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Chapter seventeen
If I Could See Beyond My Tomb
The occasional crackling sound in the distance broke my concentration reminding me of the celebration at hand. Since the demise of my home, I had found the mention of any holiday to be disturbing. This one seemed of no concern to me since those celebrating our nation’s independence were minding their own business, as I was mine. My business happened to be of a serious nature. . . survival. My husband had left me a matter of months before and I was still in the “faith stage” of walking out my miracle. Wondering what kind of trick God had up His sleeve to fix my marriage saturated my thoughts. Yet the muffled sound of firecrackers throughout the neighborhood jarred me back into reality long enough to realize that I was alone, facing an uncertain future. “Still,” I thought, “This won’t last long.”
By the next year, the “death sentence” had been fully executed against my marriage. The divorce papers had been finalized. I could only stand in horror as I watched a nightmare play out before my eyes. I had moved to Joplin in the fall of that year and managed to keep my belief system intact that somehow justice would prevail. Reminding myself of that became a daily struggle. With my walk of faith on a downward slope, I thought it could not go any lower. . .then it did.
I found myself in an odd state of mind when the 4th of July rolled around again. Those familiar popping sounds startled me when I realized they ignited negative feelings inside. While my world was falling apart, those around me had the audacity to blast my sky with a brilliant, glowing display of colorful lights. How rude!
I had prepared myself for the obvious holiday crisis. Christmas required a deep breath of endurance. It lasted for weeks and could not be escaped. I couldn’t go anywhere without finding strings of glowing lights or sparkling tinsel that reeked of family and home. But now I was taken by surprise when this seemingly insignificant holiday became a few hours of intense torture.
The following year challenged my emotions at every level. My lowest moments seemed to come at various times of the day. For a while the mornings were more difficult. Something about the half pot of coffee would set off alarms indicating my singleness. Despair on other days would set in around suppertime. On occasion I would smell the barbecue grill heating up in the neighbor’s backyard. I knew families were gathering at their dinner tables across the country. I remembered back when dinner was a very important time for me. I would spend the better part of my day with my nose in a cookbook, planning new meals and getting different ideas. Those days were gone now. My baby girl and I were alone.
When entering the house after being away for some trivial reason, I found myself subconsciously looking for some kind of note. I would scan the room to try and figure out what seemed odd. Then I came to the conclusion that it was the “nothing” that bothered me. Nothing had moved, nothing had changed, nothing was different, because no one was there but me.
I made it through that year by the skin of my teeth. Then once again came that dreaded celebration.
I awakened that morning with an attitude. I was totally appalled that the Lord had no more consideration for me than to let this go on as long as it had. I would move about my home in silence. I didn’t feel like speaking to Him that day, I would rather pout. . .thank you!
I was always included in whatever activities my extended family had planned. While their support was vital in my life, I still had a sense of being alone in the crowd. I had a way of secluding myself even when we were together. Being in the company of other families would often magnify the loneliness within me. My comfort zone was in my own home where I could handle things my own way. . .tearfully.
I continued to putter around my house that day pretending not to hear the distant sounds of celebration. In reality, every crackle and pop became a visual image in my head of families gathered in their backyards with hot dogs on the grill. I’d picture the children running through the grass with sparklers in hand, while dads lit bottle rockets and moms watched comfortably from their lawn chairs. My heart sank lower with every effort to block out the noise.
I had become accustomed to my particular routine. Long before, when I set my sights on my miracle, I made a conscious decision to heavily regulate my environment. As a result, there would rarely be a radio or television on that wasn’t tuned to Christian programming. I had to hear from the Lord, at times, minute by minute, I opened every avenue possible for Him to speak to me, and this day was no different. The television was on as I walked through the room totally consumed with my situation and myself. I heard the minister’s voice as his words interrupted the train of thought my mind had been traveling downhill on for hours. His broadcast was coming to a close and he simply asked his wife to pray. My back was to the television by now as I was exiting the room. I listened as she began with a familiar line that I had heard all my life. . .”Lord, we thank you for dying on the cross for us. . .” Suddenly I felt my body spin around as if out of control. I gestured toward the television and raised my voice to a level that would compete with the current 4th of July celebration. The words rolled out from a painful pit deep inside as I almost began to scold the Lord, ”Of course You died for me! You could see beyond the tomb!!” Then I stood frozen in shock as I quickly tried to evaluate what I had just done. “Had I spoken harshly to the Lord? Was I in trouble now? What did I just say?” I sat down in the nearest chair to collect myself and attempt to decipher the situation. My mind was racing as I felt the Spirit of the Lord move in and wrap around me like a warm blanket. “That’s my answer,” I told myself, “If I can see beyond my tomb. If I can die this death and see the life that will spring forth as a result.” The home, the coffee pot, the supper meals. . .it was all a matter of dying to my flesh. . .
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