neither present nor future

I laughed a lot today. I even caught myself throwing my head back and laughing HARD. It was delicious!

The two times of day I dread:
1. Going to bed
2. Waking up
Both times are a deafening reminder that I'm alone.

It's been awhile since we slept in the same room. During the weeks of Christmas and New Year's, we took turns on the couch downstairs, and once I slept at Dani's. Only a couple of times did we share the bed. Since last Tuesday, seven nights ago, he's been on the couch. I told him that if he didn't love me and never had, he surely couldn't share a bed with me. And on top of that, because I do love him, desperately and completely, it would be excruciating to share a bed and not be able to hold him, or to have him hold me, especially in my sorrow. We had always been cuddlers. I miss that more than I know how to say.

So we had to make the difficult decision to ask Nikki to move out of our guest room. We'd promised her 2.5 years ago that she could live here as long as she needed, as long as she was in college. Of course, at the time she thought she only had nine months of school left, but that's beside the point. I hate that we broke our promise. I quietly cried while Darren told her. She was so kind about it, and thanked us for the time we've given her. I hate it. I'll miss having her here. Darren is moving in to the guest room, starting tonight.

Here's the weird thing: we don't fight. We're kind to one another, even during this time. In many ways, we're being more gentle and kind than we ever have.

Last Wednesday night, during the most broken and battered few hours after the reality set in that he really doesn't love me, I prayed over him as he slept. I'd been talking to Cara, who was encouraging me and comforting me and telling me that Darren had lost his ever-lovin' mind. She said, "You'll hate me for saying this. Someone once said the same thing to me and I hated them for it - in fact, I'm pretty sure it was you. You need to pray for him."

"I do hate you for saying that," I replied. The truth is, I had tried praying for him already. I had no words. I had no thoughts. I didn't know WHAT to pray. And the painful truth? I didn't want to. I was hurting too much, and I hated him. What he is doing is so unfair. So completely and utterly unfair. I don't deserve this. How do I pray for a man who could say these things and profess to have felt this way for 21 years? I was bitter and hard. I couldn't will the words to leave my lips. Truly, I couldn't even form them in my head.

Then Melissa came to my mind. Back in the old days of Fortress, when we still ministered to homeless people on Sundays, there was turmoil nearly every week. Fights would break out, police would be called, children would be screaming, someone would start cursing. Melissa, in the midst of uncertainty and chaos, would quietly open her Bible and start praying the Word. She didn't use her own words, she used Gods. On more than one occasion, I marveled that the page she flipped open to would be perfectly relevant to the situation. And I marveled that she could pray like that. It always worked to diffuse the situation and bring calm.

So I thought I'd try it. I flipped open the Bible. It landed somewhere in the Old Testament. I paged over to Isaiah, then to Psalms. I knew God would point me to a perfect passage to pray. I skimmed feverishly across the pages, flipping and turning and desperately hoping my eyes would fall on the words I needed to pray. I was still on the phone with Cara, and asked her to help me. She started reading verses that she'd written in her journal. Beautiful scriptures, but not right for the moment. "What's Romans 8:28 say?" she asked. "I don't have it written down."

"That's my favorite verse of all time," I answered, "the one about nothing separating us from God." I turned to Romans so I could read the whole passage in its context. It wasn't my verse. It was the one about being more than conquerors. I was stunned. I would've argued til I was blue in the face that I knew that verse. I kept reading, and came upon my verse further down in the chapter: Romans 8:38. So close. ha! I began to read it out loud, as I'd done a hundred times before.

"For I am convinced
      that neither death nor life,
             neither angels nor demons,
                   neither the..."

My voice caught. I choked on a loud, ugly sob that got stuck in my throat.

"...neither the p-p-present....."

Another sob.

"nor the future.... "

Deep breath.

"...nor any powers.
neither height nor depth, nor ANYTHING IN ALL CREATION
can separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

In all the dozens of times I'd read that verse and recited it and thought about it, I'd always glossed right over the words "present and future". They'd held no weight for me. Angels and demons? Sure, that's big stuff. Height nor depth? Definitely can see how those could separate me. Life and death? Simple. But present and future? Non-issue.

Until now. In that moment, and indeed, even in this moment as I type this with tears streaming down my face, those words grip me. Neither the PRESENT, with all its pain and anguish, NOR THE FUTURE, with all its fear and uncertainty, can separate me from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Oh, my God. Thank you for your Word. I'd been scouring the pages looking for the perfect passage to pray, and all along, it was the one closest to my heart, the one I knew best. I decided to go downstairs and pray the whole chapter, out loud, over Darren as he slept.

"One more thing," Cara said. She was still on the phone with me at 3:30 in the morning. "You're gonna think this is crazy, since we're good ol' church of Christ girls, ya know, and we didn't grow up with this stuff... I think you should anoint him with oil." She went on to tell me about some studying she had recently done on the history of anointing with oil, and explained that one of the reasons for it is to set something apart as holy - to give it an extra measure of holy, if you will.

I crept down the stairs, poured some oil into the palm of my hand (people. you don't need much. The amount of shampoo you pour into your palm each morning? Too much. Trust me.), and tiptoed into the family room. Darren was sleeping on his back. I turned the light to its dimmest setting, just barely light enough to read. I placed my hand on his forehead and rubbed in the oil as I began reading aloud.

He startled awake and grabbed my forearm. "It's me," I whispered. "It's okay, it's just me."

"What are you doing??" he demanded.

"I'm praying over you," I explained.

He relaxed, then crinkled his nose and said, "Is that OLIVE OIL?"

"Yes."

Then I continued to pray the Word. He let me. When the chapter ended, I prayed. The words tumbled out of me with no concern, no forethought, no prose or promise or pretense. Just prayer. I prayed for Darren, for our children, for our marriage, and for my brokenness.

Then I slipped out of the room and back upstairs to bed. A peace had come over me. I knew I'd sleep well and wake up still enveloped in peace.

I wish that were true. I awoke to anger, hurt, betrayal, and confusion. I woke up and remembered that this was hell and it was real.

But let me tell you. God has been real to me every second of every hour of every day through this. He is with me now and he'll be with me tomorrow. He has brought together a team of supporters that I could never have put together on my own. People I didn't even reach out to reached out to me, because God prompted them to. They had no idea until they reached out. People I haven't been close to in years answered my desperate emails with unconditional love and genuine concern. People are bearing my pain WITH me. That is God.

So I laughed today. That was God, too. I was able to focus on work, and I know He was with me.
I still don't know where this journey is gonna take me, and I still struggle hourly with the desire to steer it in my direction, at MY speed, which I assure you is light years faster than the speed it's going. But I'm learning to be still, and let God do the driving. I trust Him. I have to. I want to. I want to never look in my rear view again, except to remember how He carried me through it.

God is real, y'all.
God is real.