Lost and Found (29 page)

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.

Offenses will happen while we live in the flesh.

JEANNE GUYON

SHE LOOKS AT
the URL Hannah's written on a scrap of paper, types it into her search engine, and begins to read.

The more she reads, the more her anger flares.

She reads for almost an hour before slamming the lid of her laptop closed. "That little, traitorous . . ." She picks up the phone and presses the intercom to the kitchen. "Hannah, come back to my office. Now!"

She paces in front of her desk while she waits for Hannah. "What is taking her so long?"

When Hannah taps on her door, she opens it and pulls Hannah inside. "I want everything. I want her e-mails. I want every document on her computer. Do you understand? And I want it now!"

"But Madame—"

"No buts, Hannah. If you want to keep your job, you'll deliver what I need."

"Fine, Madame. I will hire someone. I don't have the knowledge. As I told you, I got this information because she left her computer on while she slept. If I hadn't taken her coffee upstairs, and—"

"Do whatever it takes, and do it now!"

"Yes, Madame."

"Go!"

After Hannah's gone, she returns to her laptop and rereads some of her posts. But the posts, she suspects, are just the beginning of her hidden life. She googles www.iluminar.me, searching for . . . anything. She scans the list of comments and other links that come up, including a link to
Urbanity
. The magazine? She clicks on the link and reads of the contest
Urbanity'
s holding to unveil the identity of the blogger who calls herself Lightseeker.

Again, she slams the laptop shut. Her heels wear a path in the carpet in front of her desk as she rehearses what she'll say to Jenna. "Oh, no, you don't! You will not make a mockery of my name! Isn't it enough that I must endure the humiliation of your infertility, along with the shame of that hideous scar across your face?"

She spits the words as if Jenna were standing in front of her.

But then something occurs to her and she quiets.
Of course Jenna won't make a mockery of her name. She can see to that. Just as she's always seen to things with Jenna.
She returns to her desk and reaches for a notepad. She will make a plan. Wait for complete access to Jenna's computer. Wait to see what else reveals itself.

No, she won't confront Jenna. Not yet.

She will wait.

She thinks again of Azul—and smiles. Ah yes, Jenna will do as she instructs. There is no doubt. She's seen to that. She will reveal all to Jenna, when the time is right.

And she will know when the time is exactly right.

Until then, a couple of days away will be best. She'll go to the valley, give Jenna a little space, freedom to roam as she's prone to do, and Hannah some time to complete her task.

I love you in the love of the One who humbled Himself on account of love.

JEANNE GUYON

SATURDAY MORNING, I
wake and reach for Tess, but then remember she's gone. A long work weekend in the fashion capital, New York City. She asked me to go with her this time, but funds are tight so we decided against it.

I sit up in bed, run a hand through my hair, and then feel the scruff on my face and neck. But hey, it's a weekend and Tess is gone, so there's no need to shave. "Bonus!" I get out of bed, grab my favorite flannel out of the closet, throw it on over my T-shirt and boxers, and then grab a pair of socks. I pad my way to the kitchen, where I . . . well, you know the routine.

Once I'm settled in my recliner, I bend, put the socks on, and then lean back and sip my brew. "Mmm . . . good stuff." Then I reach for my cell phone and text Tess:

Good morning, gorgeous! Or should I say good afternoon? Slept late here—nothing worth waking up for when you're gone. Lovin' you, always.

Then I reach for the printed blog and begin reading. Jenna's words continue to resonate—I feel her longings, her need for God. Man, her passion equals my own. I've even started commenting on her blog. Sending my own thoughts her way. At first, I hoped she'd reveal herself to me. But she hasn't.

Instead, we're now also connecting via e-mail. She knows it's me, but she doesn't know that I know it's her. Or maybe she does know and I don't know. But the conversations back and forth are rich. And don't worry, I've shared them with Tess, though, I haven't revealed that I know Lightseeker.

But I have shared that with Tim.

In fact, I've talked my relationship with Jenna up and down and inside out with Tim. Even submitted to his authority and asked if I need to step back, refer her to another spiritual director. But we both feel clear on the boundaries of the relationship and if Tim thought there was an issue, dude, believe you me, he'd tell me. The man does not hold back. It's what I like best about him.

Anyway, this morning, as I read of Lightseeker's loneliness and her longings for God, my heart hurts for her. Maybe she's going through what St. John of the Cross made known as a
dark night of the soul
. A season when God is silent. A time when it's easy to believe He's left you altogether. But He never leaves. That's a promise. And she knows it.

I respect her choice to walk in faith. But I continue to pray for her. She's lost so much—her health, her looks—at least in her mind—and now her husband. And I have to wonder if she isn't losing herself in her relationship with her mother-in-law. One of the things I tell my counseling clients is that when you try to please others, you will always fail and you will always lose yourself. Dude. Those aren't good odds. I don't often use the word
always
. But that's how much I believe the truth of that statement.

And unless Jenna makes some changes, I fear she will lose herself and the beautiful purpose God intends for her.

Now she's also lost that sweet communion with God. At least for a time.

How much more, Lord?
I trust God's work in Jenna's life. But it can be hard to watch. Though, I know—and I mean I
really
know—that God will work all for good in her life because she loves Him and is called according to His purpose. That's just truth.

As an observer of her life, that God-given purpose seems so clear. All you have to do is read the way she interacts with her readers—she loves them with a love from above. She cares about them. And she walks alongside them, sharing her heart, her aches, her journey.