Help You Stand // Anthem Lights

Nila

I know that, at first, it would do the exact opposite. I know that. But looking at the future, all it could bring is good. If I died before they realized how pathetic and worthless I am, my family would be spared so much. Because they're such amazing people... they'd never dump me back into the foster care system or tell me how they felt about me or anything. They'd just suffer through the rest of our lives, trying to be Jesus to a girl who let them down so, so badly. I can't live with that kind of guilt hanging over my head.

They're silent for a few minutes, each couple holding onto each other, no one knowing what to say.

Finally, Moriah looks up, her face still wet. "How... how long?"

Joel shakes his head slowly. "We don't know. We don't know anything yet... we were just trying to love on her."

She nods slowly. "Did she..." She trails off, obviously not knowing how to say it. "What happened?"

With his hand gently combing Mom's hair, Dad answers quietly.

"Katherine made the accusation, and Nila... vehemently denied and pulled back the sleeve of her right arm, which... is clean."

He takes a deep breath, blinking back more tears that made my stomach twist in guilt yet again.

"So then before we could... step in and make it easier on her... Asting, the assistant principal, ordered her to show us the other one, so she did, and..." He sighs, shaking his head. "She worked so hard to try to hide them from us. I... I didn't get a good look, but she somehow filled them in to fix the texture and then... used makeup. If we hadn't have been looking for them, we never would have been able to see past and know they were there."

His voice cracks, causing him to take another shaky breath.

Look at what you've done to the person you love most in the world! You broke him. This is all because of you.

"Schelly asked everyone to give us some time alone with Nila," Dad continues. "And Joel wanted to have a talk with Zach, so it was just her and I... I tried, but... she's just so scared of me."

Look at this. He's blaming himself. You're making him doubt himself and hate himself when he's never done anything but so much good, just because you're a loser who can't keep it together and handle life.

Joel takes over for him, though he's not in much better shape. "I went back in after I talked to Zach, and we gave her the song. That might have done something, but I... I just don't know."

They're silent for another long moment before Mom looks up at him. "Thank you so much, Joel. And you, Moriah. You've always been so good. To us, and to her."

Dad nods in agreement. "Really. I can't tell you how much everything you've done has meant to me. Joel, I... I don't know how I would've done today without you."

"Don't even thank us," Joel replies sincerely. "We love your family so much that it's our only option."

"Seriously," Mo agrees. "We wouldn't want to be anywhere but here today."

Dad nods slowly, obviously knowing that they mean what they say.

He takes a deep breath, squeezes Mom gently, and then releases her. She looks up at him.

"You're gonna go?"

He nods slowly. "I am."

She leans up to kiss him on the cheek. "We'll be praying here."

"If you need any of us," Joel adds, "just shoot us a text. Yeah?"

"I know," Dad replies, gifting his older brother with a sad smile before turning away and walking into the kitchen. I hear the faucet turn on-- I guess he's getting a drink or something-- and then the house is silent.

I wait here for maybe two minutes before there's a light, gentle tap on the door.

I close my eyes. I knew he'd find me here.

I don't say anything, but it opens anyway, slowly, then closes again. A click, and the Christmas lights he strung up in here years ago come on. Then, I hear him as he softly crawls up beside me.

He settles there next to me and we sit in silence for a few minutes. His presence is so soothing, no matter how ashamed I am to be around him right now. And it makes me want to break again, as tears jump straight back to my eyes and I'm fighting them all over again.

Finally, he speaks, his tone quiet, gentle, and filled with so much love. "I'm here for you, you know."

I don't trust myself to speak, so I don't, too ashamed to even look at him.

He waits a long moment before adding, "And I love you. Do you know that, Darling? How much I love you?"

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing those tears away.

"I... I know I say it a lot," he goes on, his own voice chocked, "But it's just... it's so true. I can't even put into words how much I love you, Nila."

There's another long moment of silence, and he sighs. There's so much pain in that sound.

"That was such a lame attempt to try to help you out."

I look up sharply. Is he... Anthem Lights? The second my eyes meet his, I wince and shut them, unable to hold his gaze.

"If I said to myself, I'm not scared, I'd be lying," he continues softly. "Don't know if I know what to say, but I'm trying."

"Dad, you don't have to..." But he keeps going, just softly murmuring the lyrics to me.

"I hear you fell down. I'm here to let you know, not giving up, not gonna let you go. I'm not judging-- I'm just loving. Not pointing my finger when I'm reaching out my hand." He lays a hand over one of mine. "I just want to help you stand."

That's the last straw, and I start to cry again, quiet, agonized, and confused.

