Storm Tossed: A troubled woman finds peace with herself and God in the midst of life's storms. (15 page)

God, please forgive me for how I’ve been a terrible wife and mom and hurt my family so much, and how much I’ve hurt and dishonored you. I haven’t loved them the way I should have. I have the patience of a gnat, it’s my way or the highway, I expect everyone and everything to be perfect, and let’s face it, sometimes I am not a very nice person. In fact, sometimes I am downright mean and nasty. Jackson should have divorced me a long time ago and taken the kids. Please crush my pride, God. Please help me to change and be more like You. You are the Potter, God, and I am the clay. Please make me into a vessel fit for use. Please give me another chance with my family. Change me from the inside out, God. Help me to become a woman of agape love. Make me like You, Jesus
, Rachel prayed.

Her tears would fall down like the rain. One night she laid on the floor, and it felt as if God Himself was physically pressing His finger on her back, pinning her down without mercy, memories of things she’d done wrong coming in relentless wave after wave, like the ocean tide.

Here in this beach house, surrounded by the fierce hurricane, unable to escape or to save herself, God had Rachel exactly where He wanted her—facing herself and facing Him. There was nowhere to run or hide.

“Where can I go from Your Spirit? Or where can I flee from Your Presence? If I ascend into heaven, You are there; If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there Your hand shall lead me, and Your right hand shall hold me,” Rachel remembered from Psalm 139:7-10, NKJV.

At night, Rachel slept intermittently, restlessly, the pesky mosquitoes biting her and her dreams plagued with images of the hurricane and dead bodies, her crying out in fear for Jackson and Faith to help her and no one hearing or answering her. “Jackson!” she’d scream as another storm surge was slamming into the house. These scenes would play again and again through her dreams, with her sometimes feeling trapped and paralyzed in the dream, unable to wake up, terrifying her.

Each time that she’d finally wake up from the nightmares, her body soaked with sweat and afraid that she’d never be rescued and was going to die, Rachel would renew her mind with the word of God with Matthew 10:31, NIV: “So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows” and Psalm 34:7, “The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear Him, and He delivers them.”

She was beginning to feel weak and dizzy. Rachel had thought every day of jumping the broken steps to get to safety somewhere else, but some of the partially broken steps, the snakes downstairs, and most of all, the house’s instability stopped her every time. Her bedroom window was too high to jump from to the ground outside; she’d die if she tried.

Her mind sometimes played tricks on her at night, seeing shadows on the walls when she’d go to the bathroom. She knew it was both PTSD from the trauma of the hurricane and it was also spiritual in nature. She would pray in the Spirit. All she wanted right now was Jackson’s arms around her again, telling her everything was okay.

That and Mexican. She’d practically kill for some Mexican right now, her favorite food in the whole world. Back at home, she always went out to eat Mexican with Jackson and Faith every couple of weeks when Jackson was paid. Her mouth watered at the thought right now of chips and salsa, with chicken fajitas, guacamole and queso cheese sauce. She knew this was such a carnal thought, when people had died from the hurricane. But there it was. She loved Mexican food.

Rachel often cried herself to sleep in frustration and anxiety from another day of not being rescued, but she’d pray determinedly from Mark 9:24 and Psalm Luke 4:10, “I believe, Lord; help my unbelief. I know that You didn’t allow me to survive the hurricane, just for me to die in this house. You will never leave me or forsake me. I commit myself to You tonight in Your loving, strong hands. Thank You that You’re going to send the rescuers very soon. Thank You that I am under the shelter of the Most High God and You order Your angels to guard and protect me.”

As Rachel would fall to sleep, hot, sweaty, and missing air conditioning fervently, the guardian angel would unsheathe his silver sword, battling with demons all night long, who were like hungry hyenas coming to devour her. They were afraid of the huge angel, but fought him fiercely anyway, growling and shrieking, determined to at least hurt her. They celebrated in flee that her fever was climbing, even with the Tylenol she took from the medical kit she’d put together before the hurricane hit.

But the biggest deterrent to their victory was the blood line of Jesus surrounding Rachel; it was extremely dangerous to them. It was not visibly physical to their yellow, slanted eyes, but they sensed its power emanating from her, even as she slept. Rachel was unstoppable and untouchable because of the shed blood of Christ and God’s messenger angels, who were flames of fire, encircling the house.

