Page 116 of Haunt Me

Then one of the seraphim flew to me

with a live coalin his hand,

which he had taken with tongs from the altar

and with it he touched my mouth and said,

This has touched your lips;

your guilt is taken away and your sin atoned for.

Ever hearing, but never understanding,

ever seeing, but never perceiving.

Make the heart of this people calloused,

make their ears dull

or they might see with their eyes,

hear with their ears,

understand with their hearts,

and turn around, and be healed.’

I finish reading the whole chapter. I reread it. Then again. And everything comes rushing back at me.

My dad’s faith. My mom’s words about who I am becoming.

What have I become? I became someone who decided not to believe in God anymore. Not to believe in anything good. I have become someone who turned away from the light. Someone with a calloused heart, someone who always hears but never understands, who sees but can’t perceive. Isn’t that what I was doing back in the woods? When Eden needed me?

I saw, but did not understand.

And now, I have hardened my heart so much that no one will ever break it again—but no one will melt either. It can’t ‘turn around and be healed’. It’s made of stone.

I get it now, but it’s too late.

Can I unbecome what I have become? Can I turn around from what I have made myself into? Is it too late to start believing in God again? In good things? In hope?

It may be too late, but I owe it to myself to try. To give it my all. I owe it to Eden as well.

I am unworthy, yes. I am not like the Isaiah who received the burning coal of truth on his lips. No seraphim brought mine from the altar. It was brought to me by a girl much more broken than Iam. And I am not worthy of handling any of this. I am deeply unworthy.

This is what it says in Isaiah 6, and this is what it says inside my heart.

But what if faith is for the unworthy? What if hope is for the hopeless? What if forgiveness is for the unforgivable?

‘You will hear but not understand

see but not see…’

I read the words again, and my brain puts a melody to them instantly, so that I can commit them to memory as a song. I close the tab on my phone—the chapter is now securely memorized inside my head—and look at my texts with Eden.

‘Waiting for what?’

‘Waiting for you to text me.’

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