30 Nights with God

by Deborah C. Cruce

  “I thought burying my family was the hardest thing, but learning to live without them is much harder.”

  “And that is still where you are … learning to live a productive purposeful life without your husband and child, and now without the crutch of alcohol.”

  “It seems so weird looking back. Why did I fight so hard against getting help, going to the grief counseling? Why did I do those things that, under normal circumstances, I would never have done?”

  “Elizabeth, you have the answer already. Nothing was normal. You were in pain and wanted the pain to stop. You were reacting to the grief and the pain and not thinking with any clarity at all. You were so far gone, so lost, you had to hit bottom before anyone had a shot at getting you in here. And yet it was you who checked yourself in.”

  I shook my head. I knew what she meant, but I remembered who had saved me that night. God had sat across from me at the table and He had gotten me to call 911. What had he shown me that had made me want to live? That I still couldn’t remember, but it had worked.

  “How do I handle going to dinner with family or friends and watching them drink?”

  “Do you want a drink, Elizabeth?”

  “No ma’am! Are you crazy?” Images from last night flew past my mind’s eye. I saw Luke swigging from the water bottle filled with rum. I saw him offering it to me. I tasted the rum on my tongue. “No,” I said again. “I don’t want a drink. Ever. Again.”

  “So we will set up a schedule just like we set up for Richard, a weekly group session and monthly visits with a new counselor outside of here. You will get the same support structure.”

  I thought about last night. “But is that really enough?”

  Doc Aimee set her pen and notepad aside. “As a trained psychologist, I believe in the methods I use and prescribe, but I can only do so much. You have to choose, and within yourself you have to find the strength to live each day. To live through the healing process. As a person of faith I believe that has to come from God. That is how I choose to live—with Christ’s strength. God is essential. He is the foundation upon which I have built my life.”

  “If you feel so strongly about your faith, why do you practice in a non-Christian environment?”

  “What better way to reach those who don’t know they need God to live through their tragedy and for the rest of their lives?” she said.

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  “So where are you on this faith journey?”

  Where was I? I shook my head as I remembered last night. “Weak. Very weak. Which is why I asked if you thought I would be okay when I left here? The world … the world is full of temptations.”

  Doc Aimee gave me a slight smile and went around to her desk. She pulled out a book from her top left drawer. I could see it was a well-used Bible.

  “Would you mind if I read you something from the Bible?” she asked.

  Curious about her take on my situation, I shook my head. “Not at all.”

  She flipped through, thumbing confidently, as she searched for the scripture she wanted. She cleared her throat and looked me in the eye. “This is one of my particular favorites. Listen to what Paul wrote about being weak. ‘Therefore, in order to keep me from becoming conceited, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.’”

  “Where is that?” I asked. “Can you write down for me?”

  Doc Aimee tore a page from her notebook and scribbled it down. “It’s Second Corinthians, verses 7 thru 10. For years I had to look it up because I knew the verse, but couldn’t remember where it was. What do these verses say to you?”

  I accepted the slip of paper and thought a moment. “I shouldn’t fear when I am weak, I should call on God and trust in Him to help me. I need to write this verse down and keep it with me all the time.”

  Dream 24

  I picked up the clock on my night stand and stared at the time. One thirty-eight a.m. I had been in bed for hours with no sign of sleep. This was weird, given that I was sure one of the pills I took nightly was a sleeping pill of some kind. What was I going to do if I couldn’t get back to the park, or the wood shed, or the beach? What I really meant, but was trying not to think about, was what if I couldn’t get back to God?

  Tossing restlessly, I tried to get comfortable. I stretched out, but kicked Angel in the side. He raised his head and he let out a low woof in objection.

  “I’m sorry, boy.”

  The moonlight streamed through the cracks in the blinds making patterns across the floor and onto my bed. It was too quiet really. Most nights I could hear the night attendants making their rounds, checking doors, checking patients. There was always some sound of computers or vents or something creating a low humming sound throughout most the night.

  I listened intently. Nothing. Could it be that I was already asleep?

  Shoving the sheet aside, I swung my feet to the floor and into my ladybug slippers. They usually made me smile, but tonight I was focused on getting to God. I walked cautiously, quietly, to the door and peered through the glass pane at eye level. The hall appeared deserted. There was no night lighting on, yet it was illuminated by the light that seemed to be coming from the walls.

  I turned the handle and opened the door, but no one stuck their head over the counter at the nurses’ desk and asked what I was doing awake. The door closed behind me. I closed my eyes. “Am I asleep? If I’m asleep, please bring me to you, Lord. I’m so sorry about last night. I need to see you. I want to see you.”

  I wasn’t sure what I expected to see when I opened my eyes, but it wasn’t Luke sitting on the counter at the nurses’ station.

  “Hello again, Elizabeth. So glad to see you.”

  I reached behind me, fumbling for the door knob, and fled back into my room. There was no lock, but the door opened inward. With strength I never knew I had, I shoved my dresser in front of the door and sat down in front of it.

