“Yet the Lord will command His loving kindness in the
daytime, and in the night his song shall be with me, and my prayer unto the God
of my life.” Psalms 42:8
……….
“In one week, your
life will be no more.”
My mind reeled from the impact of the sheer force of the
words. The thought accosted me, shifting my mood, kicking me off balance that
blistery winter morning on my 45-minute drive to work.
At first I chose the dismissive route. Just the random, strange
thought processes of the mind, I reasoned.
But no, the words had come to me in a moment when any
thoughts of danger were farthest from my mind. No matter how determined I
remained to shake them off, they clung to me like a damp cloak for days.
I prayed until I could only heave a sigh and clear a catch
in my throat with the words, “Lord, if this is You, I’m not sure why You are
telling me except that I should be more grateful for each day that You have
given. Thank You for the gift of life. I am willing to take it up for You; now
let me be willing to lay it down for the same reason. But if this thought is a
threat from the devil, please send this conviction to my heart. For I would yet
live, and testify to Your amazing grace.”
I failed to tell my young husband of this inward struggle
for many a day. Seated at church that weekend with his arm tucked protectively
around my shoulder, I wondered if this would be the last Sabbath I would enjoy
on this earth.
As I continued to pray and seek the Lord, I felt at peace
that my soul rested in His hands, and became additionally certain that it was
the evil one seeking my life and heart that threatened.
Close to a week later, I was pulling through the very same
intersection of the week before when an eighteen-wheeler truck pulled out of a
gas station just ahead of me. A moment behind it, an identical looming truck
rolled up to the busy road and began to merge. To my hurried gaze I saw that
there were cars behind, in front, and in the left lane beside me – leaving no
space to escape the vehicle’s towering frame over my little Honda Civic.
I do not know how I missed that eighteen-wheeler that day –
or how it missed me - but I thanked the Lord for sparing my life again. I thanked Him for ruling over the
events of my life with His strong hand. I thanked Him for teaching me lessons
of trust enough to stand upon the promises.
And little did I realize that the battle for my soul in earnest
had just begun.
………..
This is the story of deliverance by the hand of God. Of a
time in my life that changed who I am forever. And although some of its days
have blurred in the swiftly flowing, shadowy river of time, I know that some
things should never be forgotten.
I write because I cannot, must not, allow myself to forget.
And also, because there is a hope in my heart that the reader will become
acquainted with the character of a deep, wonderful, passionate God for His
little children. His greatness extends far beyond than that which finite minds
can comprehend, yet His arms of strength wrap around my small frame with
faithfulness so strong and a love so deep, that my heart melts with
thanksgiving and my soul boils over with enmity against the evil one and every
one of his ugly deeds.
It has often been my desire to share these experiences with
you, my friends. To share how He has saved my soul from death, and held my
little life in the palm of His Almighty hand. For indeed, I have been sheltered
there. I have hidden under “the shadow of His wings,” and found that His promise
always stands true.
“I waited patiently for the Lord; and he inclined unto me,
and heard my cry. And he hath put a new song in my mouth, even praise unto our
God.” Psalms 40:1, 3
I have learned that this new song – one of hope, faith, and peace
– is promised to be with me even in the night, when my young heart fears and He
is all that I may cling to. My prayers belong at the throne of the Lord of my
heart and hope. For I know of a certainty that He has saved my life, and the
testimony below is one of the many my heart yearns to share in coming days….
……………..
Shortly after our marriage, Christopher and I settled into a
small rental house in Ballplay, Alabama.
It was a tan structure with stucco-siding and chipped cement
front steps overlooking a yard with several magnolias and a bushy fig tree.
Beyond stood a wooden fence and a paved road where vehicles sped by on their
way to the city of Gadsden. It was not uncommon for chickens and goats to strut
across our yard, claiming their extensive territory all owned by the landlord,
a friend of our church.
Upon our return from the honeymoon in Gatlinburg, Tennessee,
I quickly began to unpack belongings. It was a wonderful first home from my
perspective, conveniently located and kindly offered to us for a good price and
no contract. Although on cold winter nights I could feel chills sift up from
cracks in the floors and hear scratching and noises in the attic (one that none
could find an opening to), it was a blessed home for us.
Arriving from work each week day, I would temporarily park
my car at the end of the driveway by the road, duck out of my red Honda Civic,
and then drag and heave our rusting red metal gate open. Parking by the house,
I fumbled for the right key to unlock the front door and enter into the
darkness inside.
