Frankly Speaking

Early Summer 2005.

Life dragged endlessly on.

I’d stayed committed to my marriage as God had asked. What had begun as grudging obedience to God gently grew into a willingness to see God save our marriage. Still, outside of my relationship with Derwin, my days were filled with the frantic, monotonous obsession of surviving.

Our refrigerator and pantry were pathetic; the random individual tin cans and boxes only emphasized its emptiness. Credit card payments were easily sacrificed on the altar of food, electricity, mortgage. Car payments would be next on the chopping block, but I’d avoid it as long as possible–I needed the transportation. And gas prices were going through the roof. Anytime 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 cover the mortgage … The sewer bill? No, how would we flush? Water bill? No way. 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 …

Before my marriage I’d been a smart, independent black woman. A single mother who’d used ingenuity and hard work to beat the odds. I’d never had to depend on anyone, and I was proud of that–even after I got saved. Now here I was, a single mother again for all intents and purposes. No problem, I’d been here before! I pulled out my old boxing gloves: intelligence, sense, responsibility on one hand; a razor-sharp resume on the other.

I searched for a part-time secretarial job, but nothing panned out. That was freaky–I’d always been a job magnet! Headhunters used to call me out of the blue. Now no one wanted me. I even tried to find a part-time anything job.

Nothing.

♦ ♦ ♦

The closest I came to normalcy was at work and at church. These were like a weekend pass from prison. I coveted time with friends and co-workers so much that I probably put off a serious desperation vibe. I probably 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 frantic. 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.

God was frustratingly silent. No amount of praying, begging, pleading, crying, sobbing, shouting, bargaining, threatening or screaming garnered a response. I’d lie on the floor (that’s how low I felt) and sob. I would stare at the twisted fibers and tiny hairs of my carpet, and I’d think, why shouldn’t I 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.

♦ ♦ ♦

One night, some tiny part of me began to hear a quiet thing. It was hard to distinguish through the frantic noise of my own thoughts, but it was persistent. I was lying on the floor staring at nothing, thinking of death. My Bible was on the floor a few feet away. I opened it. There was a particular scripture I was remembering …

“… 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 my punches weren’t landing, and they were wearing me out. But it looked like maybe I was fighting the wrong way. Something needed to change. Either I had to fight differently, or I was going to die.

Still, I wasn’t sure I could remember scripture when I was feeling so crappy. So I picked up a pen and wrote it on the wall, right there where I was laying, about a foot above the baseboard.

For days and weeks after that, when I’d feel frantic, helpless, or hopeless, I’d write on the wall. 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 cheat-sheet on my wall.

 Late Summer 2005

Then I learned my husband was up to no good again.

Spiritual and emotional exhaustion overrode any inclination toward anger or indignation, or hurt. It would be so easy to overlook this, for the sake of ending nearly a year of struggling. Scraping by day after day would be a thing of the past if we could just reconcile. Maybe I just needed to ignore his behavior for the sake of having food in the house. And having a house, period.

On this particular day my friend Kayla* was giving me a ride home. Kayla can discern spirits–something that was (and still is) off-putting to me. I was never entirely sure I believed such a thing was possible. Kayla said she’d seen something in my room the last time she was there. Something not nice. Skeptical or not, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to pray. I asked her to join me, but she hesitated. (She could discern spirits, but it scared her.) I persisted. (“Lookit, if you see it, you need to come pray with me ’til you don’t see it!”) She finally agreed. We went into my room, and I kneeled on my bed facing the head while she kneeled on the floor. We began to pray, and I didn’t figure it would get much more exciting than that.

Suddenly I saw two paths side by side. On the left was my life if I ignored the current situation and stayed with Derwin. On this path, he kept doing hurtful things. We argued and fought constantly. We struggled financially. We were miserable. Our children were miserable.

On the right was a tunnel, utterly dark and terrifying. I knew God was asking me to walk into that tunnel.

Now, I figured it was better to face a future I knew (even if it would be horrible) than whatever awaited me in the dark. Life would be much the same if I stayed where I was. On the other hand, I feared whatever was in the tunnel might be far worse than my current hell. Besides, just a few months earlier God had asked me to stay committed to my marriage. Why would He now say otherwise? And wasn’t He a God of light? Why would He ask me to walk into the dark? Maybe this wasn’t God!

While all this played out, a song started playing in my head.

You are the Life to my
Heart and my soul
You are the Light to
The darkness around me
You are the Hope to
The hopeless and broken
You are the only
Truth and the way

As I sang, I understood these words as answers to my fears: Jesus would be my Light in that dark tunnel. He would be my Hope in my hopelessness and brokenness. And He was the only truth and the way. So if the way led into a dark future I couldn’t see or control, did I really have another option?

Ultimately the question was whether I would trust Him.

I chose to trust Him. (It wasn’t as easy to do as it is to write.) I was tear-streaked and snotty, and I’d practically forgotten Kayla was there.

Suddenly Kayla shouted, “Tracie! Look!” She was pointing above my head at the ceiling. I looked. I didn’t see anything.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s an angel!” Kayla said, amazed.

I looked again. Still nothing. I was somewhat skeptical.

“Don’t you see her? She’s beautiful!”

Now I just straight up didn’t believe her. I’ve never heard of a female angel, I thought.

The spirit of wisdom is female I heard. (Read it.)

Okay, so now I was slightly less skeptical.

Then suddenly I saw (but I didn’t see–I can’t explain it) her pour words into my head. It was as if she opened my head like a German beer stein and poured words in. The words were in a language I didn’t know, but I knew I was supposed to say them. As I was speaking, I heard Turn around and tell her to speak.

So when I finished, I turned around and said to Kayla, “Speak.”

Silence.

“OMIGOSH, HOW DID YOU KNOW?!”

“He told me to tell you to speak!” I explained. I was shocked at my own calm.

“I wasn’t going to say anything, I thought I was crazy!” Kayla said, amazed.

So Kayla interpreted what I’d just said: that God loved me very much. (I know, I thought it would be much more “prophetic” and “spiritual” than that. But … I suppose it really was quite prophetic and spiritual if you think about it.)

* Name changed to protect the innocent.