The storm hit in ‘94. Truth is, if I had known about the rain, I would have planned ahead.

I was never privy to churches. At some point in the beginning it was decided for me that the “Truth” would never be part of my path. By the time I was 10, I had caught on that my life wasn’t like every one else’s.

“Don’t ask so many questions, hon, it’s just so unbecoming,” she’d say each time the pitchfork was put into my hands. So I didn’t. That’s not to say I wasn’t curious, but I knew enough to keep my mouth shut.

It was a pretty lonely upbringing for the most part. Sometimes when I was really good, I’d get to play with the others. Mainly though, I was left to my own devices until they needed me. I didn’t mind helping them; just wish they would’ve let me take some of the credit more often and keep some of the cash.

I’ve been told I was helpful for 15 years. I was never good at time telling, but I’d say that’s a pretty good run. Matter of fact, the day the storm cleared, that’s exactly what I was doing. Running. Fast.

I could feel the icy air stab my lungs as I heaved with every step. My bare feet burned against the freezing ground.

“If they ever come don’t believe anything they say, you’ll never be safe anywhere else.” Her words echoed in my mind as I looked for a safe haven. Anywhere, to hide from the destroyers who couldn’t understand. I looked back and forth across the empty road. Dawn was near and daylight would soon ruin my hopes of slipping away.

Then there it was. I had seen buildings like this in the books I loved. A church I thought they called it. Its harsh pointed roof was offset by smooth arches that somehow drew me in. I knew I was never to step foot into one, but I was desperate.

My heaving dissipated and I felt my feet carrying my body through the heavy wooden doors. Silence engulfed every bit of my being as a smell, so captivating took over my senses. Was this really the “Truth” I had been told to steer clear of?

As I moved into the vastness of the building magnificent glass windows caught my eye. At first, all I saw were lifeless people, pieced together by nothing more than tints and shades. But then, something shifted. A story suddenly unfolded. For some reason, it seemed so familiar I knew how it went.

In the first scene there was a small child, not the boy I heard so many call the “messiah,” but a girl, with brown hair and freckles, riding a tricycle. Two people, a man and a woman stood over her, clapping and smiling, as if they had a connection that no one else could understand.

The next scene though, was not so uplifting. The same man and woman seemed distraught. People were surrounding them, holding candles, bouquets of flowers, and folding their hands as if they were begging.

And finally there was the third scene. The storm. A lighting bolt was etched into the glass and the same little girl, whose brown curls had vanished, was no longer riding her tricycle. She was in a tiny room painted with scenes from every little girls’ picture book, sealed with a lock, never to return to the man and woman from the first mosaic.

I stood staring, dumbfounded by the feeling that this story was my own. I suddenly realized. The path that I traveled for 15 years had never been mine. It was stolen. As the “destroyers” rushed in to claim my new path I no longer resisted. A moment of clarity encompassed me.

While I didn’t know what would happen next, I knew I was meant to discover the truth. Whichever path they chose for me now didn’t matter. A ray of sunlight reflected off of the first window and I closed my eyes to take it in. As I was slowly accompanied out of the church into the abyss, one thing was clear. The storm had finally subsided.