The Other Side of Darkness (35 page)

When I come to, the prayer warriors are winding down. It seems their spiritual work is done. But Mary and Sarah are both clinging to me and crying, and I’ve never seen such terrified expressions on their faces.

“Are you okay, Mommy?” Sarah asks in a shaky voice.

“Yes … it’s just that the Lord had a lot of work to do on Daddy.”

“Is it finished now?” Mary wipes her nose on the sleeve of her sweater. “Can we go home?”

“Yes, dear.” Bronte puts an arm around Mary’s shoulder. “It is finished now.” She looks at both my daughters and smiles. “You girls did so well tonight. I am so proud of you two. You are growing up into godly young women, and I know the Lord is pleased with your hearts.”

This seems to help some, and some of the fear drains from their faces.

“Are you girls going to do some music for us on Sunday?” she asks. “Perhaps that Christmas song we’ve been working on?”

Mary nods. “I’ve got it down now.”

“And I know all the words,” says Sarah.

Bronte claps her hands. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear it!”

Once we’re home, I can tell that there are bad spirits in the air. Just the same, I tell the girls to get ready for bed. And when they’re settling down on the mattresses in the living room, with the dogs on either side for protection, the girls still seem very much on edge.

“I think we need to pray some more,” I tell them. And they agree. So we do all the warfare sorts of things that we know how to do, but it just doesn’t seem to be enough. Both Sarah and Mary feel certain that they’re seeing demons hiding around corners, beneath the couch, inside the empty bookcase.

“Maybe we should turn on more lights,” suggests Sarah.

So I turn on a table lamp. “There. Is that better?”

This seems to help, but we are all still uneasy. “Why don’t you read to us?” says Mary.

So I pick up
Pilgrim’s Progress
and begin to read.

“I mean from the Bible,” says Mary.

“Yes.” I set the book aside. “I think you’re right.” I open my well-worn Bible, my sword, in the middle, hoping to land in Psalms,
which I do. Then I randomly pick Psalm 62 and begin to read. “Truly my soul silently waits for God; from Him comes my salvation. He only is my rock and my salvation; He is my defense; I shall not be greatly moved.”

“Yes!” says Mary. “Read that part again.”

So I read it again and again and again. And we all find great comfort in these sentences. I especially cling to the four words that say, “He is my defense.” And yet, if he really is our defense, then why do we spend so much time defending ourselves?

Finally the girls seem to be soundly sleeping, and leaving the table lamp on, I stand. Bonnie and Clyde both look expectantly at me. “Stay,” I quietly command as I creep from the room. It’s still too early for Rick to get home, and after the deliverance prayer and the contact with his sweatshirt, which I deposited in a trash can on the way out of church, I feel the need for a long, cleansing shower. But as I shower, I continue to ask myself that same question. If what the Bible says is really true, if the Lord is truly my defense, then why am I always feeling the need to spiritually defend myself? Why do I always feel so threatened and defeated? So alone?

Then the water runs cold, and I carefully dry off and emerge from the shower, careful not to contaminate myself in the process. But as I’m pulling on my pajama bottoms, I notice a shadow in the dimly lit bedroom. And I know in my spirit that it’s demonic in nature. I quickly pull on my pajama top and then peek around the corner of the doorframe to see more clearly. And, indeed, it is a demonic form. And it’s hovering back and forth between Rick’s chair and his side of the bed, almost as if it’s dancing. As if it’s celebrating. And I know that despite tonight’s deliverance prayer, Rick is still very much in Satan’s hand. And Satan’s demons are very much a part of my husband’s life.

Most of the demons that the prayer team attempted to bind and cast out were sexual in nature. And I have become more and more convinced that Rick, who pretends to be working overtime all these extra-late nights, is really having an affair. Actually, I suspect he’s involved with a number of women. Perhaps some co-workers, maybe even prostitutes, as Bronte suggested in her prayers tonight. Most of all, I know with almost absolute certainty that Rick has willingly handed his soul over to the devil and that there is probably no hope for this marriage.

I knew that the proxy deliverance prayer was a long shot tonight, but it seemed worth the effort. Cynthia and Bronte had both been extremely supportive of this attempt. Unfortunately, I think our efforts were for nothing. Well, other than the fact it seems to have established that Rick Jackson is most definitely aligned with the Enemy.

