As you are made more Christlike, you begin to take on His qualities.
JEANNE GUYON
I CLOSE THE door behind my last client and then go straight to my desk. I pick up my cell phone, which I silenced during my sessions, and check to see if there's a message from Jenna. Nothing. Then I check my e-mail. Nothing there either.
"Dude, what is going on with you?"
Anxiety, a rare emotion for me, pesters. My stomach growls, reminding me that it's 4:00 p.m. and I've eaten nothing since dinner two nights ago. I reach for the box of matches I keep on my desk, and go to the cube between the two chairs and light the candle. I drop the box of matches on the table next to the candle and plop myself down in one of the chairs.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and focus on the flame. Outside, a battering wind rattles the office door and hail peppers the windows. Forecasters predicted this would be one of the worst storms of the decade—and it isn't disappointing. Lightning flashes and the lights in the office flicker followed by the crashing of thunder that sounds like the sky is breaking apart and dropping onto the rooftops of the city. It's intense.
My growling stomach is my reminder to pray Jenna through her own storm. Man, I wish I knew what that entailed. But God hasn't made me privy to what's going on with her. Still . . . it's not like her to miss an appointment, or to not respond to calls and e-mails.
When I went to her house yesterday, the maid said she's sick. But as I stood at the doorstep of the Bouvier estate, I sensed there is more going around than the flu. Something is up. But God has made it clear. My part in all this is to fast and to pray. For how long, I don't know.
He hasn't shared that info with me either.
I bow my head and listen to the battering storm outside my door and, as has happened many times over the last few days, as I close my eyes I see the images from a battle scene. And the image I see today is Jenna, lying on the ground, bloodied.
Man, she's down for the count.
My heart feels like it splits wide open. "Dude, fight!" Then I begin to pray—letting the Spirit inform my prayers. It's one of those repeat-after-me prayers, where words whisper through my mind and heart, and I repeat them back to God.
"Courage, strength, perseverance—all these things I ask for Jenna, Lord. Provide—Your strength, Your stamina, Your wisdom. You through her. Surround her, sustain her, rescue her.
"Rescue her.
"Rescue her.
"Oh, Lord, send Your armies and rescue her."
I swallow the lump in my throat and wipe my wet cheeks.
I continue to pray.
I pray into the evening.
I pray until I'm exhausted.
I pray without ceasing.
"Fight, Jenna, fight!"