"Personal Demon" by Sandra Herrmann
"Thank You, God, With My Whole Heart!" by Sandra Herrmann
* * * * * * *
Personal Demon
by Sandra Herrmann
Mark 1:21-28
She was on the locked ward of the mental health unit of the hospital where I served as a chaplain. She was locked in because she was a danger to herself. She’d been set upon and savaged by a gang, and her body showed how badly they had brutalized her. I could see that she had a black eye and scratches all over her face, but the worst was the stitches showing where one of the youths had inserted a knife into her mouth and sliced her open. I was spared seeing the bruising elsewhere, but I had been told she had bite marks, bruises, and welts all over her body. It was an event too horrible for me to think about much; I had no idea how she had survived.
Well, to tell the truth, she hadn’t survived. She had been in surgical intensive care after the doctors patched her up, and her screaming and thrashing about in the bed endangered the nurses and disturbed everyone on the unit, not to mention herself. She would tear at the IV tubing, try to throw herself out of the bed, and wince at the approach of any male doctors or nurses. So she had been heavily medicated. When she was physically better, and it was time to move her out of intensive care, the medical staff worried that without one-on-one care she might hurt herself, might hurt anyone coming into her room, or might escape the hospital altogether. So she was moved to the psychiatric unit, where she was removed from most of those dangers.
Still she had managed to get hold of something -- one of the nurses thought it was a pencil (!) -- and repeatedly stabbed herself in the arm. Those wounds were deeper than I could have imagined one could do with a pencil, and her arm was black and blue nearly its full length. She had ripped off the bandages and continually picked at the scabs. When they tried to clip her nails so she couldn’t pick with them, she had been seriously combative. They had bandaged her fingers, but then she picked them off with her teeth.
She had a diagnosis of PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). She was the first person I had ever met with that diagnosis, but one of the doctors explained to me that she had come through an experience that would drive nearly anyone mad, and it had left her with flashbacks and night terrors as well as the self-mutilation. Every diagnosis had to fit into one of the categories in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychological Disorders, or none of that person’s medical costs could be paid for. Most people think of PTSD as applying to soldiers returning from war, but I learned that many cases are women who have been severely abused, usually by either a partner or parent, but sometimes by some stranger -- or group of strangers. Her case was one of the worst any of these mental health professionals had ever seen.
I approached this young woman with careful, slow movements and a gentle voice. I didn’t want to startle her; I also feared that if I did, she might strike out at me. One of the nurses said I’d be crazy myself to not feel any of that fear. “Thanks,” I thought to myself, “I’m glad it’s expected I’d be a bit afraid.” But if these professionals were even a little afraid, I wondered if I was crazy to enter the locked ward.
I walked into the ward through a door that led, not directly into the ward, but into a nurses’ station, which left me with a counter between me and the room. I felt safer that way. “It was cowardly,” a little voice in my head said as I looked around to see if I could see the young woman in question. I looked down at the admission sheet to find out her name: Mariah Ramirez.
I looked up to see this badly battered woman staring at me from the opposite side of the room. Under the bruises and cuts, however, I saw a woman who had the makings of a beauty. I smiled at her. She apparently could not make up her mind if I was okay or not. She leaned against the wall, one foot behind her, tapping at the hard surface, hands stuffed in her pants pockets. I slowly opened the half-door in the counter and entered the open day room. I leaned on the wall on my side of the room and looked at Mariah.
After a few minutes of us regarding each other, she put both feet on the floor, pushed off the wall, and sauntered in my direction. When she stopped a few feet away from me, I said, “You’re Mariah, right?”
She nodded.
“I’m the chaplain on call up here. My name is Sandra.”
She cocked her head. “Who sent you?”
“No one has sent me. I’ve come because I heard that you went through a terrible situation. That you were violated.”
Suddenly everything about her changed. She drew herself up and was taller than I had estimated. Her dull eyes flashed and when she spoke my amazement was compete: She spoke in a rich, definitely masculine voice in a Jamaican accent! I’m certain my mouth fell open. I could not believe what my ears were hearing. What on earth was happening here?
“Mariah was hurt. They did terrible things to her. I have come to protect her. So you need to go away. RIGHT NOW! Leave!”
