EPISODE 3: AFTER THE COFFEE
996 Words
Tuesday, 10:00 AM.
Grace Church Office, Cedar Falls, Iowa.
The coffee from yesterday was still on Ana’s tongue. Bitter.
She sat across from Pastor Mark. His desk was covered in bulletins, offering envelopes, and one printed email. The subject line: "Concern About Support Group."
Pastor Mark pushed his glasses up. He looked tired.
"Ana, the board got 3 complaints,"
he said.
"They said the support group is ‘too dark’ for Grace Church. That we should be preaching victory, not depression."
Ana didn’t flinch. Day six. The concrete in her chest was back, but lighter.
"What did they say exactly?"
she asked.
"That talking about suicide gives people ideas,"
Pastor Mark said. He wouldn’t look at her.
"That if we keep meeting in the basement, parents will pull their kids from youth."
The office was quiet. Outside, someone was practicing piano in the sanctuary. Off key. Probably a volunteer.
Ana folded her hands on her lap. She could feel the paper napkin in her pocket. "You are too anointed to die." Maya’s handwriting wasn’t on it. Hers was.
"Pastor,"
Ana said.
"When I was 25, I sat in that basement with a rope in my bag. Someone stayed with me. No preaching. No fixing. Just coffee."
Pastor Mark finally looked up.
"I’m not asking to preach depression from the pulpit,"
Ana continued.
"I’m asking to let broken people have one room in this church where they don’t have to pretend."
She slid a paper across the desk. It was the attendance sheet from last month. 12 names. All from Grace Church. All with check marks.
"These are our people, Pastor. They’re already here on Sundays. They’re just crying in the parking lot after."
Pastor Mark picked up the paper. He read it twice.
"The meeting is tomorrow night. 7 PM,"
he said.
"Board votes. You can speak for 5 minutes. And you can bring one person to share."
Ana nodded.
"Thank you."
Tuesday, 7:30 PM.
Maya’s Apartment, Cedar Falls, Iowa.
Ana knocked. Soft.
Maya opened the door. Her eyes were puffy but clear. She was wearing a Grace Church hoodie. The napkin from yesterday was sticking out of the pocket.
"You came,"
Maya said.
"I said I would,"
Ana replied.
"Can I come in?"
Maya stepped aside. The room was different from Sunday. The laundry was in a basket. The sheet music was stacked. The keyboard still had the blanket on it, but the blanket was folded now.
Ana sat on the floor. Same as yesterday.
Maya sat on the bed.
"Tomorrow night,"
Ana said.
"The board might shut down the group."
Maya’s face fell.
"Because of me?"
"No,"
Ana said. Quick. Firm.
"Because people are scared of things they don’t understand. But we can talk to them."
She pulled out a notebook. Not her journal. A new one. Blue cover.
"I need help,"
Ana said.
"I’m not good at talking to the board. I get nervous and my words disappear. Will you come with me? Not to share your story. Just to sit with me. Like I sat with you."
Maya looked at the notebook. Then at Ana.
"You want me there?"
"I need you there,"
Ana said.
"Because when I start to believe the lie that we’re ‘too negative,’ I need someone to remind me that staying matters."
The room was quiet. The fridge hummed.
"Okay,"
Maya whispered.
"I’ll come."
Ana exhaled. She didn’t know she was holding her breath.
***
Wednesday, 6:55 PM.
Grace Church Basement, Cedar Falls, Iowa.
The folding chairs were set in a circle. Empty.
Ana stood at the front. Her hands shook. She had her Bible, her notebook, and the attendance sheet.
Maya sat in the second row. Alone. She wasn’t supposed to speak. She was just supposed to be there.
Footsteps on the stairs.
Board members came in one by one. Elder Ruth. Deacon Tom. Sister Lisa from the choir. Pastor Mark last.
Seven people. Seven faces that Ana had served communion to.
Elder Ruth cleared her throat.
"Ana, you have five minutes."
Ana stood. Her legs felt like water. Day six.
"Hi,"
she said. Her voice came out small.
"My name is Ana Rivera. I’m 28. I lead worship on Sundays."
She paused. Looked at Maya. Maya nodded once.
"I also have bipolar depression. Diagnosed three years ago. And two years ago, I almost didn’t make it to Sunday."
The room shifted. People looked at their laps.
"But someone in this church stayed with me. In this basement. With coffee. No sermon. Just presence. Galatians 6:2. Bear one another’s burdens."
Ana held up the attendance sheet.
"These 12 people meet here every Tuesday. They’re not here because they love being sad. They’re here because this is the only place they don’t have to lie and say ‘I’m fine’ when they’re not."
She put the paper down.
"If you shut this down, they won’t stop hurting. They’ll just hurt alone."
Silence.
Then Sister Lisa from the choir spoke.
"My daughter is on that list."
Another pause.
Deacon Tom rubbed his face.
"I didn’t know,"
he said.
Pastor Mark stood.
"I move that we keep the support group. Tuesdays, 7 PM. Basement. With a content warning on the bulletin."
Elder Ruth looked around.
"All in favor?"
Six hands went up.
"Motion passed,"
Pastor Mark said.
Ana’s knees almost gave out.
After the meeting, people filed out. No one talked to her directly. But Sister Lisa touched her arm as she passed.
"Thank you,"
she whispered.
When the room was empty, Maya walked to the front.
"You did it,"
she said.
"We did it,"
Ana corrected.
Maya picked up a chair and started stacking it.
"So... same time next Tuesday?"
Ana smiled. For real this time.
"Same time. Same coffee. Worse coffee probably."
They both laughed.
That night, Ana wrote in her journal.
They didn’t shut us down. One girl chose to stay. One church chose to stay too. That’s enough for today.
She underlined "stay" three times.
- Writer
