world.

The memory fades, leaving me in the crowd of witnesses. My breath hitches as the silence draws out further. My prayer went up into the heavens, reiterating the last line of the Psalm. Surelygoodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long. The voice in the void responds. Think again, my dear.

The ache grows as the cold exterior leeches the warmth from my core. The anxiety and pain amplify the misery both physically and mentally. Over the past year, as my ministry began to take off, I reluctantly accepted all the new agonies in me as commonplace. The ulcer in the right-hand corner of my stomach causes nausea when I eat. A never-ceasing migraine, back pain, and muscle spasms manufactured by tension rip my body apart from the inside. Nevertheless, all these ailments pale to the most tortuous of my body’s rebellions, my panic disorder.

Since the age of thirteen, I’ve dealt with these cycles of anxiety-induced dysfunction. Their intrusion flows on the tide of my life’s changes. Every incarnation of these severe bouts differs, defined by a tailored set of weird and exhausting patterns. The outbreaks always retreat once I understand the triggers or my life settles down. Yet the threat looms.

One of these days, I won’t be able to fight long enough and will melt down into an episode I lovingly referred to as The Big One. These erratic events steal my ability to function. Since being diagnosed with the dysfunction, eleven of these soul-crushing moments have occurred, and I pray the number never increases.

Naturally, a portion of my teenage years was spent in psychotherapist offices trying to help me cope. Breathing exercises, diet modification, talk therapy, hypnosis, and medications were all part of the experimentation. All produce inconclusive results. The cure remains the same: meeting life’s challenges head-on and learning to adapt.

In Seminary, the flare-ups and the severity of the episodes began to increase in number. The most dangerous manifestations I survived in high school and undergraduate studies became almost tame compared to what happened daily in Boston. When I came home to fulfill my internship at St. Matt’s, things went from bad to worse.

Two years ago—since my 29th birthday, to be exact—what I call moderate to critical attacks ensued like clockwork. The symptoms, moreover, are systemic. The events persistently begin with the sensation of ice in my veins. My breath shortens while my stomach plunges through the floor. Thoughts race on illogical loops of impending doom. The terror sequence becomes unbearable until the hysteria pulls me deeper into the anxiety. It leaves me non-coherent and inconsolable.

This current incarnation is now considered minor. Minor being a relative term. In a way, the proceedings are almost mundane; the best part is that I can sense them coming. In my opinion, routine helps. It gives me time to prepare. To look for places and ways to hide. The incidents often occur mid-evening, like a princess with an evil enchantment.

I return to my standard method of management. Enforcement of strict diet regulation minimizes the attack effects. This would be more efficient with a healthy regiment of sleep and a healthy concept of stress reduction; unfortunately, this is too much to ask. I’m positive the only surefire way to end them is some form of medication. Yet, after not remembering if I enjoyed my sophomore year of high school. I am decidedly anti-drug.

After two years of living in the new constant bog of my anxiety disorder, I anticipate they will never vanish when you function in a life filled with chaos and stress. You recognize the angst as a proper payment.

This proves my worthiness to God’s service. Each member of the clergy—including Keith—faces such a gantlet. Battle-tested and sealed in God’s righteousness, only then can we serve. We must carry the scars of our sacrificial payment. This construct pulls another memory of Keith into my consciousness.

In my little cubicle in the St. Matthew’s library. The faint whiff of musty books clings to the carpet. I slide down the wall next to the desk and curl around my limbs, taking the pose of one fearing a tornado strike. The creature is coming. It is coming, and I can’t stop it. The thought drives me farther down the rabbit hole.

Panic and fear take control of my mind. Like a serpent, it slithers on the blood, pounding out a hellish pace. The dread leaves a cold trail from my chest to the outer extremities. My breathing picks up and hitches until the congealed sludge clogs up resistant lungs, making the action almost futile. My demonic thoughts warp until I can’t make sense of anything. My body shifts tighter and tighter as I pray for the agony to end.

Please don’t let them find me, I whisper while tears pour. Please, for the love of God, let this pass before someone comes.