  Angel jumped from the bed and sat beside me. I began to pray. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be your name. I need you. I need you now. Protect me sweet Jesus. Help me dear Teacher. Be with me in this temptation and deliver me from this evil.”

  And then He was there. Jesus. Sitting on the floor right in front of me. He was dressed in his carpenter gear and smelled of sawdust and sunshine. I felt better just looking in his dear face. “Have you come to save me?”

  “I already did. But I will do it over and over. As often as you need until you understand that you are mine.”

  “I am yours?” I asked.

  He nodded and held out a scarred and weathered hand. “Want to go work on our project?”

  I placed my hand in his, but I shook my head. “I need to go apologize to God first. Can we go there?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  We stood on the porch of the cabin from the night before. I turned in a slow circle and looked out across the valley to the forest beyond. The sky was bluer than blue with huge white clouds dotting across the horizon. So beautiful, yet so deadly last night. I shivered remembering the cold rain and Luke’s laughter.

  I squared my shoulders and stepped forward, knocking on the door, like a visitor, not family. I had broken faith with God and did not deserve the familiarity of just walking inside.

  “Come in, Elizabeth,” He called from within.

  I still held Jesus’ hand, but giving mine a quick squeeze, he disappeared.

  Entering the cabin, I saw God and Isabeau sitting in the chairs arou
nd the kitchen table in a bay window alcove. They both regarded me with quiet calm looks, assessing but not showing anything.

  Isabeau waved her hand at a chair. “Come join us, child.”

  “Thank you,” I stammered. I looked back and forth between them. His kind eyes, her gentle smile, their strength and presence, how could I have ever doubted, yet I had. “I’m so sorry about last night. I’m just sorry. I know you are who you say you are. You are God. You are Holy Spirit. I don’t know why I am having this experience, but I don’t have to. All I need to know is that you are God, and I am yours.”

  “And since you are mine …?” God asked.

  My thoughts ran in circles, back and forth. “Ahh … then that means I can call on you for strength against temptation, for help when I’m tired, or for protection from evil and for anything and you will respond.”

  “Yes. And when you leave Safe Haven?”

  “I have to be aware of the evil—the Lukes—that are in the world. Even in my everyday world.”

  “Yes.”

  My eyes filled with tears. I had been so scared last night, but even more scared today thinking I could not get back to Him, to Isabeau. “Forgive me?” I whispered.

  He held open his arms, “Of course, dear child.”

  I flew into his outstretched arms, kneeling at his feet. I buried my face against his chest, wrapping my arms around Him, holding tight. I felt Isabeau smooth my hair and felt their love pour over me.

  “Don’t ever leave me, okay? I can’t do this without you three? I am weak. So much weaker than Paul.” I wiped my eyes and sat back, looking at both of them. “Are we really okay?”

  “I will never leave you, Elizabeth, never. Believe me?”

  “YES!” I stood up, raising my arms in the air, hearing His teasing. “As if you can’t tell? As if you can’t see straight to my heart! Yes, yes, yes.”

  “Now tell me what you think happened last night.”

  I sat back down in my chair. A cup of hot tea, identical to theirs, appeared at my right hand. “Thank you.”

  “What do I think happened?” I repeated. “I think you, God, allowed Luke—an evil being of some sort—to tempt me with rum. I think you wanted to show me that I needed to be aware that evil lurks everywhere on this earth. And to remind me that my first reaction has to be to call on you.”

  He looked to Isabeau and smiled. “I told you she was smart.”

  “I didn’t doubt you, Abba.”

  Still I shook my head. “But I didn’t feel threatened. I felt safe. I didn’t know he was evil until I was already in trouble.”

  “Which is why you can’t simply trust your feelings. Your grief made you want the drink, but you know that doesn’t work. You must depend on what you know is truth.”

  “The truth. How do I know what is the truth?”

  Then I was sitting on a stool across from Jesus. In his hands was a slim piece of wood that he was sanding.

  “I, Elizabeth, I am the truth. Look up John chapter fourteen, verse six. ‘“I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’”

  Day Twenty-Five

  November 30

  I pondered Jesus’ words most of the next day. It was a good thing that John was my favorite gospel because I had spent a lot of time there the past several days. Over breakfast, during group, through lunch, even while walking on the treadmill. The only time I hadn’t been thinking about truth was when I said goodbye to Angel. The young couple was so happy to get him back. Still, I had buried my face in his neck and felt him press into me, too. I whispered thank you. He sighed deeply, and then had gone with the couple. My heart had clenched in my chest as he watched me through the back window of the SUV type vehicle.

  Now I was back to my study of Jesus’ words. What did these words really mean? If He was truth, then I test everything against Him? If Jesus says it is okay, then it is okay, right? And how did I do that?

  I had been a good Bible study girl for years. Attending this conference, that simulcast, or this women’s small group. Though there were definitely some ah ha moments over those years, for the most part I left still wondering how to apply all this to the world I inhabited, my slice of God’s Kingdom. Even the revelation that all I wanted was Jesus, left me asking how did I go about getting Him?

