Lost and Found (34 page)

Choose life.

Choose life.

Choose life.

The loss of all the things of the earthly life will be deep and long.

JEANNE GUYON

CONSCIOUSNESS COMES ONE
aching, throbbing, moment at a time. Before I open my eyes, I know something is wrong, but can't recall what. I shiver and reach to pull the blanket close, but find none. I roll from my back to my side and realize I'm lying on something hard and unforgiving. The floor? I open my eyes, startled by the hues of pink, orange, and gray splashed across the expanse of sky visible through the windows in front of me.

I lift my head, but it pounds me back down. I cover my eyes with my hands as memories of the night before flood my mind. When I dare to open my eyes again, I see Sam curled near me, his body wrapped around the gun on the floor next to me, as though protecting me from . . . myself.

"Oh, God!"

The exclamation isn't an expletive, but rather a recognition.

I force myself to sit up and take stock. I feel like I've been through a battle. My sinuses are swollen, my mouth and throat are dry, my head and teeth ache, and worst of all, every single muscle in my body is screaming. "Oh . . . please tell me I don't have to call the massage chick again."

The plea, I realize, is my first honest prayer.

Stiff, I struggle to get up. I roll over onto my hands and knees. But before I push myself up, I reach for Sam and run my hand through the fur on his back. He stretches, stands, and arches his back. His blue eyes accuse.

"I know. I'm sorry."

I push myself up, then bend and take the gun off the floor. I take a slow walk to my bedroom, where I replace the revolver in my nightstand drawer. I look at the bedside clock and make a decision. I reach for the phone on the nightstand and dial Cassidy's number.

She answers after the first ring. "Morning, Andee."

"Hey, Cass. Take the day off."

"What?"

"We're taking the day off. Don't come in. Do something . . . fun. Oh, but first, call and reschedule my appointments for the day."

She's quiet. "Are you okay? Are you sick? You know it's Tuesday, right?"

"I'm . . . fine. I know it's Tuesday. And we're both taking a paid day off."

"Is this Andee Bell?"

"Very funny, Cass. Have a nice day. I'll see you tomorrow."

I hang up and go into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and then take off my robe and hang it back in the closet. When I come out of the closet, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I see long, red scabs on my arms. The marks left by my own nails.

I lower my head and look at the floor—the realization of what I almost did sobers me. I lift my arm and place my hand over my chest and feel the beating of my heart. I'm still here, but the ache, the desperation, also remains.

It's time to make a few changes.

I step into the shower followed by the realization that change won't come without a fight. A fight with myself.

"I'll need help . . ."

I whisper not to myself.

But to God.

Let all your old ideas go as God directs.

JEANNE GUYON

ON TUESDAY AFTERNOON,
between counseling clients, I listen to my messages. One is from Jenna asking if we can meet at the outdoor labyrinth at Grace Cathedral tomorrow morning, rather than in my office. I check my schedule and see I have some extra time. Cool. This is one of the freedoms spiritual direction affords. I'd always rather meet outdoors. She says to drop her an e-mail or call with my response. I check my watch—my next client will be on my doorstep any second, so rather than call, I shoot off a quick e-mail.

Jenna,

Can't wait for tomorrow! See you at the lab at 9:00.

Expectantly,

Matthew

Wednesday dawns brilliant, baby. Crisp and clear. I pound the blocks from home to the office, and then from the office to the cathedral. My walk and talk with God is rich. Life is good. No complaints.

Well, maybe just one.

Tess came home from New York more enthused than ever about fashion and her career. I'm happy for her. Dude, I really am. But I want more with my wife and as I walk, I feel resentment toward her desires. And I go down the
What-about-me-and-my-desires?
road. Warning: That road is one big ol' dead end! And I know it. But I walk it again anyway.

Head down, arms swinging, I hash it out with God.

How much longer? I pray and pray for Tess, and . . . nothing changes. Her heart doesn't change. Her desires don't change. Kids? Still no. You? Still no. Yeah, it's cool she's reading the blog, but c'mon—she needs You.

I round a corner and broadside a guy with a briefcase. I lift up my hands and step back from him. "Sorry, man."

I catch my breath, and then pick up the pace again.
Not only does she need You, but I need her to surrender to You. I want that for her—for us. You say You'll give me the desires of my heart. This is my desire. Aren't I faithful to You? Don't You love Tess? I want more—more of You—with Tess. I want that intimacy with my wife. I want to see in her eyes what I see in . . .

To feel with her what I feel when . . .

My pace slows.

"Oh man"—I rake my hand through my hair—"that's it. That's what I've felt all along."

A woman passes, staring at me like there's something wrong with me. "What? Never seen anyone talking to themselves before?"

She steps off the curb and crosses the street.

"Take it back inside, buddy. You're scaring the locals." I stop, stand still for a minute, and figure out where I am. I look at my watch—still time before I need to be at the lab. Better take an extra lap or two around the block and finish this.

I take it slow, my steps intentional. I work it out in my head. Tim and I have talked about this—it isn't new information—but I'm just getting it. Really getting it. I suck in my breath and then give the desire of my heart to God.

