Stars are seen falling from the sky, bright streaks, burning through the atmosphere – now you see‘em, now you don’t. But upon close examination, the streaks across the night sky are not stars at all. They’re bits of space dust and rocks called meteoroids, ignited by friction either burning up in the sky or crashing to the ground as meteorites.
Martin, though demanding attention during his meteoricbackward fall off the organ bench, didn’t light up the sky norburn up before crashing to the ground. And upon close examination, he didn’t feel the back of his head meet ceramic with a sickening thud. Martin lost consciousness on the way to earth – victimized by lack of sleep, lack of nourishment, and no lack of guilt. His father always warned him about ministering to the people of God absent proper atonement. Although the actual time from his loss of consciousness to hitting the floor was only seconds,
Martin the meteorite drifted seemingly in slow motion and time traveled back to better times, times when indeed he was a star hanging fixed in the sky, destined for greatness. It was as if his soul was searching for hope, for something to feel good about. On his way to earth, Martin was reliving a time in high school during the state championship, first and ten on the six yard line… “Blue thirty five, blue thirty five, hut, hut, hut.” Martin behind center received the snap and instead of handing off to the tailback, Martin improvised – disobeying his coach’sorders, put his head down and plowed through the three hole,scoring the winning touchdown. Upon closer examination, one could see a smile on Martin’s face as he headed toward the floor but then a frown. While Martin was again scoring the famous winning touchdown, suddenly he remembers that his father wasn’t at the game and he recalled the victory, the state championship, feeling somehow empty because only his mom was waiting after the big game. She was always there, always trying to substitute for his father, always receiving the brunt of Martin’s angry outbursts, always trying to tie a ribbon on his packaged pain. Martin didn’t – no, couldn’t – get angry at his father because that was like getting angry at God himself. After all, this was just a football game, just a band concert, just a basketball game and God knew there were souls to win and sermons to preach. His father was busy doing God’s work. His father was a great man and his mother was … well, a poor substitute for a father. Back at the big game, Martin celebrated in the end zone but before he could get two measures into his funky chicken dance, the team hoisted him up into the sky where he belonged. Then while up there on their shoulders during hisgreatest and brightest moment, there came a smell, a strong pungent smell, that suddenly brought Martin crashing to theground – falling from the sky to awaken on the couch in thepastor’s office, his head throbbing and three concerned faces peering at him as if they themselves were in some sort of pain. He could hear the pastor preaching, climaxing toward the end of his sermon, “oh Lord” he thought, “I’ve missed the whole service.” Standing there on earth in the pastor’s office was his mother, his best friend Doughbelly and Sarah. As Martin’s eyes focused, his emotions seemed to come alive and his heart started beating a panicked rhythm in his chest.
“Mom,” Martin said, doing his best to summon some sympathy. Before the words could get three seconds from his lips, Sarah shifted her weight back on her right leg slightly opening her stance while bringing her hands up placing them on her hips. She was standing behind his mother and out of her line of vision. She started moving her head from side to side, her shoulders synchronized with the head, and a frown on her face. Martin could hear her saying, “Yea, dat’s what you get, serves you right, you think you can hit and run, just walk away from this, I think not, God don’t like ugly!” Wait, Martin rubbed his eyes and re-focused. Her lips weren’t moving, she wasn’t really speaking but Martin still heard her scorn in complete sentences.
“Martin, what’s wrong with you boy?” His mother demanded.
“You ok dude?”Doughbelly asked. “I got to get back out to the parking lot, church is almost over.” With that, his friend disappeared out the door leaving Martin with the last two people in the world he wanted to be with. Martin squinted trying to see his mother’s face, but the sunlight through the window behind her came over her right shoulder making it hard for Martin to see if she was really concerned, upset or knew his secret. Did Sarah say anything, why did Sarah have to be there in the office and what did his mother think? Martin knew in his heart that in all likelihood his mother knew. The woman had some kind of strange gift, she could be in two places at once, at home and wherever Martin was whenever he was doing something wrong. She shifted and blocked the sun, then Martin could see her clearly now and what he saw in her eyes shifted his concern from himself to his mother.
