Thursday, March 20, 2014

Fred Phelps On A Saturday Night

     Fred Phelps is in his end days, preparing to be taken into the arms of angels while people here are clapping and booing him off the stage and I feel the sadness of it all. Who forgot to hug him when he had a bad day in school? Who bullied Fred when he was so small? As I lay my head on the pillow, I pray his soul to keep and thank the lucky stars I have smaller problems, while drifting off to sleep.

     Unexpectedly, Aunt Irene is here for a night time visit, interrupting the casting crew and pulling me off the set because there is a spot on my face. They're annoyed and it's only a dream but it costs money to get the photographers and music in alignment on a Saturday night and she's pulling my arms and asking me to go bar hopping in her fast white car. Stubborn woman, I'm dragged inside and walls are black, the people have no color, shadows draped in smoke lead our way. Bits of confetti float in the air, mostly reds and yellows. Why are we here? My son, we need to find my son! Shall I apologize to the television crew and their photographers first?

     The images are lucid as hard rain on glass, disappearing with every swipe of a windshield wiper and fear is thick but there is no fog. Aunt Irene has left, leaving me alone with the thing. The thing that exists and is now an enemy. It's coming to hurt me and I swear if it jumps like that jack in the box at the thrift store today, I will kill it!

     "No," the angel comforts. "You are to love this enemy or else it will kill you," she says and pulls the shades so Sunday morning light can penetrate my bedroom.

     Whew, that's the last time I'll pray for Fred Phelps before bedtime and a phone text tells me to call my son because he may be in physical trouble. The thing has found a way out of the dream and into my house.The drumming in my heart is getting louder and louder and I feel my tribal roots grow with every beat. I wish I could call Aunt Irene, but she's been dead for years.

     Two days pass before I hear my son's voice but I've been told he's fine. My calls go unanswered but I know the thing has me in its grip and I slow my breath and try to remain neutral.
    "Mom? I'm coming over," he decides after his space of solitude. "I'm sore and my face is bad."
    His eye is swollen and he walks like our old cat. "What happened to you!" I ask and the story unfolds.

     He had smiled and opened the door for the wrong woman who took a punch at his face, knocking him to the floor and then kicked him in the face with her boots. While trying to stand, she kicked him in the stomach, breaking his glasses. It was a random act of violence and the people who saw the moment when he was standing thought he had provoked it. One man furthered the insult by pushing him to the wall. In one small moment, many could have stepped forward but chose to walk away, diverting their eyes, leaving him feeling like a stain on the carpet.

     Every mother knows the pain of a bullied child and every cop knows the rage of vengeful mother. The thing I so feared had now entered my body, never mind that it may be karma balancing a past life action, he was my son and nobody would hurt him for no reason. An intense anger filled my body and I thought of ways to find this person. It took two days to rid myself of these thoughts, leaving me with the same kind of poison the woman must have felt when she hit my son. How did I become like her? The thing was snug inside of me and the only way out was for me to project a love ball of light into her from me. The energy slowly shifted and I began to cry. Who had forgotten to notice her when she was small? Where were her words that told stories of her dreams and why she is important? Slowly, there was release, my joints felt flexible and my breath became deeper with every inhalation.

     Aunt Irene was right, I had a dirty spot on my face. The only way we will ever be able to truly take our bow on the stage in front of cameras and lights will be to love our enemies with understanding and compassion. As long as we fear or hate the Fred Phelps and other bullies in the world, we are the same. As the angel in the dream said, "learn to love the enemy or it will kill us."



  1. Sandy...this is so well written, so interesting and sad. Too bad about Phelps. I always hoped he would change and love would enter his tormented soul. Maybe now his "followers" will welcome love and see this beautiful world instead of the ugly one he painted for them.

  2. I know what you mean about letting others' hate enter you when you or another has been wronged. It's a poisonous feeling and so hard to fight, but hate takes a toll on us, not the perpetrator. Which is not to say that we can't act, but we need to act for the positive, if we do act. You are a positive and empathetic person! Great article!