*******

“There is power in the name of Jesus,” Rachel sang as she awoke. She’d survived another night, thank God. Another day to worship God, another day to hope for rescue. She knew without hope she could and would die, because “hope deferred makes the heart sick.”

Rachel was coughing more and feeling weaker, but she just couldn’t give up. She had to have faith, even if it was as tiny as a mustard seed. She remembered the mustard seed necklace her maternal grandmother Helen
had given her when she was a child. Her eighth birthday. Rachel was getting old enough now that she didn’t want dolls or coloring books for presents anymore; those were for “babies,” she’d say and her parents would smile at each other.

The surprise “grown-up” necklace had come in a white-lined, hard jewelry box case, and she knew her grandmother hadn’t bought it from the dollar store where their family often shopped for inexpensive gifts and party supplies.

Grandma Helen had enclosed a Happy Birthday card with a red ladybug on the cover, instructing Rachel to take very good care of the gift because it was “sterling silver and not a toy necklace.” Rachel wondered where it was now. She didn’t remember what had happened to it, and knew she’d have some explaining to do when she saw Grandma in heaven one day. She grinned wryly at the thought of her sprite, tiny, grey-haired grandmother greeting her with Jesus at the pearly gates with folded arms, a frown, and asking, “Why didn’t you take care of that necklace like I told you to?”

She could see Grandma shaking her little, wrinkled finger at her, that finger always looking too small and weighed down with the enormous, gaudy, purple, tanzanite ring she always wore that Grandpa had given her to her shock on their 50
^th
wedding anniversary. The mustard seed necklace gift had meant a lot to Grandma to give Rachel.

That was one of her own favorite Bible verses, she’d said. “I’ve had to use that one a lot in my life,” she explained to Rachel, nodding over pointedly at Grandpa Bruce, who just chuckled and agreed. The man would be the death of her, she’d often say to anyone who would listen. He drove her crazy. He could push her buttons faster than you could say, “Jack Robinson.” But everyone could see how much they adored and loved each other, despite the squabbling like children.

One time Rachel’s mother Stacy said she hoped they died together in a car crash at the same time when it was their time to go. Rachel was horrified mama said this, but she said that she didn’t ever want to see the emotional pain the other’s death would cause her parents.

Stacy explained the meaning behind the mustard seed to Rachel, who had never heard the Bible passage before, nor understood it when mama quoted it to her. “The Bible says that if you have faith as a mustard seed, you can speak to a mountain and it will move and be thrown into the sea,” she said, clasping the delicate, silver chain around Rachel’s neck as she pulled up her dark brown curls.

“Why would anyone want to move a mountain and make it go into the ocean, mama?” she asked and her mother and Grandma laughed.

“You know how sometimes Jerry bosses you around or Faye tries to play with your toys when you’ve told them to stop it?” Stacy asked. Rachel nodded, her brows furrowing at the memories. “Well, in those situations, you can just use this verse.”

“But mama, I don’t want Jerry and Faye thrown into and drowning in the ocean. I just want them to leave me alone,” Rachel said, her green eyes getting big, and Stacy and Grandma busted out laughing.

Rachel understood now. She, too, had used this verse many times throughout her life. She was using it fervently now, speaking grace to the mosquitoes, wanting them to drown in the ocean. Grace to the fever. Grace to hunger and thirst. Grace to fear. Grace to rescue workers and the utility companies to restore power in the hundreds of homes still without electricity, gas and water. Grace. Cultivating thankfulness even in the hard times.

She remembered reading Ann Voskamp’s book
One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are
on this topic.

“Eucharisteo—thanksgiving—always precedes the miracle.”

“I can empty because counting His graces has awakened me to how He cherishes me, holds me, passionately values me. I can empty because I am full of His love. I can trust.”

I can trust You
,
God
, Rachel thought, weakly looking out the dirty window. The waters were receding some now.
That means easier access for the rescuers,
she mused, and then suddenly she felt nauseous and threw up on the wood floor. The stench, the heat, made her sick again.