  I guess somewhere I got lost, got bogged down, got too busy to look for Him anymore.

  I flipped through my Bible in the quiet room. This wasn’t a busy place. Most of us at Safe Haven had had enough quiet time. Left to our own thoughts we became destructive. How would I live alone? The ghosts had to be silenced and only rum had done it—for a while.

  A yellow sticky note drifted to the ground beside my feet. As I had fanned the pages looking for inspiration, it had been loosened from its spot. I read it once, then again. “..an insatiable desire for Jesus …”

  “I wanted an unquenchable desire for Jesus. I wanted so much of Him that my pores leaked Him or I would drown from it.”

  “What did you say?”

  Startled I looked up and there was one hand guy. What was his name? Mitch, Matt … no … maybe Michael. “Sorry, Michael, is it? I didn’t know anyone else was here.”

  “You were mumbling pretty loud for the quiet room.”

  “Sorry. I will try to be quieter. It was just one of those eureka moments, you know?”

  Michael rolled his eyes. “This is the quiet room. I come in here for quiet, not eureka moments.”

  My feathers were ruffled now. “Okay. I got it.” I gathered my Bible, notebook, pen, and backpack and stood up.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  I huffed. “You wanted me gone. I’m leaving.”

  “I didn’t say that. I just asked you to be quiet.”

  “What if I can’t? What if I mumble again?” I felt thirteen and definitely sounded thirteen. In fact I sounded just like Hannah. When had I regressed to such a point of immaturity?

  He looked decidedly uncomfortable, yet it was the most approachable he had been since the incident at the table and in group.

  “Well?”

  “Just try, okay? I won’t bother you and you won’t bother me.”

  I felt a nudge against my shoulder. A nudge backward. Holy Spirit? I sat down.

  Ignoring my companion, I settled back into the book of John where I had been reading Jesus’ words. His way. His truth. His life. I had not been living that way. Not that I had been a bad person, just not a very good Christian.

  The meetings with the off-campus counselor would help me continue healing and dealing with my new normal. The grief support group would help, too. I was sure AA meetings were in my future. I needed to ask. Apologizing to Theresa through the letters I had written had helped bring us to a place for renewing our friendship. She seemed willing to try. But I knew in my heart, what I needed most, what would make the biggest difference in my life, was following hard after Jesus.

  Not like He was running or anything. I had been slowly rereading the Gospels. He wasn’t calling me to drop everything and take off for Africa. Truly there wasn’t anything to drop, except maybe the house. Mom and Dad had made sure I still had my house. My car was paid for. I had no debts. The insurance money was gone except for the lump sum dad had insisted I put in my IRA. Praise God for that, yet I had blown quite a bit after paying off all the funeral expenses and bills.

  The trucking company had sent a letter, signed delivery receipt requested. They were offering a new settlement. What to do? Lord? I knew now that the driver had not been negligent. Sean and Hannah had not paid attention. Still, why was a truck that size driving through our community? What to do indeed?

  I whispered silent prayers as the tears slowly ran down my cheeks. Prayers from my childhood. Repetition of them soothing me and allowing me to focus my thoughts on Jesus. Wanting Him to capture
my thoughts and turn them into His.

  A gentle hand rubbed my shoulder and I blinked my eyes to see past the tears. Michael knelt beside the chair, a look of concern or consternation on his face.

  “Sorry,” I started to whisper.

  “No, no, it’s okay. I wanted … I wanted to see if there was anything I could do.”

  The tears seemed lodged in my throat as I tried not to embarrass myself or him any further. “Some water?” I croaked out.

  He bounded up and away. Thankful to have a mission. It reminded me just a tiny bit of Sean.

  Finding a tissue in my pocket, I managed to wipe away most of the tears and blow my nose by the time Michael returned. “Thank you,” I whispered accepting the bottle of water.

  “Anything else I can do? Do you want me to find one of your group? Or Mabel?”

  Downing a long swallow of the water, I watched him nervously stand before me. I shook my head. “No. I’ll be okay. Thanks. And sorry for disrupting you again.”

  He sat down across from me and then reached over to his chair and picked up a book. “You really didn’t disrupt me. My mind was already wandering. I’m used to being active and this is killing me—having nothing to do. Not like I could do anything.”

  I tried not to stare at his empty pinned up sleeve. “I’m sure there are some things you could still do …” my voice trailed off, nothing coming to mind.

  He waved the book. “Hence this reading for Dr. Whitt.”

  “Who?”

  “My physical rehab guy. Of course, I know Dr. Conrad is who suggested it to him. It’s a conspiracy to make me believe that my life isn’t over because I lost my hand.”

  Suddenly I felt the nudge again, but pushing me forward this time. What did Isabeau want? She was hinting at something. But what? Nothing anyone had said had helped me at all. What I’d needed most was someone to listen. Which was why counseling helped and support groups helped. But Michael hadn’t gotten to that realization yet.