the color of sin.

the color of sin.

i.
mommy/daddy, what's the color of sin?
tears escaped my ten year old eyes
dripping, pulsating with the foreknowledge of the answer I would receive
but they said nothing.
and in saying nothing, said everything
she reached into the box of crayons,
a multitude of colors awaiting her hand
red, yellow, green, blue, pink, black
murder, malice, falsehood, adultery, pedophilia, homosexuality
she chose black.
I had worn black that day
because I found freedom in honesty and sometimes in vulnerability.
and in that moment,
when the black crayon became a separate entity,
separated from normality, community, grace,
I died inside.
before her, before me:
theology one oh one, crudely drawn
Adam and Eve
their bodies were white, like righteousness,
like incarnate dieties
"you never draw outside the lines, Rach."

ii.
ten years of drawing inside the lines
but every line is traced with blood-red pain
and my heart is strangely pumping hypocrisy,
arresting my Christianity,
even though everyone tells me I'm morally okay
so long as I walk down an aisle to Canon in D,
or just maybe Ave Maria,
take his hand,
and one year later have the chord cut from my stomach.
so I find it paradoxical:
in first venturing outside the lines,
then in turning the page,
then in creating my own art,
I am becoming the person
I have always been.
in losing the people I love,
I become responsible for loving myself.
in meeting people just like me--
the ones who color outside the lines,
I will learn to forgive the people not like me.