Frankly Speaking

 

Early Summer 2005.

The days dragged endlessly on.

I’d given up paying the credit cards to pay important bills–mortgage, electricity. I wasn’t sure how long I could make the car payment. Our refrigerator and pantry were pathetic: The occasional can or box emphasized its emptiness.

Gas prices were through the roof. Every time I drove, my eyes darted frantically between the road, the rear-view, and the gas gauge. Why did prices have to go up now? It was like the world was conspiring against me …

What could I put off paying to make sure the mortgage was covered … The sewer bill? That wouldn’t work. Water? No, we needed that. Trash? Maybe … okay, what about gas for the van? After I paid the bills I’d only have $15. We needed food … but I needed gas …

My pride was taking a beating. I was a smart, independent black woman. I’d been a single mother, and I’d used ingenuity and hard work to succeed in the past. I’d never had to depend on anyone, and I was proud of that–even after I got saved. So here I was, a single mother again for all intents and purposes. No prob, I’d been here before! I pulled out my old boxing gloves: intelligence; sensible, responsible decisions; and a razor-sharp resume.

I tried to find a second job working part-time as a secretary, but nothing panned out. That was freaky–I had always been a job magnet! Headhunters used to call me asking if I wanted a job … and now no one wanted me. (What the–!) I even tried to find a part-time ANYTHING job.

Nothing.

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Work and church were my only worry-free moments. It was like a weekend pass away from prison. I coveted time with friends and co-workers–so much so that I probably put off a serious desperation vibe. I think I might have seemed a bit scary, just a little off kilter to everyone.

But whenever I was quiet and alone (which seemed like most of the time), I was terrified. When I drove; when the kids went to bed; when the kids were at Derwin’s and the house was like a crypt … these were endless opportunities to think about how my family was teetering on the edge of disaster.

And God was frustratingly silent. No amount of praying, begging, pleading, crying, sobbing, shouting, bargaining, threatening or screaming garnered a response.

At times I would lie on the floor (it was a metaphor for how low I felt) and sob. I would stare at the twisted fibers and tiny hairs of my carpet, and I’d think, maybe I should just end this pain.

Then I would think of my kids and how they would suffer, how they would blame themselves, how it would affect their lives. And I would sob over my own selfishness, to even think of leaving them alone or causing them that kind of pain.

Yet I’d think about it again the next night.

I felt besieged–punched and kicked and stomped on. But my enemy was invisible (the dirty so-and-so), and I couldn’t get in a good hit. I’d do the ghetto-girl-windmill punches and everything. But I’d wind up exhausted, having made no progress whatsoever.

♦ ♦ ♦

Eventually some tiny part of me began to hear a quiet thing. It was hard to distinguish through the noise of my own terror, but persistence won out.

One night while I was lying on the floor, I heard that quiet thing. My Bible was on the floor a few feet away, so I opened it up. There was something in Ephesians … found it:

“… above all, taking the shield of faith with which you will be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked one” (Ephesians 6:16 NKJV).

I was being attacked, right? And I was trying to fight back, but none of my punches were landing. And I was really tired. But it looked like maybe I was fighting wrong. Something needed to change. Either I had to fight different, or I was going to die.

I wasn’t sure I could remember that scripture when I felt crappy though. So I wrote it on the wall, about a foot above the baseboard. Where I could see it if I was lying on the floor.

For days and weeks after that, when I’d feel terrified, or helpless, or hopeless, I’d write on the wall. Pretty soon it was covered with scribbled scriptures in pen and pencil–and a huge one (meant to really catch my attention) in green crayon. It was the one about how Jesus made it so we can approach God with confidence. I needed that one.

I no longer had an excuse to lay down and get kicked. I had a giant Bible Fighting Method cheat-sheet on my wall.

To be continued.

Get Caught Up: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7