I wish I could report that I called on the name of Jesus to heal her. I wish I could report that I said anything. But I don’t remember saying a word. I’m not sure how long I stood there either. I know I felt like running -- not walking -- back through the door and out of the locked ward. I think I backed up a step or two, just to make sure I was out of her -- or his -- reach.
What I do remember is that I managed to ask some questions of Mariah, and she kept answering me in that rich Jamaican voice. No more threats were made or implied at least. I left the unit after what seemed a lifetime. By my next visit to the unit, she had been transferred to a long-term facility (our unit kept people only up to two weeks). I never heard the end of her story.
In the meantime, I had to write up my interaction with her and put it in her chart. I consulted with the unit social worker, who I thought might at least not recommend that I be committed because of my report. He laughed at my concern.
“Don’t worry, Sandra. You’re just reporting what happened. But I would not suggest that you include any thoughts as to the nature of the event.”
I said nothing. I realize that there might be many explanations of what I had experienced. But at the time -- and for a long time afterward -- I couldn’t help but wonder if I had encountered a, well, demonic presence. It sounded a lot like the story of the demon-possessed man in the synagogue, shouting that he knew who Jesus was, and wondering if Jesus had come to do away with the demons. Neither incident could really be explained. Those in Jesus’ day assumed that these outbursts were demonic. We today do not. Usually. Do we?
* * * * * * *
Thank You, God, With My Whole Heart!
by Sandra Herrmann
Psalm 111
“Go ahead and ask her! There’ll never be a better time -- she’s alone. Quick, before the rest of her gang gets here!”
Declan leaned forward, as though to walk over to her -- or maybe to stretch himself out, with just his head getting close to Abby. Then he took a step forward and nearly tripped over his own feet. And, of course, here came Abby’s best friends. All of them. They seemed to surround her, cutting off any hope he had to talk with her alone.
“Why do they have to go everywhere in a group?” Declan moaned. “Don’t they know there’s a dance next weekend?”
Nick shrugged. “I told you to go over and ask her while you could! You’re going to have to break into that bunch if you want to go with her. She’s almost never alone, I told you that!”
“I don’t think I can do that. This.” Declan shook his head and started to walk away. But Nick grabbed his arm. “LOOK!” he hissed into Declan’s ear.
Declan turned back and looked. Abby was smiling -- at him? He looked down the hallway behind him, and could see no one else she might be smiling at. He smiled at Abby and half waved his hand. She covered her mouth with her hand, giggling fiercely. Declan turned bright red. He hated how easily he blushed, and he took his hand -- his stupid, waving hand -- and brushed his hair back from his face. Too late, he realized that now she could see just how red his face was. Was she laughing harder? Or were her friends now laughing at him? He forced himself to look up, straight at her, like his mother had told him.
“Girls like boys who look them in the eye, Declan. Keep your eyes on her face when you talk to her.” She hung up the dish towel she’d been using. “And do wipe your hands on your pants before you touch her. Her hands will probably be sweating, too, and two hands sweating doesn’t make hand-holding very nice.” Mom had smiled and said, “Your dad was always swatting at his pants pockets, I thought, and wondered why. But he was seeing to it that his hands weren’t sweaty when he reached for mine.” For the first time, Declan realized that his mother had dimples. He wondered why he’d never noticed before.
“You still there, Dec?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine.” He smiled at Abby. She really did seem to be smiling back. He slapped his pockets and walked towards her. He noticed that her girl friends were all in a line over on the opposite side of the hallway, watching, and wished they would just go away. Or turn around and open their lockers. Or something, anything, but watch him. Even as he thought this, one of them poked the girl next to her and went over to her locker. “I am lucking out here,” Declan thought.
Abby just stood still, watching him walk over to her. He slapped his pockets again. This time, it sounded to him like a firecracker going off.
‘Oh, great,’ he thought to himself. ‘I look like a goof, I sound like a firecracker. I must be nuts to be doing this.’ He wanted to stop walking towards her. He tried to stop, but his feet seemed to have a life of their own at this point. At last -- it seemed like half an hour, at least -- he was close enough to touch her, and his feet finally stopped.
“Hi.” ‘O, great,’ he thought, ‘I’m a miracle at talking to girls. My life is about to come to an end, and I’ve never kissed a girl. Maybe I never will.’ A little voice in his head seemed to say, ‘Oh, right. How many guys have died from fear of touching a girl?’
