God's in my coffee

In a blue field I first spoke to God. A small blue field with shades of gray at dusk, encompassed by over-growing oak trees, and full of rolling hills where rabbit dwellings hid among the dandelions and weeds; isolated from the dilapidated homes and concrete buildings that surrounded it. To me and my younger sister, it was the Garden of Eden, secretly located down the street and around the corner; behind and above the Exxon station. It couldn't have been more than and acre or two, but at the ages of seven and eight, it was vast and magnificent.
Only occasionally did an outsider intrude upon this haven. The men from the gas station would pile old tires on the edge of the field and use them as a place to sit and smoke their cigarettes. My sister and I would crawl in the tall grass towards them, trying to get as close as we could without being seen so we could eavesdrop on their grown-up conversations. And every once in a while we would have to run away when the old man who lived in the home closest to the field would drink too much and come out to the field to shoot at rabbits. We didn't know his name, but we called him Captain Killer and would shriek and giggle and run whenever we saw him coming towards the field with his shotgun.
For the most part, however, it was the place my sister and I could go to escape into our own private world. It was the place we spent our childhood afternoons playing princess, picking colorful bouquets of wild flowers, or running round and round in circles until we both fell down laughing. A place to go when the sun was burning brightly and the heat made our clothes stick to our skin uncomfortably, because there, in the Garden of Eden, there was always a gentle breeze gliding through the trees, and the heat never felt so hot lying in the grass between the shallow hills. It was a place where we could go to read a book or to dig for wiggly earthworms in the dirt. It was a place where we could go to build snowmen in the winter or a place to catch fireflies on a purplish summer evening. But more than anything, it was a place where we could go to hide.
When the voices got too loud and the tempers were flaring, with flying fists and furious words, we would escape and run as fast as our legs would carry us, down the street and around the corner to the secret field. There we would duck down and hush and sometimes peak out our heads to see if we were being searched for or if anyone had noticed we were gone. They never did. "I think I hear someone," my sister would say, and we would hold our breaths and silently, fearfully, hopefully wait. But no one was ever there. After a while, when our fear had subsided, or our bellies started to rumble, or the sun started to set behind the giant oak trees, we would come out of hiding and leave the field to return home.
We would sneak up to the tall, brick-red house we lived in at 29 Orchard Place, ducking behind houses, ears open for shouting, or better yet laughter, and, when all seemed fine, we would enter the house where our mother was cooking or cleaning or playing solitaire at the kitchen table, and our father was asleep on the sofa or watching the news or, more than likely, no where to be found. And we would not even be noticed or spoken to unless to be told to set the table or to go check the mail. No one would ask us where we had gone or why we had been away for hours. No one mentioned the flying fists or furious words.
It was on a winter day that I first spoke to God. The first snow of the season had fallen during the previous night as we slept and my sister and I pulled our sleds out of the garage and took turns gliding down the hill in our front yard. Towards evening, my mother opened the front door and told me to put away the sleds and asked my sister to come inside and set the table. My sister tossed her sled into the driveway and ran in the house. Not wanting to go in so soon, I slid down the hill in the snow a few more times before putting my sled away in the garage and entering the house. When my father came home from work soon after, he pulled into the driveway, and, not seeing my sister's sled, he ran right over it, causing it to break apart and flattening his front tire.
Entering the house and slamming the door behind him, my father was in a rage and the furious words were already flying. He grabbed both me and my sister by the hair and pulled us to the window. He wanted to know whose sled was in the driveway; he wanted to know which child he should punish. I opened my mouth and the words, "Not mine," came out. My sister never got the chance to defend herself. His fists were fast and heavy, knocking her into the wall, the floor, the furniture. My mother came running from the kitchen and forced herself between my sister and the blows, but my father did not stop just because it was a different face that he was hitting. I grabbed my sister and pulled her out the front door and we both automatically started running in the direction of the field.
When we got there, the normally green grass was blanketed in snow and appeared blue in the setting sun. We ducked between the hills, out of breath, shivering and scared. My sister's face was red and swollen and tears were freezing on her cheeks, but she held onto me and listened for voices as she always did when we came to the field to hide. I couldn't look at her without thinking that it should have been me. I was the one who deserved those swollen eyes, yet she did not blame me for what I had done. I hated myself; but, more than that, I hated my father. I closed my eyes and, for the first time ever, I prayed to God. I prayed that my mother, my sister, and I could be free of my father forever. We rarely went to church, but I knew of the Bible, and I thought, what better place to talk to God than here in the field we called the Garden of Eden; and so I prayed, though I did not know if my prayer was being heard. We weren't there long when the sound of a gunshot exploded from somewhere nearby and we both yelled, "Captain Killer!" and started to run back towards home, not wanting to be mistaken for a rabbit in the snowy field.
We took the long way home despite the cold, and walked around the entire block, rather than cutting through the neighbor's backyards. We passed familiar houses, and watched through well-lit windows where families were sitting down to eat dinner together. The smell of wood burning in fireplaces made us realize just how cold it was outside in the winter air without our coats, or scarves, or mittens. Quickening our footsteps and huddling closer together for warmth, we hurried to get back to our own home, listening, as always, for signs that all was safe.
From three houses away, we knew it had not been Captain Killer hunting rabbits. Neighbors were starting to gather in front of our house. My mother was sitting upon the front porch, a shotgun in her lap, blood covering the front of her cooking apron. She did not speak, but simply stared straight ahead. My sister, tears streaming from her puffy eyes, ran to my mother, crying for my father, sobbing, "Daddy, Daddy", again and again. I stayed in the next door neighbor's yard and viewed the surreal scene from a distance. I watched as snowflakes began to drift from the darkening sky, passing through the orange glow of the street lamp and, remembering my prayer in the blue field, I thought, "Amen."