Naked on God's Doorstep A Memoir

I scolded myself as I dusted the coffee table and straightened a picture. Why in the world had I invited Dee Ann to my house? I'd met her the week before at a women's meeting where I was the speaker. We sat at tables, eating forbidden desserts, sipping coffee or tea, and delicately wiping our mouths on tiny, flowered paper napkins. In an effort to exude confidence as I walked to the podium, I swept the audience with a friendly smile. They were splashes of red, green, blue, yellow, orange, and violet, with an occasional brushstroke of black, gray, and white. Some had read my first book,The Greening of Mrs. Duckworth,and wanted to hear more of my story. This was my first opportunity to lay out the transformed rubbish of my life before women in my own city. My reception after the meeting had been warm; women in sunny pantsuits and sheer flowered dresses hugged me and shook my hand. A young, slender blonde had waited until the last warm word was spoken, then introduced herself. She smiled with her entire face. "Hi, my name is Dee Ann. I appreciate what you said..." Her smile faded and she looked off into the distance, finally inhaling a fresh dose of courage. "I'd like to talk to you, but it would take time..." She looked like a child waiting to be told whether to stand up, sit down, or go home. I wanted to inhale her fear and make it my own. "Let's see...what's your schedule like? I'm sure we can figure out a time to get together." We set a date for the following week, and I invited her to come to my home. In a few minutes Dee Ann would be ringing the bell. I stood in the middle of the room eyeing the lime green sofa I once chose in ignorance and now detested. Behind it were two Con-Tact covered bookcases turned backward to separate my husband's office from our living quarters. Tables, shelves, and walls in the room where we sprawled to watch TV were covered with knickknacks because I was sure every gift had to be on display. I knew my rental house screamed "cheap" nearly as loudly as the apartment suspected to have been a brothel with its car-seat sofa and cretonne-paneled curtains had years ago. The bell chimed and the dog barked. Dee Ann was here. I led her to the green sofa and arranged a tray table in front of her, checking to make sure the sometimes shaky legs were secure. "Would you like tea?" Seeming grateful for a social amenity that promised friendship and not quiz-time, she accepted. After I poured the tea and settled beside her, I asked, "How can I help you?" Dee Ann hesitated. "I don't know where to begin." She had an apprehensive look, as though she expected to be shown the door instead of kindness. Dee Ann, I decided, looked like me years ago, although she was wearing another face. Of course, I'd never sat on anyone's sofa to tell my most secret secrets. That would have required a both-feet-in-the-water trust that I didn't possess. I knew I'd understand Dee Ann, because I'd been Dee Ann. "Begin anywhere." I leaned back and drank some tea. She began to speak, starting with events of last week and working backward to childhood. Her voice was low, as though the walls really did have ears. As I listened, this ordinary moment of tea on the sofa with a new friend began to be transformed. Inwardly I was aware that God was sharpening my senses so I could hear between the lines. He was filling me with sorrowful love for the tiny traumatized child who had grown into a traumatized woman. It soon became evident that Dee Ann had been abandoned and never recovered. I sensed that God wantedDuckworth, Marion is the author of 'Naked on God's Doorstep A Memoir', published 2007 under ISBN 9781590529560 and ISBN 1590529561.