“Hi.” She smiled just a little. He thought she had a beautiful smile. And she was smiling at him!
“Uh, hi, Abby.”
“Hello,” she tilted her head forward a little, peering at him. Oh, he had to sound like the biggest doofus!
“Uh, I thought, I mean, I was wondering, I mean,. . .” he took a deep breath. “I’d like to take you to the Valentine Dance. Do you think you’d like to go with me?” He wondered if he should tell her that he didn’t dance very well, that he’d only ever danced with his mother? Probably not. Besides, his dad had been showing him some steps, so technically he’d danced with his dad. No, that wouldn’t be a good thing to tell her.
“Why are you shaking your head, Dec?” she asked. “Don’t you want me to go to the dance with you?” She almost giggled. ‘Oh, no,’ she thought, ‘don’t start giggling again! Mom says boys do not like girls to giggle when they’re being asked to a dance.’ She took a deep breath and went on, “Because I’d love to go to the dance with you.” She had run out of breath at the end of the sentence. Had he heard her say ‘with you?’ But just as she was about to open her mouth again, Dec said,
“Really? Well, that -- that’s great! I mean,” he straightened himself up and remembered to look her in the eye, “I mean, that’s good. My dad will drive us to the dance, if that’s O.K. with you. And your dad. I mean,” he swallowed, thinking to himself ‘stop babbling, idiot!’, “we’ll -- I mean I’ll pick you up at 7:00, if that’s O.K. We don’t want to be the first ones there, you know.”
Abby grinned and nodded. ‘Huh,’ Declan thought, ‘she has dimples like Mom’s.’
“7:00 would be great -- I mean, just fine, Dec.”
“Alright, it’s a date,” Declan said. He started to walk back to Nick, stopped and said, “See you around.” Abby nodded.
Behind his back, Abby said, “Declan? I don’t expect flowers, but if you want to get me some, I’m allergic to roses, so don’t get those. If you want to get me any flowers, I mean. . .”
Declan froze. He hadn’t thought about flowers! Oh, man! But he turned around and said, “Maybe carnations?” It was really the only flower he knew other than orchids and roses.
“Oh, yes! Pink carnations would be so nice.” Her dimples were showing again. Declan nodded and strode off down the hallway.
Suddenly, Nick was at his side. “Way to go, Dec! Really smooth!” Declan poked his arm with his elbow.
“Knock it off, Nick.”
“What?!? I’m serious. You were spectacularly smooth. Did you see her girlfriends? They were all over envious. Seriously, that Janet? The tall one that plays soccer? She was almost as red as you were!”
“Oh, yeah?” Dec looked back over his shoulder. Abby’s friends were crowded around her, chattering like a bunch of sparrows. Janet, who was taller than the others, was watching him and Nick. Dec punched Nick’s arm and grinned as they headed to the gym.
As they walked onto the basketball court, one of the other guys threw him the ball. “Howya doin’ Dec?”
One of the other boys smirked. “Look at that swagger on him. Declan’s doing well, we can tell.”
Declan just smiled. “Yeah, yeah. Dec’s doing fine.”
Nick opened his mouth to proclaim Declan’s recent triumph, but Declan caught his eye and shook his head. The game gave them no time to talk, so Nick waited until they were in the locker room.
“Why didn’t you let me tell them? You and Abby? She’s gorgeous, everybody thinks so, and she’s going to the dance with you! Why don’t you let me tell them?”
Declan sighed a little. “She’s not my conquest, Nick. She’s a girl I like a lot. I don’t want to gossip about her. Just keep quiet, will you? Everybody will see us at the dance. It won’t be a secret then.”
Nick just shook his head. “If you say so, but really, Dec, she is kind of a conquest.”
Declan slapped his arm. “Smarten up, Nick. She’s a person. Like my mom. Or yours. How would you like it if somebody talked like that about our mothers?” He walked away, head high.
“Well, yeah,” said Nick, following. “Like I said, you ought to be real proud that she said yes!”
The two boys started laughing together, spraying one another in the showers.
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. In 1980, she was in the first class ordained by Bishop Marjorie Matthews (the first female United Methodist bishop). Herrmann is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana. Sandra's favorite pastime is reading with her two dogs piled on her.
*****************************************
StoryShare, February 1, 2015, issue.
Copyright 2015 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