He reaches out, and before I know what's happening, he's pulled my tiny, shaking body into his strong embrace, holding me close, stroking my hair, and whispering things I don't quite understand.

When I'm mostly quiet, I feel him look down at me. "Just talk to me, Love," he murmurs. "You don't even have to look at me. Just lay it all out, and let me love every piece of my priceless daughter."

"Dad, I..." Choked as they are, they're the first words I've managed in the last ten minutes that he's been in here. "I just can't." I add in a whisper that even I can barely hear, "I just hate myself."

He pulls me that much closer to him, and I hear an intake of breath that's evidence my words brought him to tears. Again.

"But I love you enough for both of us."

We sit like this for another several minutes before he slowly pulls back, keeping both hands on my shoulders. His eyes are still wet as he looks at me. They beg mine to meet them, but I keep them on the ground.

"Darling," he whispers, "can I see?"

I know immediately what he's talking about, and I retract instinctively, pulling back and wrapping my arms around myself as I shake my head.

"Dad, I... I can't... you can't... I'm so broken." The last three words come out a barely-audible whisper.

"Darling, you are not broken," he argues desperately. "You are priceless. There's no scar you can make that Jesus can't use, Nila. There's nothing... nothing you can do to yourself that will do anything but make me love you that much more."

"I just can't believe the person I've become," I whisper.

"Neither can I."

A hope sparks inside of me, that maybe he'll admit how disappointed he is in me, that maybe he'll see me as the monster I truly am.

"I can't believe," he continues. "the strong, beautiful, Christian woman that you've grown up to be."

"What?" I whisper, and, of their own accord, my eyes snap up to meet his. I know I must look like the most pathetically-confused little girl on the face of this planet, but I just... I can't believe he's even saying this.

His eyes grab mine the moment I meet them, begging me not to look away again.

"I'm so proud of you, Nila," he adds desperately. "I... I'm so sorry you didn't know that."

At last, I'm able to tear my gaze away from his. Thirty seconds of eye-contact felt like five years.

"I did know," I whisper. "Before. But now..." I shake my head. "Dad, I... I'm just so ashamed."

"You don't need to be," he murmurs in return. "Just let me show you that, Love. The more you hide, the more you're going to feel like you're dirty. But, Nila... you're not. Jesus' blood is on you, and you are pure. And any voice that tells you you're not is lying to you."

"But this is sin," I counter. "It's in the Bible. That verse... that verse that people always use against tattoos when it's really not about tattoos whatsoever... this is what it's about. He specifically tells us not to do this, and yet here I am."

"Darling," he whispers, the gentleness in his tone surpassing any I've ever heard before. "You know why He tells you not to do it?"

I can't raise my eyes from the floor, with more tears suddenly resting in them.

I feel Dad's hand on mine, squeezing it tenderly. "Because it hurts you. Because it tears you apart. It eases the pain for a minute, yeah. But then it destroys you. It makes you feel broken, and dirty, and unloved, and worthless, and it... it destroys your identity. And then because of all of that, you turn to it again, to ease that pain, and then again, until it's what you think defines you."

What he's saying is so true that it terrifies me. Because all of those things he listed... they're exactly how this makes me feel. And then to make that feeling go away, even for a moment, I do it again. But then they come back, and they're worse, and I'm stuck in this cycle, this downward spiral that I feel completely trapped in. And he's right about the last part too; this is who I am now.

"And, Nila?" Dad goes on, still more tenderly than I thought was possible. "That breaks His heart." I hear tears in his voice. "For a Father to watch His precious daughter cut herself before coming to Him? There's nothing that hurts Him more."

I squeeze my eyes shut. Because he's speaking from experience. He knows how it hurts God's Father's Heart because it's hurting his own in the same way. I'm breaking his heart right now.

"That's what makes sin, sin," Dad goes on softly. "Yes, God hates sin. But He hates it because of what it does to us and our relationship with Him. All sin ever does is hurts us and those around us and drives us further from Jesus. He hates that sin, Darling, because He loves you so, so much."

"I... I don't..." But I can't go on. I'm too hurt and ashamed and confused to even speak.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs. "It's not going to hurt any less until you let me see it."

And I give in. Not because I'm any less ashamed. Not because I can find it in me to believe he loves even the part of me that draws my own blood. But because I hate fighting him off and keeping him out. Before this past month, I never did that. I never lied to him. I always let him in. And now I've almost forgotten how. But right here, right now, I can't keep it up any longer, and I let my shoulders sag as my arm drops, sleeved but with the inside facing up, offering itself to him in total surrender.

