EPISODE 5: MAYA'S SILENCE
757 Words
Grace Church Parking Lot, Cedar Falls, Iowa.
The lot was empty. Sunday service ended 6 hours ago.
Ana found her.
Maya was sitting on the curb by the light pole. Hoodie over her head. Knees pulled up. No sheet music. No Bible. Nothing.
"Hey,"
Ana said, sitting beside her. Not touching. Just present.
Maya didn’t look up.
"The board voted to keep it,"
she said. Voice flat.
"6-0. Pastor Mark posted it."
Ana nodded.
"I saw."
"You were there,"
Maya said.
"I watched you. You didn’t cry. You didn’t yell. You just... said the truth."
The parking lot lights buzzed above them. Cold Iowa air. November was coming.
"I was scared,"
Ana admitted.
Maya finally looked at her. Eyes red. Dry.
"I stopped singing,"
she said.
"Because I was lying. Every Sunday. ‘Great is Thy faithfulness’ when I wanted to die. So I stopped. Because God deserves truth."
Ana nodded.
"You’re right. God does deserve truth."
"And the truth is I’m not okay,"
Maya whispered.
"I’m not getting better. Tuesday was good. Wednesday was okay. Today? I woke up and the concrete was back."
Ana pulled her own knees up. Like Maya.
"Day seven for me too,"
she said.
"It comes back. That doesn’t mean you’re failing."
Maya picked at the concrete.
"What if it never goes away? What if I’m just... like this forever?"
"Then we’ll be like this together,"
Ana said.
"Romans 8:38-39 doesn’t say ‘nothing can separate us if you’re happy.’ It says nothing. Period. Not depression. Not bad days. Not silence."
Maya laughed. Small. No humor.
"That’s a terrible verse for a worship leader to use."
"I know,"
Ana said.
"But it’s true."
They sat there. No one talked. A car passed on University Avenue. The church behind them was dark.
"I hate that I need you,"
Maya said suddenly.
"I hate that I texted you Sunday. I hate that you came. I hate that it helped."
Ana didn’t flinch.
"I know,"
she said.
"Needing people feels like weakness. But Galatians 6:2. Bear one another’s burdens. That’s not weakness. That’s church."
Maya wiped her face with her sleeve.
"Can I ask you something? And you have to be honest."
"Always."
"Do you ever wish I never texted you?"
Ana turned to her. Full.
"No,"
she said.
"Day four, I was counting minutes to get through. Day five, I was tired. Day six, I was at a board meeting. Day seven, I’m sitting in a parking lot with you.
If you never texted, I’d still be counting minutes alone."
Maya’s throat moved. She was trying not to cry.
"Can I come to your apartment?"
she whispered.
"I don’t want to be alone tonight. The quiet is too loud."
Ana stood up. Held out her hand.
"Yes."
Maya took it. Her hand was cold.
***
Monday, 7:15 PM.
Ana’s Apartment, Cedar Falls, Iowa.
Small. Clean. One bedroom. Bible on the coffee table. Journal open on the kitchen counter.
Ana put the kettle on.
"Tea or coffee?"
she asked.
"Tea,"
Maya said. She was sitting on the couch. Arms crossed. Like she was holding herself in.
Ana made two mugs. Chamomile. She handed one to Maya and sat on the other end of the couch. Not close. Just close enough.
"You don’t have to talk,"
Ana said.
"We can just sit."
Maya nodded. She held the mug with both hands.
Ten minutes passed.
Twenty.
Then Maya spoke. Barely a whisper.
"I threw away my sheet music today."
Ana didn’t react.
"Why?"
"Because if I can’t sing for God, what’s the point?"
Maya said.
"If my voice is broken, then I’m broken. And broken things get thrown away."
Ana set her tea down.
"Maya. Look at me."
Maya did.
"Your voice isn’t you. Your singing isn’t you. You are you. Even silent. Even broken. Even on days you don’t sing."
Maya’s eyes filled.
"But what am I for then?"
"You’re for being loved,"
Ana said.
"That’s it. That’s the whole job. Not performing. Not being okay. Just being."
The kettle clicked off in the kitchen. Neither moved to get it.
"I don’t know how to do that,"
Maya whispered.
"Me neither,"
Ana said.
"That’s why we practice. One day at a time. One hour. One minute."
Maya cried then. Not loud. Just tears falling into her tea.
Ana didn’t move closer. Didn’t hug her. She just sat. Present.
After a while, Maya’s breathing slowed.
"Can I sleep here?"
she asked.
"On the couch. I don’t want to go home."
"Yes,"
Ana said.
"I have blankets."
- Writer
