30 Nights with God

by Deborah C. Cruce

  “That’s horrible.”

  Richard shrugged. “They are grieving, angry, and I’m here.”

  “Still! Why? What can they hope to gain?”

  Dream 17

  “Why?” I asked Father God.

  “There isn’t an answer that will make you feel better.”

  “But you could change this, change us.”

  “Yes, I could.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “Again there isn’t an answer I can give you that will make you feel better.”

  “Can’t you just appear to them and tell them to let the lawsuit drop? That the whole thing was an accident? That their daughter and grandchildren are with you and fine.”

  “I could, but then why would they need faith? I have provided them everything they need to survive this earthly tragedy. They can walk by faith, trust in me, or not.”

  “And that’s it. You make it sound easy, but you are the Creator of the Universe, for you it is easy. For us, loss, pain, grief, betrayals are very hard to deal with, to endure, and to get over. For us, this kind of tragedy becomes a turning point in our lives.”

  “Yes, Elizabeth, these can be turning points. Turn toward me or wander off the path and get lost. So lost that instead of living in close communion with me, you drag through each day, each year, as if burdened with the whole world. I want my children to have abundant life.”

  “I’m not perfect. I know that. They aren’t perfect. They are reacting and sometimes we get it wrong.”

  “Which is why My mercies are new every morning.”

  “God, sometimes you make me crazy!” I stood up and walked away briskly, but then I turned back. “I wandered off. You saved me.”

  “You called for me. I respond to my children.”

  “When? When did I call for you?” Truly I did not remember ever calling specifically for God to save me, because I quite specifically blamed Him for the deaths of Sean and Hannah. I had stopped going to church just a couple weeks after the funeral. I had seen Father Andrew a couple times after that at the request of my parents, but the meetings hadn’t gone well at all. Though a wonderful pastor and teacher, he simply hadn’t known what to do with my anger.

  Then the excessive behaviors had started about the time the shock and numbness had worn off. Still, in my pain, I had railed at a God so unloving, so uncaring, and so unmerciful as to take my family from me. I certainly hadn’t asked for help.

  The following months had gone from bad to worse as I skipped outings with friends, avoided dinners with my family, ate dinner in bed zoning out in front of the television, and discovered I liked Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum. I had no qualms about having a drink now and then, but my drink had always been a nice glass of White Zinfandel. Maybe even two, but no more.

  Wine wasn’t touching the pain. The rum provided the first nights of complete sleep without nightmares since the accident. I was hooked and quickly. Before I knew it I was having a short one with lunch to get me through the rest of the work day and a lot more at night. I was lost and some part of me knew that. Unfortunately that part was kept gagged most of the time by the rest of me.

  I did start to lose track of hours those couple weeks before I crashed. Even days. One morning I got up, dressed, and went to work to discover it was Sunday. No one had been there to see me, and I had told myself surely I was coming down with the flu since I was so muddled. It was amazing, looking back, at the things I told myself to rationalize and explain my actions.

  But right now I stood six feet from God, who did not lie, and I truly couldn’t remember calling to Him. “Show me when.”

  The memory flooded back. It was earlier in the evening on the night I took the pills, in the package store where I bought the rum. There had been several other people in there, and one couple had been there counting out their coins to see if they had enough for a bottle of the cheapest whiskey. The girl didn’t look twenty-one and the guy looked ancient. She walked over to me and asked me for a couple dollars. They both got paid the next day, she said. I looked into her eyes and saw someone hardened by life, someone whose innocence had been ripped away.

  I gave her two dollars and as she walked away I whispered, “God help them.”

  I looked at the bottle in my hand and knew I was still going to buy it. “God help me.”

  I blinked and was back in the dream with God.

  “And it isn’t easy,” he said.

  “What?” I stammered.

  “It isn’t easy for me to watch you suffer, walk away, choose something other than me. There’s nothing easy about it.”

  Day Eighteen

  November 23

  “What shocked me at breakfast was that I wasn’t in tears. I had a slight smile on my lips. That was a first.” I finished telling Doc Aimee the memory of sharing food with Sean and Hannah, and looked to her for a reaction.

  “How did that make you feel?” Aimee asked.

  “Good initially, but …”

  “But?”

  “Last night I was sad. Does my acceptance mean I love them less?”

  “Of course not!” Annie said.

  “No way.” Richard said.

  “Why would you think that?” Stephen asked.

  “Absolutely not.” Aimee said.

  I offered a weak smile and nodded. “I guess I was overthinking it and got sidetracked.”

  Aimee continued, “Remembering them without the pain, or guilt, or any negative emotion is definitely a goal. When you remember how your daughter argued with you about her hair color, or how Sean always forgot the dry cleaning, you should remember them truthfully in love.”

  “Our families aren’t perfect because they are made up of people with faults, flaws, and weaknesses just like you and me. Richard, are you ready to deal with your family, with the reality of life again?”

  Richard rubbed his hands up and down his black slacks. He was dressed in his funeral clothes to go home. “I am. They are throwing me a welcome home gathering. I’m a little nervous, but my brother said he only invited the ones we both like.”

