For more than an hour, Trevor rode. He headed out of town and zig-zagged lazily along Rim of the World Highway up through the San Bernardino mountains. At night, sections of the road could be treacherous for inexperienced and impatient drivers, but Trevor was neither, and he loved this route. Once he rose above the traffic and noise of the foothill cities, the road meandered higher and higher, until the panoramic view of the valley stretched out as far as the eye could see. On rare smog-free days, one could see all the way to the Pacific Ocean, and at night, millions of lights covered the valley floor like lakes of fireflies frozen in time.
He pulled over at his favorite turnout, got off the bike and approached the guardrail that he was certain would do little to prevent an out-of-control motorist from tumbling over the drop-off. He removed his helmet and shivered in the chilly mountain air—it might be a pleasant 65 degrees in Midtown, but up here, it couldn’t be above 50 degrees, and as night fell, thick and heavy around him, he knew the temperature would drop, too.
He climbed nimbly over the guardrail to the narrow lip of earth beyond it, and then leaned against it, settling his backside against the cold metal. It wasn’t the most comfortable perch in the world, but a little discomfort might keep him from getting too relaxed, help him stay focused on the task at hand.
Praying for Phoebe.
“Lord, Phoebe Gustafson.” He paused and stared out at the lights below. His eyes followed the moving trails of cars that sped along the streets and highways like ants with flashlights. How would Phoebe’s artist eyes interpret the scene? Would she add color to the cobalt velvet and gold chromatic scheme? Would she paint it as she saw it, perched there on the mountainside beside him? Or would she, too, turn it into some kind of a magical otherworld? Maybe he should bring her up here one day…. “Stay on track, man.”
He tried again. “Phoebe Gustafson.” He closed his eyes and her face drifted into his mind, the sound of her voice teasing him, assuring him that she wouldn’t steal his virtue. His eyes popped open. “Help me, God. I’m not doing so great, here.” Why was he so overwhelmed by this woman he’d only met—and spent maybe half an hour with—a week ago? Why did she stir such a deep response in him? He understood attraction and chemistry and the impulse of the flesh to lay claim to a prize before anyone else did, and although he was most certainly physically attracted to her in a way that he hadn’t been toward a woman in some time now, it was more.
There was something else. Something he was missing. Something he—
“This is about Phoebe, not me,” he muttered, his frustration making him growl. “Okay, God. What do I pray? How can I pray for Phoebe? I know she’s ‘not like me’ as Vic so blatantly put it. A bit of a party girl, I suppose. Probably not a church-goer, either. Is she a Christian? Is that it?” He stayed silent for several minutes, listening, attentive.
A year ago, at Gia’s pleading, he’d agreed to go on a blind date with the eldest Gustafson sister, Juliette. It was an agreement that actually went against his dating guidelines—he’d made the decision not to date anyone he wouldn’t be interested in marrying. It didn’t mean he would only date the one person he’d marry someday, but that he wouldn’t treat dating like entertainment. He had friends he could hang out with for entertainment. To him, dating was all about romance and learning to love someone. He considered it more of an investment partnership, so to speak. His buddies often teased him mercilessly about it, but only because they didn’t share his convictions. He didn’t mind, nor did he judge anyone else by the standards he set for himself.
So when Gia approached him about Juliette and the intervention plan the sisters had put together, he’d said no at first, partly because of his standards, but also partly because he saw it as a little cruel and slightly twisted to both Juliette and the various men they were planning to throw at the poor girl. He wanted no part in it. But Gia had told him to pray about it, and even though her voice had held a hint of jest in it, he’d done just that. And the next night, he’d called the girl up and agreed to take Juliette out.
It was one of the best decisions he’d ever made, a perfect example of how God stretches his people to move beyond self-imposed limits to experience life God’s way. Trevor strongly believed in the importance of having high and clear standards, but also in the value of being willing to make exceptions when the Lord nudged him. Because he’d obeyed God’s very clear directing—he’d awakened in the middle of the night with an absolute certainty that he needed to say yes to the date—Juliette had allowed him the privilege of sharing Jesus Christ with her. He’d also been there to intercede on her behalf when Victor Jarrett had shown up under ridiculous misconceptions, confused and disconcerted by love, and had made an utter fool of himself. Because Trevor had prayed, listened, and obeyed, he was slowly, but surely being embraced into the circle of Gustafson girls—first by Gia, then Juliette, and now, tentatively, by Renata and Baby Charise, and maybe, soon, by Phoebe….
