Ted Dekker - The Priests Graveyard

I can only remember one time in my life when I begged for another persons screams to continue.

The screams were my mothers and I was sure that the only reason shed stopped was because she could no longer breathe. I was still only a boy and I sat in the corner of my bedroom, knees hugged to my chest, praying for her to make another sound, any sign of life, even if it was a scream.

Now, much older, I hear those screams far too frequently and I beg them to go away. I dont know if Im an angel or a monster anymore.

Its two in the morning right now and storming outside. Ive laid in my bed for three hours, staring at the ceiling, and, despite my own vow of silence, I must write what happened that day in 1992, hoping that my confession here will finally earn me enough peace to bring sleep.

I grew up in a small town in northern Bosnia, and was fifteen when the civil war between the Croats and the Serbs began in earnest. There were many reasons for the war, but the only thing I came to care about was that Orthodox Christians were killing Catholic Christians.

My mother, my two sisters and I were Catholic. Good Catholics who attended mass at least once a week and said our prayers every day. For as long as I can remember I was convinced that I would become a priest when the time came.

My father had died of lung cancer four years earlier, leaving my mother to care for myself and my sisters, Marija and Nina. Within two years of Fathers passing we had adjusted to life without him and took comfort in our love for each other.

On that fall morning, the weather was still warm and the leaves had not yet fallen from the trees in our valley. We were all seated at the table for a breakfast of muffins and oatmeal in our house on the villages southern edge. I can picture every detail still.

Mother had made the porridge with milk instead of water that morning, so it was smooth and creamy the way I liked it. Marija preferred more oats and Nina suggested more milk so that it could be eaten like a soup. I objected with a sour face and this made Marija laugh. Encouraged, I offered up a few more examples of how I could twist my face and for a few minutes my oddities made us all laugh.

Mother was still dressed in her sleeping clothes, the same pale yellow flannel night-dress she always wore. Her long, black hair was pulled back into a bun to keep it out of her face. My sisters had also come to the table in their pajamas. I was the only one whod dressed (slacks and the same gray button-down shirt Id worn the day before) after rolling out of bed at Mothers call for breakfast.

We were still laughing over my fourth or fifth facial contortion, this one involving screwed up lips and crossed eyes, when someone banged on the door repeatedly. A harsh voice demanded we let them in or they would break it down.

Our small town sat in a valley to the north of the fighting that had brought Bosnia to a standstill, but a hundred stories had reached us and each one seemed worse than the one before. Reports of terrible killings and rape, slaughters of whole congregations as they sat in mass on a Sunday, snipers hiding in the woods waiting to pop off anyones head as they walked by minding their own business.

My mother stood slowly to her feet, face as pale as the porridge. The demand came again, with a curse this time.

Her eyes darted to me and then to my sisters. Get to your bedrooms! Hurry!

Marija and Nina fled the table in obedience, but I didnt want to go. Following my fathers passing Mother had become my greatest source of securitybesides the local priest, she was my only true comforter. I felt safe next to her. And I think I made her feel safe as well.

I started to object, but she cut me short with her finger, stabbing toward my bedroom.

Now! Run! Climb out your window! Get your sisters and run to the priest!

So I raced down the hall and was about to turn toward my sisters room when I heard the front door crash open. I knew that from their vantage whoever had broken down the front door would see me if I ran across the hall toward Marijas and Ninas room.

I cant tell how many times Ive relived that moment. It was the first in a string of choices that would eventually land me where I am today, a full grown man with a new name, living in America, courting madness.

Panicked, I slipped into my bedroom and eased the door shut, careful not to make a sound. I was halfway across my room, when my mothers first scream stopped me cold. Then the sound of a slap and running boots.

Afraid I would be caught, I ran to the corner, ducked behind my dresser, and dropped to my seat in the shadows.

The door flew open. Heavy breathing filled the room. Not my own because I had clamped my lungs as tight as a drum.

The door slammed shut. I was alone.

And then another scream, this one from Marija. Followed by the sound of another hard slap. I should have run for the window and gone for help, but even then my first instinct was to stay and save my mother and sisters, never mind that I was only fifteen and as skinny as a twig.