She hasn’t written for over three months, but here she is. It’s 10:59pm and she should be in bed. She always gets to bed by 9:30am. Gets up at 5:50am, sometimes 5:20am. It’s good for her. She likes it, most days at least.
Tonight, she is alone. Usually, there is the quick ‘goodnight’ she whispers to her roommate, “sword girl”, but tonight she blows out the candle, wipes the last dish, folds up the greasy potato chip bag and locks the door alone. Two nights ago, she woke up at 3:00am and saw a car with its lights on in her parking lot. Always suspicious, she dreamed of a creepy story of why the car was parked there and what the driver may have been attempting to accomplish – a theft, an assault, a murder. She promptly began to lock her door even more carefully. Foolish, fearful girl. But she can’t help it. At least today. She is still new at this whole apartment thing. Hasn’t she always been the one to look over her shoulder first; to expect the worst and to see robbers and bandits around every bend in the road?
Hers is a good God though. The very best and the only. So, bandits or no bandits, he holds her tightly and well.
Today was Good Friday. It felt like a normal day in some regards, but after she came home, talked to “jeep girl” for 1.5 hours, plowed through her biking session, took a shower and began scavenging for food for dinner, she found the live stream that took her to Andy at his church. Her very favorite Andy with the voice of a plain, lay-man but with words of silver and gold.
Half-way through the livestream, she choked on the greasy potato chips she was madly stuffing in her face. Andy was singing about a love that she now knew but could hardly fathom. Andy sang about a love that reached down, pursued, chose, and made a way. She thought how far she was from that kind of love – that pure, selfless, faithful love. She thought how it wasn’t the beneficiary of the love that made the love beautiful; it was the benefactor.
Weeks ago, she sat in her little apartment, holding back her sobs and feeling so alone. She stayed awake until 3:00am (far past her bedtime) and called and asked and begged God to give her peace. It wasn’t until the following night that she was given it. He hadn’t before, but he did this time. She didn’t understand why. Why, when years ago she would sit in the cold downstairs school room of her parent’s house, why did he not give peace then? Why, after years of crying and begging and hoping and fasting, why did he break through on this simple night? She didn’t have an answer. He was God and she was not.
But she was grateful. Grateful that she could sing along with Andy with peace in her heart, knowing that God Himself loved and cared for her. Wasn’t this the very thing she was always writing about, singing about and looking for? Wasn’t it in every one of her favorite songs? Hadn’t it haunted her, like a hand in the fog just too far out of reach to help save you from the cliff’s edge?
She could sing with Jason too. Jason sang: When my vision died you opened my eyes to something that I had never seen. I have touched your hands and you have called me friend, but doubting never ends until I believe. At the waters edge I see as your spirit speaks to me: call to me and I will answer you, I’ll give you peace, a peace you have not known on your own.
So here she is: potato chips and peace and singing songs she hasn’t sung in a long time. And in two days, there will be a new song: a song of life and resurrection. The very best kind of song.
The Silent Storyteller 