As I quickly turned the gas heater up a notch, my shoulders
made the small trace of a quiver. When lovely hardwood leaves were just about
to turn into variances of color and autumn sunlight began to pour over the
quaint valleys of my native New England, I said good-bye to a life that had
been. I braced myself for the independence life would demand, cried my tears of
sorrow for the loving family I would no longer see often, and embraced a love
for my husband-to-be that only grew with each day.
Walking into an empty, foreign house was unnerving for a
girl of barely 20 that particular winter day after our marriage.
It even feels damp,
I thought to myself with a second shiver. Pushing this thought far to the back
of my mind, I busily began to pace the kitchen in preparation for supper that
night.
Breathing a determined, almost exasperated sigh as I
struggled to shake off the unsettledness I felt, I marched back into the living
room and pushed the play button to our CD player. The calming, God-honoring
music brought peace and reassurance to my soul.
The Lord holds us in
His hands, I reassured myself. He is
watching over me.
The house felt warmer as the music played and I chided
myself for unsettled nerves.
The occupant before us left many of his household items
behind when he moved several blocks down the road. I could quickly recall hours
spent with Jamie, the landlord’s wife, sorting through insurmountable piles of
clothes, pictures of strangers, work tools, and other articles strewn about the
floors and stuffed in closets. I wondered why this man would leave so much
behind, especially when he lived so conveniently close by.
As Jamie continued her rampage over the house one day, she
began placing glassware in a large box.
“I’m setting aside items I think he
would want to keep, and the rest is going to the dump,” she remarked.
A clay container with dark stripes was lifted from the top
of the refrigerator. “Why, this looks like an urn,” the woman scanned the
inscription burned into its side with a name akin to “Harold.” Reading the
entire inscription, we realized that it was the man’s father.
Jamie placed a strong, steady hand over the top knob and
endeavored to twist. The lid was sealed.
“Oh well. I’ll just place it in the box too.”
The object was strangely enough still present months later
when we first moved into the house. All except for a few boxes were still
present, and Chris lifted it high above the refrigerator to be out of the way
as we worked.
“I wish we could just take that box outside,” I remarked as
my husband began to tackle a sink full of dishes. “I don’t like having another
person’s stuff in here.”
“We’ll get it out soon enough,” he was reassuring.
The Wednesday night after we returned from the honeymoon
found us arriving home from prayer meeting in the dark again, as usual.
Christopher turned up the gas wall-heater a notch to keep out the cold, and
shortly we were in bed about to fall asleep.
As would become our habit, I crept my way close to his side
and wrapped my hand around his arm.
“Want to pray?”
“Yes.” I could feel him nodding in the dark. “Dear Father,
thank You for another day of life…”
Hours later, I drifted somewhere between sleep and
wakefulness, when something suddenly drew me closer to the latter. The house
was silent and warm by now. Christopher’s quiet breath sounds and still form
told me that he slept.
Why had I awakened?
Then I heard a noise as if something slid from a portion of
the roof downwards, gliding over the bathroom portion of the house connected to
our bedroom, and falling in a heap to the ground.
This isn’t New England…my brain slurred. There is no snow
here to fall from the rooftop. No snow…
A second sound hit my ear. Maybe it was the back door
suddenly slamming, or the sound of someone stomping on the porch.
For a few seconds, all was silent.
And then the frozen chills of terror began to tingle down my
spine. I heard footsteps – the sound of heavy work boots making calculated,
well-timed strides across the house.
As they traveled across the kitchen and a small portion of
the living room, at first I questioned the possibility that Christopher had
gotten up, but when my hand felt his side in an instant, I froze, hardly daring
to breath.
Maybe it was on the whisper of spoken prayer hours earlier,
but somehow I sensed that this was not the physical presence of a human
intruder. Feeling that this was a threat by forces dark and foreboding, I knew
that it would make no difference to shake my husband awake.
Lying small and still in the queen bed, listening as the
footsteps neared our open bedroom door, fleeting promises memorized from years
before formed a prayer to heaven for protection.
Right on the threshold of our bedroom door, the footsteps abruptly
stopped. For a few moments, I felt as if something was looking in on us as I
lay rigid, clinging to the promises. And then in the continued silence, the
quietness felt normal again. The fact that I never heard another footstep or
even a floor board creak for the rest of the time I lay awake served as confirmation
to me that this was no human foe.
For the time being, life seemed to return to normal.