  “That sounds nice. So before we break from group and go enjoy the goodies I see on the table, remind us all of how you are going to take care of yourself.”

  “Pray. Take my meds. Continue counseling. Rest. Eat. Start running again—gradually. Let my brother and cousin help.”

  We all offered a round of applause, then went to Richard and hugged him.

  Over punch and cake we talked about how good Thanksgiving dinner had been and how many visitors had come by. The showing of “The Wizard of Oz” had been well attended in the community room too. I had sat next to Annie, dressed in sweat pants, but with the Ruby Red Slippers on my feet. I had cajoled Stephen into joining us because he had been sad ever since his parents had left.

  Still, as the clock ticked closer to eleven o’clock, we grew quieter. Finally one of the nurses stuck her head in and said Richard’s brother was here.

  We lined up at the door, and he shook hands and hugged us all. At the door he turned back and smiled. “Every one of you is invited to my house for Christmas Eve. Doc has the address to give each of you. See you then.”

  Then he was gone.

  Dream 18

  “I’m happy for Richard.” I said.

  “Good.”

  “We’ll be getting someone new Monday according to Aimee.”

  Silence.

  I looked up from my hands into the wise brown eyes of God. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for walking away from you. I’m sorry for hurting you by hurting myself. I’m sorry for not getting help sooner. I’m sorry … that’s it … I’m just sorry.”

  “Thank you. Apology accepted.” He ran his large weathered hand gently over my hair, like a father soothing a child. “I know you are happy for Richard, yet still sad over Dorothy, and Stephen’s p
arents, and even Richard leaving. So, what would you like to do tonight?”

  I thought about it for a moment. Remembering my first refusal to ride a bike with Him. But I had found joy in letting God lead. “Ride.”

  “Done.”

  The tandem bike appeared, empty basket attached in the front, and the usual two helmets. We climbed aboard, God in front and me on the back. He pushed the kickstand up and held the bike upright with his strength. Turning toward me he asked, “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes,” I nodded.

  “Hang on.”

  And off we went. He set a steady pace as if he had a destination in mind, yet I could not fathom where it could be. We circled through the familiar park and people waved at us as we rode by. Their names rolled from his lips without hesitation. We stopped beside a young man. A well-worn backpack hung across his shoulders. He greeted God in a language I did not understand. His expression grew serious though as they talked, and he glanced back at me, nodding. Then he stepped beside me and laid his hands on my shoulders.

  In English he said, “Elizabeth, St. Augustine said ‘Hope has two beautiful daughters. Their names are anger and courage; anger at the way things are, and courage to see that they do not remain the way they are.’ Be angry at the situation, not the people. Have the courage to forgive, change, grow and help. Hope is born in this.”

  “Thank you. That’s lovely. How will I ever remember it though?”

  The young man reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of folded ivory paper. “For you.” And he pressed it into my hand.

  “Farewell my friend,” he said patting God on the shoulder.

  “Ready to keep going, Elizabeth?”

  “Uh-huh …” I said looking back at the young man.

  “Elizabeth?”

  “Yes?”

  “Pedal, girl, pedal.

  We left the park and the landscape changed. We rode into the emerald green countryside. Rolling hills covered with the most beautiful shades of green grasses and bright flowers I had ever seen. The road was paved, yet slim and bordered most of the way with short stone fences. In the distance I saw a small town. Focused on that, I bobbled a bit when we suddenly came to a stop in the rode.

  “You okay?” God asked.

  I stared past him. “Is that a herd of sheep?”

  “Yes. Yes it is.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Ireland. Don’t worry I’ll have you home in time for breakfast.”

  To my amazement he started peddling again and eased us through the middle of the baaing and bleating fluffy creatures. Their shepherd tipped his flat cap at us as we parted his herd and exited the other side.

  I laughed out loud. I simply couldn’t help it. God grinned over his shoulder.

  “Pedal.”

  So I pedaled and stared out over the landscape as the buildings in the distance got closer and closer. A honk from a car horn right behind us almost had me tumbling off the bike, but I caught myself in time to see the smallest car I’d ever seen slip past us.

  God tipped his flat cap at him. Hey, when did God change clothes? Yet I looked down to find myself similarly clad. A wool sweater over a T-Shirt, a soft scarf, a tweed cap and a rain jacket with hood. And sturdy boots on our feet. The breeze was cool. The air fresh. For the first time I let go of the handle bars and sat up straight, letting God have complete control. I raised my face to the breeze, breathing deeply, and felt the first rain drops.

  My hands found the handlebars. “It’s raining,” I said, stating the obvious. Apparently I didn’t think the creator of the cosmos could identify the precipitation falling from the sky.

  We entered the small town. People walked along the sidewalks, some with umbrellas, and some without. Some just pulled their rain slickers up around their ears and their caps down lower. By then we were stopping in front of a shop and God was hopping of the bike.

  “Care for a cup of tea?”

  The place was warm, dry and inviting. Not nearly as packed as I would have expected. My gaze was immediately drawn to the large fireplace on the back wall. The flames leaped and crackled, and the smell of peat was earthy, rich, and almost sweet.