"Thank you, Darling," he whispers.

I don't have it inside of me to respond.

He carefully moves so that he's facing me instead of beside me, and I continue to give in, sitting cross-legged towards him with my head down and my arm still laying ready for him to look at.

He reaches out gently, taking it like it's the most precious treasure in the world, and slowly rolls the sleeve back. The makeup is still mostly on... he only rubbed it off of one cut, and even that, just to the point so that they could clearly see what it was. But somehow, that doesn't make me feel better. In fact, it makes me feel that much worse, that much more ashamed, because I even failed at covering it up, at hiding it from him, and all the makeup is, is evidence of that.

Dad reaches behind him for something and brings it forward. I raise my eyes just enough to see that it's his water bottle... no doubt what he was doing in the kitchen earlier... and he's carefully using it to wet the washcloth he's now holding.

I know what he's about to do, and it makes the load of shame on my back feel even heavier... so much heavier than it feels like I can carry.

Sure enough, when he's satisfied with the cloth, he gently takes my arm again with his left hand, and with his right I feel the cool touch of the rag on my skin as he tenderly uses it to wipe away the makeup.

Out of the top of my vision, I can clearly see the deep pain in his eyes as he does it, but what somehow hurts even more is the even deeper love that's written there as well.

When all of the foundation is off, I see his eyes travel over the arm, and an intensified agony shoots through them like he was just stabbed.

"Oh, Darling," is all that escapes his lips.

I focus on desperately fighting back my tears. Against my own will, my eyes travel to my arm, gently cupped in my father's hand, and I feel another layer of shame hit me.

There's so many of them after so short a time. I've been doing it for less than a week, but there are already six scars burning on my arm, just expecting me to continue to add to them. The memory of making each one just makes me feel that much worse. There's the first one, that I did on Friday night. And then the four from Tuesday night, and then the one form yesterday when I got home. I can't believe I fell into this trap so quickly.

"What's in them?" Dad asks finally, his voice choked and quiet.

There's nothing I can do but answer. "Nail polish."

"It... might hurt a little to get it out." The warning is so brokenhearted it kills me. "But it can't stay in, Love."

I shrug, unable to lift my eyes. "It hurt more than a little to put it in," I whisper simply.

His only answer is squeezing my hand in a gesture that just feels sad.

Then, he gently goes to work with the cloth again, carefully working it over each cut and trying to loosen the nail polish inside. It's not meant to harden on skin, especially not inside wounds, so it never hardened all the way... it's more tacky. It does hurt a little when he's used the water to free the edges and finally lifts the nail polish itself out of the wound, but it's... almost a good kind of pain, and not in the sick way that making these cuts was. It feels like he's literally cleaning up my sin... which in a physical way he is. Which means I've never been more ashamed in my life, but the love he's showing me is just so completely amazing, and the feeling of the polish coming out is terrifying and lifesaving at the same time.

When he's successfully removed all of the nail polish, all of the cuts are bleeding again. He just continues with his cloth, patiently dabbing up the blood every single time until it finally stops coming. I guess he must have stopped in the bathroom for some supplies before coming here, because he reaches behind him again and this time produces a bottle of disinfectant.

"This might sting a little, Darling." Once again, his warning is tender, devastated, and full of love.

All I do is shrug this time. I like pain, apparently.

Sure enough, when he carefully pours a little of the liquid over my arm, catching the runoff with the cloth, I enjoy the sting in a filthy, shameful way.

When he's wiped that up as well, Dad reaches back one last time to produce a roll of white bandage and some scissors. Within another minute, he has my arm wrapped up like it's something to be treasured and protected instead of hated and shamed.

I feel him looking at me, feel the weight of the love and sadness in his gaze, but I can't raise my head or even my eyes, so I just continue to sit here, staring at the ground.

Finally, he leans forward, kissing my hairline before pulling be back into another hug. "I love you."

Against my own will, I give in, wrapping my arms around him and inhaling his familiar scent. My voice comes out like a scared child's. "I'm so sorry, Dad."

He pulls me that much closer to him, rubbing my back gently. "Oh, Darling. It's okay. This breaks my heart, alright? But I am so proud of you, and I love you so much, and you are so very, very priceless."

I suck, I'm sorry, hopefully Tuesday, but you know how that goes.

On another note, I was at the theater to see Solo last night, minding my own business while the trailers played,  and then the one for Beautifully Broken came on. Okay, whatever, looks good I guess. And then tobyMac. And then I screamed. And then Alan Powell. And then I screamed again. Anyway, super excited for that movie now and my friend and I are seeing it on opening night.