Thank you Jane

Hello everyone!

I’ve been having a not-so-great week, and I’ve been struggling with negative feelings and beliefs about myself. I had a recommendation on YouTube yesterday regarding a poem written by the artist Nightbirde. Her name was Jane Marczewski, and she battled cancer for four years before passing away at age 31. Her legacy lies in her music and poems, which have touched the hearts of countless people (myself included). I highly recommend listening to and reading her work!

Anyway, the poem I heard both broke and healed my heart, and I think I needed to hear it. I wanted to share it with you all.

God is on the Bathroom Floor

I don’t remember most of Autumn, because I lost my mind late in the summer and for a long time after that, I wasn’t in my body. I was a lightbulb buzzing somewhere far.

After the doctor told me I was dying, and after the man I married said he didn’t love me anymore, I chased a miracle in California and sixteen weeks later, I got it. The cancer was gone. But when my brain caught up with it all, something broke. I later found out that all the tragedy at once had caused a physical head trauma, and my brain was sending false signals of excruciating pain and panic.

I spent three months propped against the wall. On nights that I could not sleep, I laid in the tub like an insect, staring at my reflection in the shower knob. I vomited until I was hollow. I rolled up under my robe on the tile. The bathroom floor became my place to hide, where I could scream and be ugly; where I could sob and spit and eventually doze off, happy to be asleep, even with my head on the toilet.

I have had cancer three times now, and I have barely passed thirty. There are times when I wonder what I must have done to deserve such a story. I fear sometimes that when I die and meet with God, that He will say I disappointed Him, or offended Him, or failed Him. Maybe He’ll say I just never learned the lesson, or that I wasn’t grateful enough. But one thing I know for sure is this: He can never say that He did not know me.

I am God’s downstairs neighbor, banging on the ceiling with a broomstick. I show up at His door every day. Sometimes with songs, sometimes with curses. Sometimes apologies, gifts, questions, demands. Sometimes I use my key under the mat to let myself in. Other times, I sulk outside until He opens the door to me Himself.

I have called Him a cheat and a liar, and I meant it. I have told Him I wanted to die, and I meant it. Tears have become the only prayer I know. Prayers roll over my nostrils and drip down my forearms. They fall to the ground as I reach for Him. These are the prayers I repeat night and day; sunrise, sunset.

Call me bitter if you want to—that’s fair. Count me among the angry, the cynical, the offended, the hardened. But count me also among the friends of God. For I have seen Him in rare form. I have felt His exhale, laid in His shadow, squinted to read the message He wrote for me in the grout: “I’m sad too.”

If an explanation would help, He would write me one—I know it. But maybe an explanation would only start an argument between us—and I don’t want to argue with God. I want to lay in a hammock with Him and trace the veins in His arms.

I remind myself that I’m praying to the God who let the Israelites stay lost for decades. They begged to arrive in the Promised Land, but instead He let them wander, answering prayers they didn’t pray. For forty years, their shoes didn’t wear out. Fire lit their path each night. Every morning, He sent them mercy-bread from heaven.

I look hard for the answers to the prayers that I didn’t pray. I look for the mercy-bread that He promised to bake fresh for me each morning. The Israelites called it manna, which means “what is it?”

That’s the same question I’m asking—again, and again. There’s mercy here somewhere—but what is it? What is it? What is it?

I see mercy in the dusty sunlight that outlines the trees, in my mother’s crooked hands, in the blanket my friend left for me, in the harmony of the wind chimes. It’s not the mercy that I asked for, but it is mercy nonetheless. And I learn a new prayer: thank you. It’s a prayer I don’t mean yet, but will repeat until I do.

Call me cursed, call me lost, call me scorned. But that’s not all. Call me chosen, blessed, sought-after. Call me the one who God whispers his secrets to. I am the one whose belly is filled with loaves of mercy that were hidden for me.

Even on days when I’m not so sick, sometimes I go lay on the mat in the afternoon light to listen for Him. I know it sounds crazy, and I can’t really explain it, but God is in there—even now. I have heard it said that some people can’t see God because they won’t look low enough, and it’s true.

If you can’t see him, look lower. God is on the bathroom floor.

imissfeelingokay,
Thank you so much for sharing that beautiful poem.
Jane’s story has certainly made me put things into perspective.
Much love
Maryx

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Thank you for sharing, truly lovely and so true, we all have to look at what we have and be grateful.

Take good care,
Jean x

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Hi Mary!

I’m so glad you enjoyed it! I’ve been rereading this poem throughout the week, and it gives me both perspective and comfort, strangely enough. My faith is still fledgling, and sometimes the weight and hurt of everything makes me want to give up hope.

However, it is on those days that I let my tears flow freely, and picture myself in God’s embrace. We’re never promised a life free of suffering, even when following his teachings. He instead promises to be there with us even in the darkest places, no matter what.

I discovered a new (to me) verse recently, and I’m reminded of the mercy bread Jane spoke of. “I will give you the treasures of darkness and riches hidden in secret places, so that you may know that it is I, the Lord, the God of Israel, who call you by your name.” Isaiah 45:3

Hi Greenhouse!

I hope this poem could bring you some positivity! It’s very hard sometimes to notice the little gifts and mercies, but I hope your days can be filled with them :heart:

These verses are just lovely and give me time to reflect on all that is going on in my life and put things in perspective.
Thanks again
Much Love
Maryx

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