Father, I want with Tess what I share with Jenna. I want my soul to be knit to the soul of my wife in the way that only happens when Your Spirit is present in both people. I want . . . man, I long for
. . .
spiritual intimacy with my wife. I want to share the desires of my heart, my life, with her.

I'm drawn to Jenna, the same way I was drawn to Lightseeker, I'm drawn to Lightseeker, because I'm drawn to You. You in her. It's You I see in her eyes. It's You I see in those dazzler smiles of hers. It's Your heart I hear in her words.

It's You.

It's all about You.

I stop on a corner and bend at the waist, hands on my knees. I swallow the lump in my throat and then wipe my arm across my eyes—drying my eyes with my sleeve. I stand straight again. "Dude." I shake my head.

I get it. Lord, I get it. Tess is Yours. You love her more than I do. I give her to You. I surrender. She's Yours.

A cab careens around the corner and water splashes from the gutter and sprays the legs of my pants with specks of gray water and dirt. "Not cool." I look down at my pants and shake my head again.

Yeah, Lord, even if it doesn't go my way. I trust You. I trust You with Tess. And I trust You with my desires. I trust You.

I nod. "Yeah, I trust You."

BY THE TIME I
reach the lab, I need a few minutes to regroup, and I'm glad to see Jenna hasn't arrived yet.

I take my place on the rock wall, the same spot where I sat with her the day we met, and I confess to God, who already knows, that I'm in a vulnerable spot. The air is clean, the day a beauty, but my heart is feeling bruised—tender—like I could use a manifestation of Jesus in the flesh.

A friend to lean on.

I remind myself, as I see Jenna come across the plaza, that she can't be that friend. Today, she's a client. I'm the director—she's the directee.
Lord, I'm Your broken vessel—Your cracked pot—and I need Your strength through my weakness today. This is about You, not me.

I watch as Jenna approaches and notice her gait is slower than usual. I stand up and put my arm around her shoulders and give her a squeeze. "Hey, you feeling okay?"

She nods. "Better than I was." She smiles. "I had a bout of something. I thought the infection was back. Or . . . maybe it is." She runs her finger along the scar on her jaw. "But I'm hoping it was just a virus or something. It makes sense that my immunities would be down."

"Yeah, makes sense."

"I slept all day yesterday then was wide awake last night. But I think I was supposed to be—to pray, though, I'm not sure why." She shrugs. "Anyway, I'm relieved to feel better today."

I put my hand in the air for a high five.

She gives me five and then grabs hold of my hand and hangs onto it. "I'm still a little tired, but I'll get my strength back." She squeezes my hand and then lets it go. "How are you?"

"Only minor complaints." This is her time. "Have a seat." I motion to the wall. She sits at an angle, and I do the same, so we're facing one another. There are a few people wandering around the cathedral plaza, but for the most part, we're alone.

"Well, we don't have a candle so we'll let the sky speak of God's presence. Cool?"

"That's why I wanted to meet here."

She looks up and her face mirrors His glory, the deep blue of the sky reflected in her eyes. And man, in this moment, I know I'm gazing at one of His most beautiful creations. And I'm awed.

Not by her.

By Him.

And in His presence, my desires wane. I know that He is enough. All I need. This is her time, but He's spoken to me, as He so often does, through her. And today, not through her words, just through her being. I clear my throat. "So how about a few minutes of silence?"

She nods and we both bow our heads, and as we do, our foreheads bump together. "Whoa, sorry."

She laughs. And we both scoot back an inch or so and try again. After a few minutes, I feel her hand on my arm.

"I'm ready."

I lift my head and wait while she gathers her thoughts. Her face grows serious and I see that look of pain in her eyes. She looks away—across the plaza—and then back at me and takes the plunge.

"I received an e-mail from a reader on Monday. Or, I should say, Lightseeker received an e-mail." She smiles that shy smile of hers, the one that surfaces when she's feeling vulnerable.

"Good ol' Lightseeker."

She nods and goes on. "She, the reader, asked my identity. She said she needed to know who I am so she could trust me. But . . . I couldn't tell her. I feel . . . dishonest."

"What's God saying to you about it?"

"He's still not speaking. Although . . . it's not like it was. I sense Him again. It's like He's sitting with me, but just quiet."

"How's that feel?"

"Better. I wonder if"—she stops and looks at the sky again—"He's teaching me something?"

I smile at her. "You're a willing student."

"I am?"

I nudge her shin with my foot. "Really?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. I hope so. But for so long, I've heard from God. But now, I'm wondering if I haven't interpreted much of what He's said through my own understanding. You know? I wonder if His silence is an . . . opportunity? A time to stand back . . ." She looks at me, eyes wide.

I nod. I get it—the phrase she heard so often but didn't understand. "Stand back from . . . ?"

"My understanding. Maybe He's asking me to just trust, without understanding. Without trying to make sense of things. Without hearing from Him."

Man, do I get that.
"How does that feel?"

"Terrifying . . . and liberating." She smiles. "Sort of a paradox, I guess."

I think back to where she began the conversation. "So, God hasn't weighed in on whether or not He wants you to reveal your identity—at least to this reader?"

"Not really. But I can't. It's too complicated. She's someone I know, someone who works with Brigitte. And you've read my blog. I can't ever reveal myself—I can't risk Brigitte knowing . . ."