The call came and I didn’t get up. I had told everyone I wasn’t going to, and I didn’t.
“Isn’t the refusal of the call part of the hero’s journey?” I jested to the bishop.
“Not for very long,” she laughed.
I refused. I shimmied down in my seat and crossed my arms and made myself as small as possible, as though that mattered. I wouldn’t go. So it came to me.
In the center of my forehead, right at the site of my angriest wrinkle, I felt a thumb pressing gently. It was exactly like being anointed with oil felt the day before during service. Exactly like being anointed.
The friend beside me heard me sniffling and glanced over at me. I didn’t make eye contact. Not yet, I thought as hard as I could. I can’t do this yet. Not now. I need time.
The thumb released. I relaxed. You have time, came the answer, felt rather than heard, welling in my chest. A hand rested on my forehead, briefly, kindly. And then it was gone.
“Are you okay?” asked my friend. I shook my head.
“Do you need a hug?” she asked.
I nodded and leaned stiffly into the crook of her arm, still sniffling and sullen, unready to face what had just happened. I had a reprieve, but it was as the bishop had said: not for long.
Called 