Short: People You Meet In the Prayer Chapel: Connie

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The first day I noticed Connie near the side window of the prayer chapel, she offended my sense of peace and quiet. She was flapping homemade flags into the air and dancing to the worship music as if it were a concert. This slim, black-haired, asian lady reminded me of the crazy charismatics I suffered as a teenager, the people who called each other out as demon possessed and hated long hair.

For months after, every time I passed Connie in the chapel was without nod or word of welcome. In part, it is my custom to keep to myself, preferring the stillness. But with Connie, it was more personal. And I’d leave when she’d enter the room, and maybe, occasionally circle the parking lot and drive back home if I noticed her car in the parking lot next to the chapel. The prayer chapel is not the place flag dance calisthenics, I’d fume.

Then, one warm summer morning, I felt a small hand on my elbow as I stood in line waiting to order coffee at Cuppy’s. I was a bit shocked to see Connie’s face smiling up at me as I turned to answer. “Hi, nice to see you outside the prayer chapel,” she said in a whisper. And I, having no reason to dismiss her polite approach, introduced myself and we began to chat. Within minutes, I knew I wanted to hear more of Connie’s story and invited her to sit with me. And over the next hour, Connie gave me the highlights of her life.

She was an orphan from Taiwan, raised in a Catholic orphanage. And she immigrated to the San Francisco in her early 20’s. That’s where she met Tom, her now estranged husband. He was also an immigrant, a man who’d swam from the mainland to Hong Kong before coming to the United States. Together they raised two boys, one about my age and another five years younger. Connie’s life in the orphanage was grueling but not as bad as the movies, as she put it. And age gave her better perspective on her former home, mostly that the education she received set her up to be succeed in America.

When I broached the subject of Tom, she looked away, then down at the cement floor beneath our feet. I felt tension pour from her and wondered if I should break the conversation by taking a toilet break. Connie began to pick at an imaginary spot on the rim of her coffee cup, then looked directly into my eyes with her dark powerful eyes. Something of scowl crossed her face. And I froze as a shiver ran across my shoulders.

“He is a atheist.” she said plainly. “Always a atheist.”

All I could do was nod as she continued.

“He’s been a good husband. No cheating or lying. But I raised our boys to love Jesus. And now, they don’t. He said ‘now you know how I felt all those years when you took them to church.’ And I said ‘how can you compare?’ You believe in nothing.”

What could I say? Both points of view made sense to the person who made it, though I sided with Connie.

“He moved out a few months ago, when I started coming to the prayer chapel every day. I told him I’m not giving up on my boys. I will pray for them everyday until they see Jesus,” stated in defiance as though Tom were seated beside me.

And then, for some dumb reason, I heard myself ask, “So why did he move out?”

“To punish me. He wants to gamble down at Fall River and fly to Taiwan all the time. I said I can’t go. I need to go to the prayer chapel.”

I held back tears. This is way she dances. She waging war. Once again, I heard myself speak when I knew it was better to remain quiet. “I’m sorry Connie.”

And in a way only someone of Chinese decent can pull off, she whipped her head at me and asked why are you sorry? Her tone was as defensive as it was demanding. I stammered out something about how tough it must be to watch her husband and children walk away from the Lord, but my words passed through her. Only then did I understand, she wasn’t seeking attention or pity. Awkwardly, I tried to shift the conversation.

A few moments later we parted on friendly terms. In my car, I broke down in tears for all the judgment I’d leveled her way, how I’d hated her dancing and flag waving. Now we wave to each other in the chapel, exchanging a few words every week or so. And when I see her start to hop and kick and flap her flags, I pray for her and her mission. I ask the Lord grant her strength to continue her mission, until all her boys are home.

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