Christopher removed the urn of ashes from the kitchen and gave it to the
Mexican Catholic next door who worked for the landlord. Being alone did not
feel quite so scary to me, although I never enjoyed the feeling. The quietness
seemed fairly peaceful. Unable to determine whether the ashes and the earlier
renter had anything to do with the footsteps in the house, I remained thankful
that the terror by night was held back by the power of God.
…………
“I hope my truck will start this morning,” Christopher
pondered at the breakfast table, setting his keys down on the table and
reaching for a jacket.
“I hope so too,” I shared a knowing glance with him across
the room.
After several tries and a prayer, I heard the familiar hum
of the little blue truck’s engine chug to life.
I rushed that morning to the car after kissing Chris goodbye
and cleaning off the breakfast table. My windshield was coated with a firm
layer of ice crystals that refused to be shaken off by the wipers. I waited for
a minute with the air blowing, hoping that my view would clear lest I be late
for work.
“Aha,” I breathed gratefully as the ice cleared with the
addition of a spray of window washing fluid.
Cheerfully I turned the car around and drove down to our
gate by the busy highway road. The window was still clear.
Then, just as I turned onto the main road, the sun in all of
her glory gleamed down upon my little car – and the window glazed over almost
instantly with ice.
Calm yet frantic, I tried out the wipers and sprayed them
with more fluid, but the ice seemed to thicken and only glisten with the light
of the sun.
Never had I felt so helpless. I could not see the road in
front of me.
To the right I knew there was a ditch. To the left was of
course, the other lane, and highway 9 was a well-traveled road with many
tractor trailer trucks hauling supplies to the city. Infrequently a driveway
allowed for a pull-off, but I could not in any way see where such a place was,
and I dared not make a guess.
“Oh Jesus, help me!”
my voice continually petitioned. “Please, please help me.” If He would only
clear my vision or take the wheel!
I continued to drive straight ahead and although braced for a
heavy jolt by collision with another vehicle or fall into a ditch, the car
drove smoothly ahead. Not a single car seemed to pass by, miraculously it
seemed.
Roll down your window.
Right. Leaning out of my window and letting the chill wind
bite my warm cheeks, I suddenly realized that I was driving in the left lane. I
brought my vehicle to the right side, just as a truck whizzed past.
Thank you Lord.
My windshield almost suddenly cleared, windshield wipers still
on at full-blast. I could see – what relief! How beautiful the sun’s rays were
as they lighted up the road before me. I realized in that moment that my life
had been spared once again. What had I done to deserve such grace? Why had God
set out to save little me? What sort of plan did He have for my life that He
would spare it over and over again?
Several days later as I drove home from work, the sun still
planted in the blue sky and shimmering on the crisp fields nearby, something
solid white caught the corner of my eye. It did not seem to be the silvery
reflection of glinting roof tiles or machinery. I guessed that a car was nearly
side by side with mine, about to pass, but when I looked again there was not a
vehicle in view for all of the long stretches of dull-brown road and land behind
and ahead. A smile rested on my lips for the rest of the way. The unexplained
second of whiteness parallel to my car reminded me that angels still
attended my journeys.
I felt incredibly undeserving. In the transition of my move
from New England to the south, I had not been constant in prayer or
consistently faithful in the devotional time I knew that the Lord deserved. As
I adjusted to the new culture of the south, jointly my gaze began to rest upon
the southern belles and their outward adornment. I never realized how deeply I
coveted the friendship and approval of my family camp friends until a situation
several years before when I chose a damaged name by preserving another’s
reputation. In tiny steps, I began to make little changes in my dress and appearance
without thinking. There were those in the north who could not understand my
decision to move and marry, so in turn I doubly accepted and embraced my
welcoming new friends in the south – only sometimes their convictions on
appropriate media differed from mine, often leaving me torn, often resulting in
me standing out with a supportive and willing husband, but a troubled heart. I
felt attacked by compromise as every victory that I made to maintain my
uniqueness as a Christian was counteracted by a situation testing my will power
over the desire to please, or simply the guilt Satan impressed me with from my
past failures. Active in church and always present for prayer meeting twice a
week, I experienced the true desire to be nearer to God and sometimes felt His
closeness, but was sore pressed by the trials allowed to me.