I leave the master bedroom, promising myself I will never share that bed with Rick again. It’s been weeks since I slept there anyway, but I am more determined than ever to end this thing—and as soon as possible. I’m just not sure what I’ll do or how I’ll take care of the girls without an income. But I need to trust the Lord. He will provide. Still, I feel trapped as I return to the living room. But seeing my girls sleeping, looking so vulnerable and helpless, flanked by the big dogs to guard them, I am resolved to do whatever it takes to protect them and to protect myself.

I somehow make it through the next couple of days barely seeing Rick. He continues to come in later and later and sleeps until the last possible minute, then showers and dresses and grabs his lunchbox before he makes his escape. I suspect it’s guilt that makes him act this way. But on Saturday he surprises me by getting up earlier than usual.
He putters around the garage until almost noon and then comes inside wielding an ax and announces that he’s going out to get a Christmas tree today. “Anyone coming with me?” He eyes the girls with a goofy grin.

They both look interested yet wary. I know they’re seeing their father through new eyes now, and quite frankly the ax doesn’t help his image much. But besides that, I realize that only he and the girls and the Lord know what has transpired over the years. And just the fleeting thought of this makes me feel sick. So sick I could vomit.

“We don’t want a tree,” I say, quickly turning away and pretending to busy myself at the already-clean kitchen sink as I silently pray for strength.

“What?”
I can hear his anger, but I don’t care.

I turn around and just stare at him. “We don’t want a tree.”

He gives me his look now—the one that suggests I’m totally insane. “What are you talking about, Ruth? We always get a tree.”

“Putting a tree in your house is paganism. That’s not how real Christians celebrate Jesus’ birth, Rick.” Suddenly I’m thankful for the homeschool curriculum we’ve been using lately. It’s exposed the nature of some of these cultural traditions that we’ve always blindly accepted as innocent fun.

“Well, it’s how I celebrate Christmas.” He looks hopefully at the girls. “And it’s how this family has always celebrated Christmas before. Right, girls?”

They sort of shrug and act uncomfortable but don’t say anything.

“They know it’s pagan too,” I tell him. “We’re not giving in to Satan’s pressure to succumb to pagan practices that simply invite demonic attack into our home.”

“A Christmas tree invites demonic attack?”
he says with an incredulous expression, which simply reveals how much in the dark he really is.

“That’s right.”

“You
are
crazy, Ruth.”

“That’s what some people said about Jesus too.”

“I’ll bet Jesus would have a Christmas tree in his home,” he says loudly.

“That just shows how much you don’t know,” I shoot back at him.

“Well, this is
my
house!” he says even louder as he waves his ax in the air. “And I plan to put up a Christmas tree! If anyone wants to come with me, I’ll be leaving in about twenty minutes.” Then he turns and glares at me. “And while I’m gone, you can remove the slumber party items from
my
living room. Because that’s where I plan to set up
my
Christmas tree. Thank you very much!” Then he stomps out to the garage.

I go to the sink and begin washing my hands, washing them again and again as I try to figure out what to do.

“Mommy?” I hear Sarah’s voice behind me, and I dry my hands on a paper towel, then turn to see her worried face.

“What?”

“I can go with Daddy to get a tree. If it makes him happy.”

“No,” I tell her. “That’s like giving in to the devil to make him happy. You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

She shakes her head.

Both Mary and Sarah are standing near me now, and they look confused and slightly disappointed, and I suspect they want a Christmas tree, but we’ve already discussed this. What could help make up
for this? I consider offering to take them someplace, but where? It’s too cold outside to do much, and although we used to go to the mall on days like this, just to kill time and look around, that place will be plastered with all sorts of pagan decorations, so that’s definitely out.

I glance around the kitchen and suddenly feel trapped. If only there was some spiritually safe place to go. Some sweet godly grandmother or aunt who could take us in. I consider taking the girls to Cynthia’s house, but they wouldn’t like it. They tolerate Cynthia, but they still think she’s weird. If Bronte wasn’t living with the Pratts, I might visit her. I would consider visiting the Pratts, but they have seemed a little distant lately. Sometimes I wonder if perhaps I have offended them. Anyway, it seems clear there is no place to go.