“Am I supposed to lead her to you? If so, then show me how. Create opportunities for me to talk to her about you, the way you did with Juliette—” That thought brought him up short as he imagined taking Phoebe out on a date. To dinner. On the back of his bike. Her lean, petite body pressed against his back, her arms wrapped around his waist, her thighs— “Aaah!” he groaned. “No. Please don’t make me take her out on my bike. Not until after we’re married.”
And that made him laugh out loud at himself. “Trevor Aidan Zander, you are a desperate, hopeless fool.” He braced his gloved hands on the steel rail and hunched his shoulders up around his ears a little. The breeze was gentle, but it nipped with a taste of winter, and whispered secrets to him he longed to know.
Pray for Phoebe. NOW.
The thought crashed through him so forcefully, he stood up and held his breath, waiting for more. The urgency of it had his hands shaking; he knew it wasn’t the cold, because he was suddenly flushed with warmth and awareness.
He raised his arms above his head and began to pray. “Lord God, I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m standing here before you asking for the life of my friend, Phoebe. Holy Spirit, protect her from whatever it is that has her in its grip tonight.” The words poured out of him as he lifted her up to God. “Crush the head of Satan right now, Jesus. He wants to steal her heart, to kill and destroy her. Take away his power and show Phoebe the truth of who you are, Jesus, and the freedom only you can give her.”
He fell silent for a moment, the breeze no longer nipping at him, but soothing him instead, calming him. A fleeting thought had him hoping no one would drive by and misinterpret what they saw; he must look like some kind of modern-day druid trying to call down powers from the moon and stars scattered across the night sky. He smiled at how close to the truth it was, in fact. Trevor claimed his priesthood as a believer, and he was standing on the side of the mountain, calling on the power of the one true God who ruled over Heaven and Earth. Not for himself, but for the life of a lost lamb named Phoebe. He began to hum an old hymn from his youth, all but a few of the words forgotten. “There is power, power, wonder-working power in the precious blood of the Lamb….”
Jesus knew what it was to be a lamb led to slaughter. He knew how it felt to be disregarded, to be betrayed, to be denied, and something in Trevor sensed that Phoebe had experienced much of the same thing in her own life. He’d met so many people in the last several years who had suffered at the hands of people they loved, who had been abandoned by those who’d promised never to leave. He couldn’t count the times a broken person had shared how they’d been so desperate for help, only to be turned away by those they sought help from. And more often than not, by those who claimed to be Christians. By people who represented the gracious and merciful and loving God.
Trevor had heard it said a thousand times that Christians were notorious for shooting their wounded. He knew it to be true—he’d been justly accused of holding the gun of sanctimonious contempt himself. Back when he was a new college graduate all fired about turning the face of today’s generation toward God. A Jesus freak—and proud of it!—who had practiced what he preached and had all good things in his life to show for it. An idealistic holy roller who was quick to wax eloquently about the marvelous grace and mercy of the God he loved—and he truly did love God with every fiber of his being—but even quicker to draw heavy-handed and immovable lines in the sand that kept him safe from the blemishes of the world.
In his desire to be like Jesus, Trevor had elevated himself to Godhood rather than godliness. He’d measured his worth—and the worth of all those around him—by their right or wrong living, creating a standard that no one, not even he, could possibly measure up to…and then doling out placating and empty messages about asking God’s forgiveness and what would Jesus do, and taking responsibility for our own actions by repenting and trying harder to do what’s right.
It was everything he preached against these days. Everything he never wanted to be again. The message in the music of his new album—that of humility, of servanthood, of raising others up and not himself.
Oh, yes, he’d been rightfully accused. And found guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt. Not by a judge and jury of peers, but by the whisper of the Holy Spirit as his eyes and ears were opened to the truth.
Trevor had been called out by a young pregnant girl who’d thrown his own pious words back in his face, and he’d stood there, stunned by the validity of her words. He could still hear her tight-throated snarl: a pompous, self-righteous, arrogant, windbag of a Youth Pastor in Training, she’d called him…as she’d flipped her long, dark hair over her shoulder…jabbed him in the chest with a finger again and again…and stared down his disdain with eyes the color of misty moors, skin like a porcelain doll’s, and a mouth that made a man forget how to form complete sentences.
“Oh…God,” Trevor groaned as he fell to his knees, his legs giving out beneath him. “Oh, God. Oh, dear Jesus. Help her. Help me. Help us both.” He practically fell forward, his arms wrapped over his head, his nose nearly to the gravel, as he groaned out his prayer, asking God to make a way for him to undo what he’d done. He knew God had already forgiven him—he’d repented of his pride long ago—but now he begged God to help him find a way for Phoebe to forgive him, too.
When the words ran out, he just moaned, remembering the scripture verse he’d shared with Phoebe—not Jo—all those years ago. In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans. “Search my heart, Jesus. Help me do what’s right.”