One evening as my fingers paused over the keys before prayer
meeting, I was suddenly impressed with the impression, God loves you. My mind
wrestled with the comprehension of this life-changing understanding. Little me –
loved by the Almighty. In that moment I began to grasp at the mercy of God Who
loves us in spite of our failings. I realized that the power of the Father’s
love could lift me high above the cares and pressures of life. Somehow I
realized that if I focused my gaze upon His cross, eventually nothing else
would matter. I could win every battle and not be held back by the past. My
heart felt light with the acknowledgement that His powerful love trumped all
the lies and trickery of the defeated foe that battled for my life.
Thine is the glory oh Lord, I prayed, feeling peace. Thine
is the victory.
It was not long after when Christopher and I gave our first
sermon together. It would be the first of many more to come.
I would have done well to expect a counter-attack targeting
the peace I felt in my heart that week. Before prayer meeting that next
Wednesday, we stopped at a Christian friend’s house to visit. After a few
minutes of conversation, a movie was slipped into the DVD player. I had no time
to scan the title or check the rating, but our friend assured me that it was a classic
film that I would surely not have a problem with.
The language I heard in the first few minutes of the movie
shocked me. Drawn aback by phrases that I had been so carefully sheltered in my
childhood from ever hearing, and rarely encountered in the workplace of a
doctor’s office, there kindled a righteous indignation within me.
The movie was cut off due to departure for prayer meeting,
but I left angry. Upset that I had even listened to it for as long as I did in
hopes that the language would dissipate, upset that I had not spoken up against
it, and upset that the devil had used a well-meaning individual to place me in
the situation to begin with.
Allowing the breeze to cool my face and hoping that it would
have the same effect on my heart, I stood on the side steps as prayer meeting
began, having my own prayer session all the while. I petitioned heaven for
mercy, for greater strength, and asked to be washed in the blood of Jesus’
Christ’s sacrifice for me on Calvary.
Christopher found me not long after, embracing me in his
strong arms and offering words of comfort and understanding. Thankful that he
shared my same distaste, we walked back into the sanctuary together. From that
point onward, I resolved that not an ounce of compromise would knowingly
allowed back into my life, and prayed that the Lord would keep my eyes focused
on Him. Let the world grow strangely dim, for all that I want to see is Jesus.
………………..
Morning dawned over the small surrounding hills one fresh
day in late January. As light seeped in through our windows I awoke, filled
with a sweet warmness inside. I have such a happy, dear life, I thought.
I watched Christopher walk swiftly down the sidewalk to his
car after we embrace and kiss good-bye. I will miss him every hour until we see
each other again tonight, I thought longingly.
It didn’t hit me in a wave or a rush. The sensation only
grew. Difficult to describe, except as a growing uneasiness about something
that I could not see and to most analytical minds, did not exist. Something
strangely familiar with the feeling reminded me of my feelings of uneasiness
alone in the house several months earlier.
When Christopher removed the urn of ashes from our kitchen
after the footsteps in the night, the atmosphere felt warmer and safe. I spent
many late evenings alone in the building with the lights off and felt no cause
for worry.
But this. Again. I shook off feelings of raw fear. Why?
Quickly I turned to the CD player and soon orchestrated
hymns were sounding through the house. I went to my room and knelt facing the
bedroom door by the side of my bed and begged for strength and courage. “Show
me how to trust in your promises no matter what the circumstance. Send your
mighty angels to walk beside me.” I petitioned that the presence of God would
come and protect His child. “Satan is a defeated foe,” I spoke aloud, “and You
have promised me the victory.”
Rising, I felt assured. Strangely enough, I repeatedly felt
that a dark presence was looking in on me from outside of the room, threatening
just as it did that first night in November.
I could not ignore the chilling presence I felt that sent
prickles down my spine. Walking out into the living room, it felt as if
something evil, dirty, and cold stalked from behind.
Even though it was early for work, I could hardly stand the
presence I felt in the house. Forcing myself to walk steadily across the house
and gather up my things, I could only wonder what these eyes would see if they
were opened to behold the realms of light and darkness. In a fleeting moment I
questioned what had happened in this house previously to give the devil such a
foothold to be present.
I shut the front door firmly behind me and immediately felt
relief although the outside air was cold in temperature. My mind filled with
questions as I slid into my car and paused a moment to consider what had
happened in the house.
Then I looked up. Our spare bedroom was largely filled with
storage and rarely used. The shades on the windows were old and dusty –
remaining from renters before us. But a new chill hit my heart when I suddenly
saw the shade on one of the windows rock back and forth.
I left for work early and the day passed in good time,
likely due to my hesitation returning home. I knew that Chris would be working
late again, and staying at the house alone at night with the chilling sensation
had zero appeal.
