By Lauren N. Simmons

New York City

12:00 p.m.

The Met is my favorite place to go on a rainy day. Working in a bustling advertising agency, it allows me to escape my office for the lunch hour. I find my favorite painting: Van Gogh’s Wheat Field with Cypresses. I cannot take my eyes off of the rolling clouds. Off of that cypress tree. Why would that be? Maybe because Christmas comes soon? All I know is that it’s peaceful to my eyes. A nearby plaque states that the painting was inspired by the view from the asylum where Van Gogh voluntarily lived. 

I, too, stare at that cypress from a bench that sits in front of the painting. What does it represent? A familiar pang in my lower abdomen zings me. It always visits me this time of the month, the pain making it near impossible to focus on anything else. That’s another reason I come to the Met. To look at art when I can’t seem to concentrate on other things. When I can only think of how my periods have ruined my life.

That’s not fair to say. My periods have caused pain, no doubt. And pain… makes me want to eat. It’s what takes my mind off the suffering, takes the edge off. I was diagnosed with endometriosis at a young age. And I wish I could say that I knew that’s why I have no children at 45. But I can say that with no certainty. He robbed me of that.

Everything about dating my now-husband in those early days was idyllic. Everything I said, he agreed with. “Oh, you like tea… me too.” “Oh, you like basketball… it’s the best!” Oh, you want kids… so do I.”

Reader, after marriage, I come to find that he despises tea. That he never moves from the couch unless he has to. One day, I asked when he wanted to begin trying to conceive. To which his reply was, “Honey, I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for that.”

I pleaded with him. “Please, let me have this one thing. I’ll never ask you for more. All I ever wanted was to be a mom. Just one child.” He said he’d think on it. And he has never said yes. Or he does say yes, only to change his mind in 24 hours. 

What do I do? I’ve asked myself a million times. Surely, everyone would understand if I were to divorce him. He wasn’t honest with me from the beginning. But then there’s a tug on my heart. I love him, dear reader. The lazy windbag.

Oh, the pastor of my church waves to me. He is in another exhibit room, and I can only see him with my peripheral vision through the arched entryway. As I blink, a tear escapes my eye. Here I am, having a stupid meltdown in public. I swat the tear away as fast as I can.

“Hello, Martha,” Pastor Weller says with a cordial smile. “I didn’t think I’d run into you here, but I’m so glad I did.”

I stand to greet him. “Hello, Pastor,” I say while pulling on the hem of my sleeve. I hope he can’t tell I’ve been sad, just sitting here.

“I’ve been meaning to ask if you could help with this year’s Thanksgiving service project to feed the homeless. No one can do it as well as you.”

That’s because everyone else my age is busy with children, their families. My time is seen as free for the taking. “Yes, of course, I’m happy to help.”

“Wonderful!” he looks at me awkwardly. “Well, I’ll let you get back to what you were doing.”

So he had seen. He had seen that I was upset and still decided it was the right time to ask a favor. 

I look down to see a reminder on my phone for the 6:00 Weight Warriors meeting tonight. It may be odd, but my favorite day of the week is that of the Weight Warriors meeting. There’s no judgement. No one expects anything of me, only that I sit in that green chair and listen. I go, and I’m encouraged. Because we all understand. No matter what we weigh, we try again tomorrow. We’ve all been there. Here’s what I can’t understand: why don’t I feel this way about church? 

The rain is pouring heavily on the roof as I begin to hear the pings of hail pellets. Then I see Violet enter the room. Is everyone here today? Violet is a 5th grader in the children’s ministry class I teach on Sundays. At first, I didn’t think 5th grade girls would want to hear anything I had to say. But that first Sunday, after I dismissed them, they stayed and talked with me a while longer. How dear is that? 

“Hello Violet,” I say to catch her attention.

“Hi Miss Martha,” she searches my eyes. “Your eyes are swollen. Do you have allergies, too? My parents say the rain will help.”

“Yes, I’m so glad. It will help.” I can see Violet’s parents motioning her towards the next exhibit. “I’m happy I saw you today. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

“Good. I like it when our group prays together. See you Sunday.”

I glance at my phone again. 1:00. Time to get back to work. I stand slowly, hoping I don’t get drenched by rain as I walk back to my office.

I study the painting one last time. Maybe Van Gogh was right. Maybe all we can do in life when we feel overwhelmed is to go back.

Go back to the green chair.

Say another prayer.

Go back to look at that cypress. Until the world makes sense again.

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