Warm hands on mine alert me to the contrary answer to my prayer. I draw away as an agonizing squeak escapes through my teeth.

It’s alright, Drew. It’s me. The male voice chants in an almost musical lilt. Something I can’t place. You need a deep breath.

I sense the warmth of hands against mine again, but I do not struggle this time. The sharp air rushes past my parched throat, burning my lungs as I force oxygen in.

Good. Nice and steady, like a metronome. Now, focus your thoughts. The same way we did during Lectio Divina. Remember our Scripture this morning?

I choke on the next colossal lungful, coughing on the sludge. My frail mind slogs in the mire, searching to find the verse in my head behind the trauma. Minutes appear as millennia, but Keith waits for an answer. 

"No. Distrust made him waver concerning the promise of God, but he grew strong in his faith as he gave glory to God. Convinced the Lord would do what he promised." I hear rather than see Keith’s smile. It warms me a fraction, and my muscles begin to relax.

Correct. Now, why is this important?

Because if we believe we are safe from suffering, we are free from suffering ourselves.

Why are you carrying your burden? Why not allow yourself to be delivered?

His questions catch me off guard. I perceive what he wants, and I want to tell him. Though the words spell the end of my long, hard-fought journey. I shake my head, locking my lips behind my teeth. Yet Keith waits, settling down in front of me cross-legged on the floor.

If I tell you...you’ll be honor bound to report.

On whose authority will I be expected to do this?

The Administration must be aware of every malformation which will inhibit the quality of a candidate.

The air constricts my lungs again. I curl tighter, holding my shell together.

Deep breaths, the attack will pass quicker.

My head shoots up to find Keith smiling his shrewd grin.

We all fight demons in the shadows. He whispers, calling to the deepest recesses of my hope. The strength pulls me back from the brink.

Anxiety disorder since the age of thirteen.

Medication?

No. I don’t like how I feel. Prefer a holistic approach.

Me too.

I stare at him, confused by his response.

If the world knew how many pastors took anti-depressants, for one reason or another...no one would ever take their problems to the church.

His Cheshire grin appeared once more as the thought settled into my chest. I’m no longer alone in the abyss of my nightmares.

Your secret is safe. Clergy confidentiality exists even for us.

The soft moment dissolves in the voices of a recited prayer. My most significant fears acquiesce, and I take another shaky breath. Keith fulfilled his promise. He carried my secrets to his grave. I wish he’d taken longer to finish the job. I chew my lip, engaging my concentration back into the scene. Bill Daniels, one of the Pastors in charge of my existence, steps to the right of the Bishop. He opens his little black book and begins his reading. I examine as a child working to understand the connection.

For everything, there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal. Keith’s favorite passage once more causes my mind to slip the rail into the realm of memory.

I sit in a cafeteria in a mountain retreat. My slimy scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and fruit plate sit uneaten. I nurse a cup of strong tea, glaring at papers and books, looking for an answer to the problems back in Galien. Other pastors mill at the breakfast bar while more mingle around the large tables.

Being anti-social? Keith's voice floats as he approaches.

No. I think my crew is still sleeping. My mind conjures how I left my roommate nestled in bed an hour ago.

Must be pleasant to be young and live on a different body clock.

I needed to tweak my sermon, so I got up early.

Keith’s eyes tighten, looking at the notebook in front of me. He spoons oatmeal into his mouth before pulling the open section closer.

Unless you’re explaining the financial dynamics of the Parable of the Talents, this is going to be a dull sermon. What’s all this about, honestly?

One of my churches is in a pinch. Need to find a way to squeeze the budget.

Isn’t everybody? St. Matt’s hit the bump when the cattle prices took a nosedive. What’s new?

CFO for the Administration is breathing down my neck. I’m not sending in enough money to make them happy.

How much is not enough.

1% of the required 10% of general income.

Keith sucks in a breath, his fingers running through his hair.

I take it from these numbers the three-figure check a month is pissing them off.

They want at least two grand a month. I don’t know how we’ll swing it when we barely clear required expenses.

There is a time for everything. He reminds me before shoveling more mush into his mouth.