  A young woman greeted us and asked if we would like a table or to sit at the bar. God smiled, “We’ll sit near the fire. We got a bit damp.”

  “It’s a lovely soft day, isn’t it?” she said, leading us across the room.

  “Soft?” I questioned.

  “Damp, hazy, blurred around the edges. Not sharp or clear or bright,” she explained.

  I nodded. “Soft.”

  God ordered us two cups of Irish breakfast tea with milk and sugar. I was trying to take it all in. We had never gone to another country before. The voices of the other people rose and fell around us, their accents drawing me into their world. The walls had pictures of lush Irish pastures and stone castles, as well as portraits of Mary and the infant Jesus. On the wall beside the bar were two well-used dartboards. Musical instruments sat in a corner beside dark wood shelves lined with books. We were in an authentic Irish pub.

  “They make the best tea,” he said, his dark eyes twinkled at me.

  The tea arrived in a lovely china pot with matching cups. I poured for us both and added both milk and sugar to mine. I sipped it cautiously as he prepared his. I sighed with pleasure.

  We drank in pleasant silence. The rain outside a steady sort, it drove a few more customers inside. A few sat at the bar and ordered a Guinness, but most sat at the tables and ordered tea and scones. I watched and listened, enjoying myself.

  I had just refilled my cup of tea, when the door blew open and a tall woman came inside. She shook the rain from her long auburn hair and stomped her soft leather walking boots. I watched as she greeted the hostess with a hug. She shrugged out of her coat revealing a hunter green sweater and dark blue jeans tucked into the boots.

  Her voice was soft, yet carried. Friendly, lyrical even— musical. She walked to the bar and ordered something, but kept moving greeting the patrons on the bar stools and then everyone in the room. She kept working her way back and forth across the room until she stood next to God and me.

  God stood to greet her and they hugged like old friends. He grabbed a chair from the next table and swung it around for her to join us. She sat with a deep sigh, and then turned her gaze on me. Her eyes were bluer than the clearest brightest day. Her skin was pale almost translucent with just a hint of healthy pink. She smiled and her mouth formed a wide grin with white even teeth. There was something familiar about her.

  “Welcome, Elizabeth. Welcome to Ireland.” She held out a slim long-fingered hand and I slipped my hand into hers. Her grip was remarkably firm. The bartender broke the spell when he sat a tall steaming mug in front of her.

  “Do I know you?” I asked.

  God chuckled. “Elizabeth, this is Isabeau, the Holy Spirit.”

  “But she looks different.” I looked back and forth between them. “And you are both here. And …” my voice trailed off as I sat perplexed.

  She smiled, then lifted her mug and sipped. “Hmmm. Perfect. Just what I needed to take the chill off my bones.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Irish coffee. Would you like a taste?”

  Intrigued by her offer, I accepted the mug and sipped as she had done. The flavors blossomed in my mouth. Robust coffee-flavor yet also cinnamon, and possibly vanilla and cream. “Delicious.”

  “Isabeau?” God asked quietly.

  “We’re fine, dear one. Aren’t we, Elizabeth?”

  I didn’t understand the interchange until God rose to his feet again. I stood also.

  God waved at me to sit. “Sit. Relax. Enjoy. I’ll be back to get you. Isabeau will take good care of you.”

  “Surely I will. Sit, child, sit. Finish your tea.”

  I sat slowly a
nd watched God exit. I must have stared a bit at the door because she said, “Don’t you worry. He will return. No harm will be done.”

  “You have a name? Isabeau? And you look different from last night. Familiar, yet not.”

  “I wear many faces, but I am the same. And, yes, I have a name. I find it best to have one when I move among my children.”

  I blinked and looked around. “You mean we really are in Ireland?”

  “Of course we are. Abba felt you needed a change of scenery. Haven’t you always wanted to go to Ireland?”

  “Why, yes, I have. Since I was a little girl and saw Brigadoon with Gene Kelly, and The Quiet Man with John Wayne.”

  “So, then here we are.”

  “But why?”

  “We need to have a conversation.”

  I picked up my tea, needing something to do with my hands. I sat back in my chair, staring past her, thinking. I wasn’t sure what to make of this. “A conversation about what? And why with you?”

  “Do you have the piece of paper from the young man you spoke to earlier tonight?”

  I retrieved it from my jacket pocket.

  “Read it out loud please.”

  Clearing my throat, I unfolded the paper and read it silently first. I had no idea where this was going. “Hope has two beautiful daughters. Their names are anger and courage; anger at the way things are, and courage to see that they do not remain the way they are.”

  “This is what we need to talk about.”

  “I need to talk about anger and courage.”

  “Yes. We want your hope restored.”

  “And God and I couldn’t have this conversation?”

  She smiled crookedly, and love grew in her eyes. “Of course you could, and you still might, but this is where He wanted you to start this journey. You must acknowledge the anger you are holding on to first.”

  “At God? For the accident? For taking Sean and Hannah? I already have and I am using courage—if you will—to change that attitude.”

  She leaned forward then, placing her cup carefully on the table. “There is another anger inside you.”