By Michael John Sullivan
It is only when we silent the blaring sounds of our daily existence that we can finally hear the whispers of truth that life reveals to us, as it stands knocking on the doorsteps of our hearts.
~K.T. Jong
On a November night in 1983, my father tried to break down my bedroom door in a fit of rage. For most of my twenty-three years, my silence and refusal to take part in the sparring wars that took place daily in our household had made me an outcast. I had survived many nights by escaping to my attic room, shielding myself from the insults. When my mother — my protector — had lost her battle with cancer and was called home by God the previous year, I knew my continued existence in our Richmond Hill house was fragile.
It is only when we silent the blaring sounds of our daily existence that we can finally hear the whispers of truth that life reveals to us, as it stands knocking on the doorsteps of our hearts.
~K.T. Jong
On a November night in 1983, my father tried to break down my bedroom door in a fit of rage. For most of my twenty-three years, my silence and refusal to take part in the sparring wars that took place daily in our household had made me an outcast. I had survived many nights by escaping to my attic room, shielding myself from the insults. When my mother — my protector — had lost her battle with cancer and was called home by God the previous year, I knew my continued existence in our Richmond Hill house was fragile.
My father told me to leave the next day. I found some shelter with a friend until he left to go home. I sought aid from a few other college buddies, but they couldn't help. On Thanksgiving Day, my aunt on Long Island said I could stay with her. But when I called the next day to see if they could pick me up at the train station, my uncle said, "Your father really lashed into your aunt. I'm sorry, but we can't help you."
Weary from the begging, I gave up and made the E train in New York City my home at night. I continued to seek employment, even landing a job interview. But I had nowhere to take a shower. I tried a nearby university, but the showers were being renovated. I had no other choice but to wash my hair in a toilet.
While riding the trains at night, I reflected on my motives, my goals, and most importantly, my faith.
Who was Jesus Christ to me?
I knew from rigid classroom teaching how history viewed Him. But what did He mean to me, huddled at the end of the subway car, warming my feet? I didn't know. I remember looking around the train, avoiding eye contact whenever possible, embarrassed over my dirty appearance and fighting off a nauseous feeling after truly comprehending that this was now my bedroom. I had nowhere to go. Nowhere.
And I asked the question over and over again: Where are you, Jesus?
Then I did what came naturally. I pulled a notebook and pen out of my green garbage bag of belongings and started to write. Was there something more to my relationship with Jesus than just reciting the Lord's Prayer?
On New Year's Eve in 1983, as I walked through the streets I had biked as a kid, I started to cry. It was frigid, and the wind rammed its force into my face, fingers, and toes. I didn't want to spend another night on the dangerous subway. I walked quickly to a familiar church in the neighborhood. I got there before the last service of the evening ended, and hid in the back under a pew. I waited anxiously for everyone to leave, hoping no one would notice. They didn't. I felt a sense of relief as the doors were locked.
I was alone. The wind creaked eerily in the old church, the slightest sound echoing loudly, causing my heart to skip a few beats. But was I really alone?
I walked to the front of the church. There was a makeshift manger with the baby Jesus lying in a wooden cradle. I knelt beside it and said a prayer for my mom. Then I wrote and wrote and cried. I looked at the innocent baby; His life lay ahead with promise, hope, and dreams. I spoke softly, telling the baby how sad I was. I even picked Him up and kissed His cheek. He was so beautiful, with the dim light from above shining proudly on His face. I sat there for a couple of hours and reflected. This is who Jesus is. He was there for me whenever I needed Him. And in a dark moment, I discovered the nature of our relationship.
That spiritual conversation so long ago is what helped inspire me to send my characters in my novels, Everybody's Daughter and Necessary Heartbreak: A Novel of Faith and Forgiveness, back in time during Christ's life. Like me, the characters struggled with their faith and received an opportunity to truly understand what Jesus means to us all. It was a chance to understand God's greatest gift — the gift of time, the gift of each new day.
It wasn't long after that night that my aunt and uncle defied my father's wishes and gave me a place to stay. Later on, I married, and after helping raise two daughters, time allowed me to revisit the memories of my homelessness and my search for what Jesus really means to me.
Two years ago, I received an e-mail from Simon & Schuster requesting the publishing rights to my book. Since its publication, I have been fortunate to receive emotionally charged letters, phone calls, and e-mails from clergy, widows, a woman who lived in a car, those struggling with their faith, and those whose faith knows no limit. And just think — it all started with those three weeks on a train, and one incredible night alone in a church.
Weary from the begging, I gave up and made the E train in New York City my home at night. I continued to seek employment, even landing a job interview. But I had nowhere to take a shower. I tried a nearby university, but the showers were being renovated. I had no other choice but to wash my hair in a toilet.
While riding the trains at night, I reflected on my motives, my goals, and most importantly, my faith.
Who was Jesus Christ to me?
I knew from rigid classroom teaching how history viewed Him. But what did He mean to me, huddled at the end of the subway car, warming my feet? I didn't know. I remember looking around the train, avoiding eye contact whenever possible, embarrassed over my dirty appearance and fighting off a nauseous feeling after truly comprehending that this was now my bedroom. I had nowhere to go. Nowhere.
And I asked the question over and over again: Where are you, Jesus?
Then I did what came naturally. I pulled a notebook and pen out of my green garbage bag of belongings and started to write. Was there something more to my relationship with Jesus than just reciting the Lord's Prayer?
On New Year's Eve in 1983, as I walked through the streets I had biked as a kid, I started to cry. It was frigid, and the wind rammed its force into my face, fingers, and toes. I didn't want to spend another night on the dangerous subway. I walked quickly to a familiar church in the neighborhood. I got there before the last service of the evening ended, and hid in the back under a pew. I waited anxiously for everyone to leave, hoping no one would notice. They didn't. I felt a sense of relief as the doors were locked.
I was alone. The wind creaked eerily in the old church, the slightest sound echoing loudly, causing my heart to skip a few beats. But was I really alone?
I walked to the front of the church. There was a makeshift manger with the baby Jesus lying in a wooden cradle. I knelt beside it and said a prayer for my mom. Then I wrote and wrote and cried. I looked at the innocent baby; His life lay ahead with promise, hope, and dreams. I spoke softly, telling the baby how sad I was. I even picked Him up and kissed His cheek. He was so beautiful, with the dim light from above shining proudly on His face. I sat there for a couple of hours and reflected. This is who Jesus is. He was there for me whenever I needed Him. And in a dark moment, I discovered the nature of our relationship.
That spiritual conversation so long ago is what helped inspire me to send my characters in my novels, Everybody's Daughter and Necessary Heartbreak: A Novel of Faith and Forgiveness, back in time during Christ's life. Like me, the characters struggled with their faith and received an opportunity to truly understand what Jesus means to us all. It was a chance to understand God's greatest gift — the gift of time, the gift of each new day.
It wasn't long after that night that my aunt and uncle defied my father's wishes and gave me a place to stay. Later on, I married, and after helping raise two daughters, time allowed me to revisit the memories of my homelessness and my search for what Jesus really means to me.
Two years ago, I received an e-mail from Simon & Schuster requesting the publishing rights to my book. Since its publication, I have been fortunate to receive emotionally charged letters, phone calls, and e-mails from clergy, widows, a woman who lived in a car, those struggling with their faith, and those whose faith knows no limit. And just think — it all started with those three weeks on a train, and one incredible night alone in a church.
http://www.chickensoup.com
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