Not helpful, I mutter, rolling my eyes and pulling the notebook back.

Ecclesiastes is the answer to everything.

Vapor and smoke have nothing to do with paying the electricity.

No. But understanding everything will be taken care of in its own time does.

He digs through his pile; I didn’t ascertain when he sat down. He pulls a maroon-colored leather-bound book to the surface. The Book of Discipline is embossed in gold on the cover.

A time to break down, and a time to build up.

A bylaw on how a church can depose the tithe?

His lips split into a smile that fills one with hope. He flips open to a section and slides his finger down to the applicable subsection.

A time to throw away stones and a time to gather stones together.

My eyes fly through the reading. The paragraphs outline all the steps to lessen our burden to the Administration. I can’t believe my world can be made whole once more. I’d never have known we could save our little church family without Keith. The blessed assurance of his alliance breezes over me.

Now, we’ve saved the world. Let’s talk about tonight’s talent show. We should sing the duet we performed on Palm Sunday last year.

I am pulled back out of the revelry by Bill’s cadence. A tear slips as I realize this memory will always be our last quiet moment. Together as friends. A wrecking ball of comprehension hit.

Keith will never see me attain any of my dreams. He won’t be there to place the stole around my neck. The symbol of my acceptance of the yoke of ordination on that extraordinary day. He won’t call me Reverend Masen. For him, I’ll always be Pastor Drew. For the life of me, I cannot remember if I expressed personally how much Keith inspired me to rise above the din of life and the Denomination, for that matter.

A time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace. Here ends our reading. May the Lord bless us in the hearing of these words of grace?

The voice in my inner shadow snarls. A time for hate, oh, I like the thought. A time for war. My favorite line in the whole damn book. Are you ready for the war to come, my lovely?

Chapter 2: Worse than Death

The final blessings are pronounced while my despondent tears fall in unison. The scripted words hold no more comfort than a bandage on a sunburn. People mill about for a few moments. I remain perfunctory with the few who come to offer condolences. My usual emotionless self puts on a good show.

The crowd, except for Keith’s wife and me, disperses from the hallowed ground. I cannot leave him. Nor bring myself to go and comfort his grieving widow either. I stand. A silent sentinel beside the cottonwood tree until they lay him low. She resigns herself to the end, and yet I do not depart. The reason for such a long continuance escapes me.

The draw of the tomb releases, and I meander until my car comes into view. A female silhouette perches on the grill. Who can be waiting? The thought flips pictures in my befuddled mind, working to match from the hundreds I witnessed during the service with no luck. The distance closes, allowing me to recognize that the profile belongs to my boss, in a sense, Emma. Her petite figure puts my teeth on edge, causing my stomach to fall away. This can’t be good.

Hello, Emma, what can I do for you?

I wanted to check on how you’re holding up. With all of this, I mean? The pitch in her voice is measured sympathy. Her face expresses a different sentiment. She couldn't care less about me or my mood.

Fine, my familiar lie slides without effort.

The wave of grief makes maintaining an expressionless demeanor tricky. My fingers play with the cross on the outside of my shirt, a usual nervous habit in her presence. Dread lays heavy in the air, constricting my chest. She grimaces, looking away.

Today must be difficult for you. The loss of one’s mentor is always daunting. At least you still retain Larry’s guidance; of course, you’ll have mine.

Nausea produced by her claim requires a rough swallow, but this kept the absurd compulsion to laugh at bay. In the last fourteen months, her support was minimal at best. I doubt Keith's loss will change this fact. Within a beat, the mask I use with clergy settles into place. Today’s circumstance is more challenged by the requirement of airs of congeniality.

Your encouragement is always appreciated.

She smiles. Her arm slips around my shoulders as if to console me. Her touch elicits nothing but turns my stomach into knots.

I know this is a terrible time, but I need to speak with you about church business,

My brain reacts at a snail’s pace. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and deliberately step away from her embrace toward my car. I lean against the silver quarter panel. Some espousal, you can’t even wait until the body is cold in the ground for your punishment.

In short measure, my consciousness scrutinizes