She lay on the floor, tears slowly falling, her head spinning and her face and body drenched with perspiration. She was getting severely dehydrated from the heat, her fever, and no water and food. The lack of sleep was affecting her, too.
God. Jesus!
she prayed. That was all she could pray for now. Her angel lifted his sword in Christ’s authority as the demons moved in closer to Rachel, their hissing like the sound of a steam engine and snickering gleefully as they watched her suffer and struggle to have hope and faith.

*******

Jackson flipped Faith’s grilled cheese sandwich over in the red pan, his head cocked to hold the Phone on his shoulder. He was so done with their disorganization and uncaring, lazy, almost inhuman attitude. “This is my wife!” he screamed at Lance. “Why aren’t you doing everything you can to find her?”

Lance yelled back that they were. “You aren’t here, man,” he said. “It is absolute chaos. Nobody knows who’s really in charge. I’m beginning to think nobody is. Every time we try to go somewhere, we’ve got some arrogant Son of a Batman official telling us that area is restricted even to police and medics. They’ve actually got crates of water locked up at the airport, refusing to disperse them to the survivors until the FEMA relief coordinator Arlene Myers arrives on a flight late tomorrow night! That’s part of the reason people are rioting and looting stores. They’re hungry and thirsty and nobody is really helping them, except a few small churches who are running out of supplies fast and are scared of the thugs and gangs. The flooded streets, the utilities still being off, the dead bodies and animals, all these mosquitoes and the rats that didn’t drown, the transportation issues, and especially the red freaking government tape, it’s all making rescue efforts really slow and tedious. I know you’re worried sick, man. I’m trying!”

“Well, trying isn’t good enough! Find her or what are you even good for? Do something more!” Jackson hung up and burst into angry tears.
They’re a bunch of incompetent, useless idiots
, he thought.

Then he felt guilty for talking to his best bud that way. Lance was going out on a limb for him to help, calling in favors from every law enforcement, EMS, fire, and government agency he knew to find Rachel. Things were looking really grim, and at this point chances for her survival were slim to none. He was now down to unethically bribing people just to find out info on her. Jackson called him right back, apologizing.

Lance sighed and simply said, “I know, man. I understand. I’ll call you when I find her.” Just those words, “when I find her,” gave Jackson a tiny ray of hope.

He couldn’t lose hope.
Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but desire fulfilled is a tree of life
, he thought, remembering Proverbs 13:12.

He texted Faith that lunch was ready, amusedly wondering why he was texting his daughter in their own house, instead of going to her room and just telling her. Part of it was the heavy spirit in her bedroom. He knew Faith was stressed out and depressed and he didn’t exactly know how to deal with his own emotions, much less female ones, which were usually all over the map.

“Hey honey,” he said as she walked in, earbuds on. She tapped her purple iPhone to turn off the loud Christian rap music. An oxymoron, he told her. Rap is crap.

“Mm,” she said. It annoyed him that sometimes she didn’t even use English. She wasn’t an animal; why didn’t she talk more?

“Want some pickles?” he offered, changing the subject and stabbing a big garlic dill pickle with his fork and putting it on his plate, brightly painted like a kindergartner’s work in red, yellow and orange colors with a desert sunset and a large, prickly cactus plant. Rachel had loved them and bought a set of these unique dishes when they vacationed for a week seven years ago in Albuquerque, New Mexico, just the two of them. His mind went back to the big, whirlpool bathtub at the hotel, where they’d relaxed, shared pepperoni-anchovy pizza and salty, cold margaritas on the rocks together with some hot romance following. A rare, good memory.

“Dad, you know I don’t like pickles!” Faith said, scowling at him.

“Oh yeah, sorry, honey, I forgot. But you should!” he said, wagging a pickle and grinning at her. She didn’t respond, but bit into the grilled cheese sandwich, eyeing his vinegar-salt potato chips. She shook her head no when he offered those, too.

“Any word yet?” she asked, her voice sounding detached and, yes, hopeless. She had very little appetite, but knew she needed to eat something. She was skipping a lot of meals since the hurricane, so her dad would try to cook different kinds of food to entice her to keep her strength. He wasn’t very hungry either, but he forced himself. He had to eat to do the kind of labor-intensive work he did in construction.