“Sarah, could you excuse us please?” his mother’s voice was firm but gentle. Sarah strolled out of the room. “Martin, you smell of liquor,” his mother’s voice seemed to tremble. Martin went on the defensive,
“Look Mom, I’m not your little boy anymore. I’m grown and can do whatever I want, live however I please and…” His mother’s voice interrupted, “Shut up Martin and listen to me,” her tone now filled with firmness. Martin needed her to be firm, even harsh, it was what he was used to and somehow when her voice trembled, it sent fear and panic through him. He could handle her yelling and screaming, he was used to her drill sergeant demeanor. She was the disciplinarian, the task master, the Angelwith fire in her belly. While Martin hated her hardness at times, he knew that without her, he wouldn’t have made it out of high school, wouldn’t have escaped the gangs and certainly wouldn’t have his degree. At times, Martin hated her for her honesty and at other times he was sure he couldn’t live without her. He never told her, never said it out of his mouth but he had come to understand that it was his mother who was his heart. Everywoman he dated, he compared to her and every day, he prayed for her. He knew her pain and the emptiness in her bed and in her heart. His father was just never really there for either of them. He was there for his congregation, for his secretary and her son and certainly for God, but not for them. His father was a great man and great men cast long, cold shadows. His father was a gifted man and people lined up for his healing touch. They loved his father and they took him away from his family. God required a sacrifice and to Martin, his mother’s offering was way too costly. Martin was angry at his mother for … well for not being happy. Martin felt the responsibility of a boy wanting his mother to be ok, of a child blaming himself for calamity that wasn’t his making. In some ways, it would have been better for his mother to divorce his father, at least then she may have found love. She may have experienced the joy of real love and not the emptiness of a Holy Ghost-filled wife of a mega-churchpastor. When young, Martin often wished she would have left him and it could have been just the two of them. But to leave him would have been like running from God. Yet, with all this swimming inside Martin, he still admired his father and thought of him like the Ark of the Covenant – so Holy that it’s impossible to come near. Martin had learned that God wanted to be loved and worshiped at a safe distance and his father was God. Funny thing though, Martin knew that there was another God, maybe Jesus who seemed to be the one his mother loved. Martin often watched her worship him and could sense her heart fully submerged in some kind of other worldly baptism of Joy. His mom trusted Jesus, but Martin felt Jesus represented a weaker aspect of God, a God for women and Christians in the suburbs. Martin served the God of his Father or at least one day he would.
“Martin, this has got to stop,” his mother barked. “Could you imagine how your father would have felt had he been alive? What he’s thinking right now as he’s looking down on you from Heaven? Martin, this is not acceptable.” She now set her jaw, biting her bottom lip and squinting her eyes between phrases. This was SOP when upbraiding her son. The delivery was standard verbal beat down mode, but there was something different in the rhythm of the words. Martin couldn’t put his finger on it but for some reason he sensed a lack of conviction on her part. “This is utter lack of respect for yourself and for the house of God. Who the heck raised you? It couldn’t have been me, no, I carried you for nine months, went through seventeen hours of labor to bring you into the world, wiped your nose, cleaned your stinky bottom, cooked, cleaned, washed your dirty clothes but certainly I didn’t raise you because if I had, you could have never have embarrassed yourself, your mother and the memory of your father like you did today.” His mother now crinkled her forehead, her voice was elevating as she warmed up.
Martin could hear her but somehow her words became background noise. “Bla, Bla, Bla, Bla, yada, yada, yada andyada,” she continued. Martin couldn’t hear the words because he was focused on her face, on her eyes. Her eyes were different and it terrified Martin. He knew that he couldn’t interrupt her and couldn’t respond until she climaxed her speech and her tone started to diminish. And he had to wait until she gave the cue to speak. “And so what do you have to say for yourself?” was hersermon’s closing remarks. In times past, after she uttered thosewords, Martin was allowed to counterpoint or explain without risking a return to the full fledged onslaught of his mother’s fury. While she verbally expressed her disappointment, Martin noticed a tear slowly creeping down her right cheek. There it was – the evidence he was looking for, without a doubt, something was very wrong. It was always more tolerable to receive a physical rather than a verbal beat down from his mother. And in all the times Martin was on the receiving end of her skilled administrative powers, he had never once seen her cry. And it wasn’t just the tear, it was what he sensed was in the tear. The tear was filled with pain, grief and fear. It trickled slowly, then stopped. His mother was unaware that is was there. It came from her heart, and Martin knew it.“And so what do you have to say for yourself?” There was Martin’s cue to speak, to apologize , to explain; but he couldn’t. The tear was there still on her cheek and it took Martin’s breath away. He looked at her, his eyes filling with fear and a little boy’s whimper released into the atmosphere.
“MOM,” he now started to sob out loud. “What is it Mom, what’s going on?” he asked.
His mother’s stern face melted like snow on a warm spring day. Her eyes reached out and caressed him, full of fear yet concerned for him.
“Your mother is going to join your father soon Martin,” she said. He stood and grabbed her, his heart breaking and tears now free to express his pain.
“I’ve been having some problems, the cancer’s back and I’ve been told it may be only three months,” she spoke through her pain.
“NO!!” Martin screamed. “God, NO!” – his lungs empty of air as he slumped to the floor.
Time suddenly stopped as Martin came crashing to earth again. He felt numb as he lay in a heap on the floor of the pastor’s office, his mother holding his head to her breast as they both sobbed, pain mixing together filling the room. She was his star, his guiding light. His world was about to become much darker.
“Martin, I need to tell you what your father wanted to say before he died. You need to hear what God shared with him,” she spoke softly, locking her eyes with his.
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