“Do you girls need to practice your Christmas song?” I hope this will be something of a distraction from the tree dilemma. “So you can do your best at church tomorrow?”

They reluctantly agree, and while they are practicing, I ask the Lord to deliver us from our oppressors and to protect us from our enemies—mainly from Rick. As I pray, I suddenly imagine Rick’s truck flying over an embankment and rolling and rolling and finally bursting into flames—cleansing flames. Am I asking the Lord to kill my husband? No, I don’t think so. Am I wishing for it? Maybe. Perhaps that would put an end to all this; perhaps we would finally be free from the never-ending attack of the Enemy. I don’t know. I don’t know.

“Let’s take the dogs for a walk,” I say after I’ve washed my hands until they are raw and red and the girls have practiced for nearly two hours. “Bundle up, and we’ll take a nice long walk.”

Knowing that Rick will probably be home soon, I figure this will be a good way to avoid him and his miserable Christmas tree. So we walk and walk and walk. And finally Sarah’s legs are tired, and we turn
around to head back home. It’s not even four o’clock, and it’s already getting dusky as we finally turn down our street. It gets dark so early these days.

This time of year has always bothered me. I can remember how, as a child, I was consumed with tracking what time the sun went down as the days grew shorter and shorter, worried that the trend would continue until there was no daylight whatsoever, nothing but darkness for twenty-four hours a day. Of course, I know now that this doesn’t happen. But even so, I still feel an unexplainable uncertainty. A heaviness in my spirit. Perhaps it’s spiritual discernment warning me that this darkness is more than a physical thing. Maybe the Lord is trying to show me that this spiritual battle will get darker and more difficult before the days get lighter, before we come out on the other side.

The dogs begin to bark at a man walking on the other side of the street. Mary and I are holding their leads, and we both struggle to keep the dogs from pulling us across the road. “Sit!” I yell at the dogs. “Stay!” But they continue to bark and lunge, and the man looks somewhat frightened and intimidated as he hurries on his way. Finally the dogs settle down, and I’m not sure whether to scold them or to praise them.

“That was scary,” says Mary as we continue to walk, now just a few blocks from our house. “What if the dogs had gotten loose, Mom?”

“We need to work with them. We need to teach them to obey better.”

“They’re just trying to protect us,” says Sarah, whose hand isn’t burning from holding on to the leash.

“I know,” I admit.

“And I think that was a demon on the other side of the street,” she says in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Really?” I’m surprised at this but try not to show it.

“Yes.” Sarah nods somberly. “Couldn’t you see that, Mommy?”

Then I remember the sense of foreboding I’d just been experiencing. “I think I felt it in my spirit. But I wasn’t really paying that much attention.”

“You need to pay better attention, Mommy,” she says in a warning tone.

“Heel, Bonnie!” Mary yells as we get closer to the house. It’s as if the dogs can sense that we’re almost home.

I can see the Christmas tree as we pause on the sidewalk in front of our house. He’s already got the lights on it, and the unwelcome tree is planted right before the front window, where Satan and the whole world can see it. Without talking, we put the dogs out back and then go into the house and finally into the living room, which has been cleared of the mattresses and, other than the tree, appears rather barren now.

But when Sarah and Mary look at the tree, I can tell they actually like it. And this makes me mad. Really, really mad! Why does Rick have to do this to me? Undermining my spiritual leadership, the only real leadership this family has right now. Why is he trying to appeal to the girls’ sinful nature by bringing in an instrument that can be used by the Enemy?
Why? Why? Why?

Of course, I
know
why. Rick has submitted his heart to the devil, has willingly entered the Enemy’s domain. Naturally, it only makes sense that Rick should oppose me in everything. Well, he hasn’t won the final battle yet. And I won’t go down without a good, long fight. Even if it’s a fight unto death.

Of course, I mean a spiritual death. At least I think I do. Right now I’m so angry I’m not totally sure. I stomp out of the living room and am about to head for the master bedroom so I can get down on my knees and do some real spiritual warfare, but then I stop. The master bedroom is my husband’s domain. The devil’s domain. And not wanting to further defile myself, I go outside into the backyard and sit on a damp lawn chair to pray. Before long, both Bonnie and Clyde are sitting next to me.
Gone to the dogs
, I think with a sad irony.