Is This Hell?

He was covered from head to toe in black. Even the toes protruding from the holes in his socks revealed toenails filthy, black as night.

“Is this Hell?” he said to me from across the small table separating us. His eyes hungered for the truth.

“No, it is not,” I said, firmly placing my hand on his. “No touching!” the mental health tech shouted from across the room.

I removed my hand and watched in horror as he ran to the garbage can to vomit, red liquid dripping onto the floor.

I wish a sane version of myself could go back to that moment. I wish I could have told him how much he was loved, how desperately the Lord wanted to free him from the darkness plaguing him. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

The next day, I noticed him retreating to his room as we lined up to go to therapy. “You should come with us,” I said gently. He nodded in agreement, and together, we lined up to go. While waiting in line, I led the group in song. I distinctly remember belting out the lyrics to Lean on Me. Trippy day camp, remember?

Once we arrived at the therapy wing, I followed the dark-haired, tortured young man into music therapy. He immediately sat down at the piano and began to play. To this day, I’m not sure if my mind was playing tricks on me, but the music coming from the piano sounded like a masterpiece. I watched in amazement as his fingers trailed gracefully across the keys. Even better than the music was the smile splashed across his face.

I replay that smile in my mind every time I pray for Gabriel.