CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Jenna

I WAKE WITH a start. Heartbeat pounding in my ears. The room is still dark. I turn my head and glance at the clock next to my bed: 4:13 a.m. Something is wrong, but I can't recall what it is, though I feel the weight of it sitting on my chest. Groggy, I sit up and reach for the bedside lamp.

All is silent.

And then I remember.

I lean back against my pillow, stare at the ceiling, and twist the band on my left ring finger. God, my present companion for so many years, is silent. I'm alone. Abandoned. But as soon as that thought enters my consciousness, I discard it. "You are here, whether I sense You or not, whether I hear You or not. You are always with me. You will never forsake me."

As I whisper my prayer, my assurance, tears slip down my cheeks.

The ache of loneliness is a constant companion now.

I reach for the Bible on my nightstand and turn to familiar passages of comfort. But the words are empty, meaningless. I put the Bible down and cry out. Oh Lord, how I long to hear from You—long for Your embrace. Your comfort. I don't understand . . . Help me to walk in faith, to trust You. Make my path straight, Lord. Lead me. I am lost.

I allow my mind to wander—to think ahead. Although Gerard assured me through the years that he'd provided for me in his trust, I don't know that he told me the truth. Where confronting Brigitte was concerned, I could never trust that Gerard would stand up for me, and any change he made in his trust would have resulted in a confrontation.

A breeze of unease stirs.

Brigitte will provide for me, I'm certain. But at what cost?

"You won't stay with her, right?"

Jason's words dig deep. Do I have a choice? I can't even begin to imagine leaving. Where would I go? What would I do? What would she do if I tried to leave?

Anxiety moves in like a nagging neighbor. Pestering and provoking.

There is no rest.

I cannot look ahead. Instead, I must trust God moment by moment.

I throw back the covers and get out of bed. As I stand, a wave of nausea swells, forcing me to sit back on the edge of the bed. I take deep breaths, willing it to pass. With each breath, my sense of dread deepens. The infection. Oh, Lord, will it never end?

I accept the consequences of my actions. But I'm tired of fighting. I lie back down and think about the surgery, and for the first time in many months, a new thought occurs to me. What if the surgery had been successful? What if I'd come out of it looking, in my eyes, in Brigitte's eyes, perfect? That is, after all, what I was striving for, wasn't it?

Perfection in Brigitte's eyes? I shake my head and say for at least the hundredth time, "Oh Lord, I'm so sorry."

But if the surgery had been successful, would Brigitte have been pleased? Would I have then been perfect in her eyes? No, of course not. She is impossible to please. Again, I think of Andee's words the morning of the brunch: "If you can't win, why try?"

Why, indeed?

Is the infection God's punishment? No. Instead, He's used the natural consequences and worked them for good. This is new thinking. I get out of bed again, my movements slow this time, and I go to the vanity and sit on the stool and look in the mirror. For the first time, I see the scar as a gift—a reminder of the lessons God is weaving in me. He is stripping me of the lies I've believed and replacing them with His truth.

There is no punishment.

No condemnation.

Only grace.

I run my index finger along the scar and look at myself in the mirror again. This morning, for the first time since the surgery that left the scar on my jawline, I don't see the scar. Instead, I see me—God's creation. The scar isn't important. It doesn't define me. It isn't who I am. "Thank You."

God is still silent, but He is present. I can find Him, I determine, His goodness, in all things, if I just look.

When I stand, the nausea returns with a force that drives me to the bathroom and to my knees. As my stomach empties and I gasp for breath, I beg for mercy. "No more, Lord. No more, please . . ." I lie on the bathroom floor, my face against cold tile. Where is the good in this?

Ah, how fleeting my determination.

After awhile, I get off the floor, brush my teeth, and shower. I step into the spacious enclosure, sit on the granite bench, and let the hot water wash over me until I feel well enough to stand. After my shower, I wrap myself in my robe, run a comb through my wet hair, and then go sit at my desk in the alcove. I check my e-mail and then open my blog and begin a new post.

Loneliness calls my name. It woos me to believe nothing can fill the cavernous void in my soul. Tendrils of fear wrap around my heart. But I pry fear loose and toss it aside. For I've known perfect love and though my senses betray me, love remains. So I wait. I listen. Confident I will hear the voice of my Lover again.

There is no fear in perfect love . . .

I write to reassure myself.

I write to remind myself of truth.

I write because I've learned, I am not alone in my feelings. Once I publish the post, others will respond. They, too, feel the pull. The longings. They hear the hisses of the enemy.

Together, we stand.

I lean back in my seat, fingers resting on the keyboard. Fatigue batters me. I close my eyes and whisper a prayer for all those who wake alone this morning—those who wake sick, and tired. I ask God for comfort and strength for each of them, and for myself.

Then I finish the blog and publish it.

I get up from the desk and walk back to my bed. I slip out of my robe, drape it across the foot of the bed, and climb between the sheets. I pull the blanket to my chin and fall into a deep sleep.