When work had been finished for the day, I had no choice but
to leave. I received encouragement from my mother and prayed until I felt
built-up with courage again. Pulling into the driveway, the shades on the spare
room windows were perfectly straight and the air seemed silent. For an hour I
rested in my little car, bundled up in coats, and then entered the house. Maybe
this time it will feel normal again, just as it has so many times before.
As soon as I stepped over the threshold, my heart sank. The
eerie sensation of coldness was still present. I turned every light on in our
living area but continued to feel uncomfortable until I found myself returning
to my car again after flicking back off the lights.
I will stay in the car until Chris comes home, I resolved. I
would rather sleep in the car tonight in the cold than go back into that house.
My mother-in-law Tracy heard of my resolve and quickly
invited me to her home on Red Road twenty minutes away. Pulling out of the
driveway, I looked up in surprise to see that light was gleaming through the windows
of our house.
Strange that such things are so real in a place called
America, I mused. Still fresh in my mind were the desires to serve God in a foreign
country, adjust to a new culture, and wrestle against darkness through carrying
the light of life with me. Now after making a journey to a new land and adjusting
to a new culture in my own country, forces of darkness were seeking to claim my
life, and heaven’s glorious army fought back to claim me.
Abigail, you have no control over your life. When you
realize your helplessness, realize your utter dependency on Me.
These words sealed themselves in my mind, silencing my many
questions and teaching my heart a lesson in strength through weakness. Yes, maybe
I could not understand the events of day. But for one reason or another, my
Father had given me a glimpse into the war over my soul and allowed me to feel
the threat of unseen foes that I might….learn to sing His song in the night?
After Christopher arrived to join me at the warm, welcoming
atmosphere of his parent’s home, the whisper seemed to be borne amidst the
clamoring of my heart.
I will teach you to sing My song in the night.
……………
I met Christopher at the house the following day. After a
thorough search through the building, he had found nothing amiss or out of
place from the usual. Joining him on the couch in the living room, I continued
to feel a sense of that threatening presence, although lessened in strength
than the day before.
Our bedroom continued to feel like a safe haven. I naturally
shrank from walking through any other area of the house without Christopher at
my side. He sensed my uneasiness and never hesitated to pray for and with me
that evening. I poured over the Bible promises. Little did I realize that a
thousand miles away my family prayed for me, and through the night my aunt
would be awakened multiple times by a bad dream concerning our safety, only to
pray.
A sense of warmness seemed to envelope the room, bringing
such rest to my heart that my sleep was sweet and peaceful. Without a doubt,
angels surrounded me that night.
……………..
Events were so orchestrated by the Lord that shortly after, Christopher and I moved to the house on Red Road. His parents closed on a property closer to their work, and soon the late home of Desmond became ours. When our landlord learned of my experiences, his wife Jamie knocked at the door of the past renter’s house with the urn in her hand. Twice the man refused to take them, then inquired about his dead father’s activities (not understanding that death is a sleep) with a laugh. Not much later, Jamie herself heard the sound of heavy boot footsteps across her threshold when no one else was in the house. But these and other facts become a blur in the face of what I feel was a victory the angels delighted to write down in my life’s record.
The night before we were to move, I turned off the kitchen
lights and scampered to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Standing before the mirror,
I chatted with my husband from the next room, and then fell silent.
I felt the dark presence approach me from behind, prickling
the back of my neck with its cold chill. By now I realized that this was a fear
tactic. Pausing a moment, I fought back the natural inclination to run away.
And into the darkness of the night around me, a song rose from my chest and
poured forth from lips that no longer trembled in fear.
Jesus.
You’re the sweetest name of all.
Jesus.
You always hear me when I call.
Oh Jesus, You pick me up each time I fall –
You’re the sweetest, the sweetest name of all.
With joy I lay my head to rest that night, amazed at the fulfillment of His promise to give me a song in the thick cloud of darkness. And by so doing, I felt that my life was sealed for the purpose to carry this song into the night, cherishing this light.
I am a firm believer in the God of my forefathers. Moving to
Alabama, I had not expected to be caught up in a battle between good and evil,
light and darkness. Much less, realizing that it was for my own soul.
I can
honestly say that the Lord has saved me from death and from the clutches of the
evil one. Although more than once I felt the presence of evil, it
could not so much as a lay a finger on this child of God. (“While we should be keenly alive to our exposure to the
assaults of unseen and invisible foes, we are to be sure that they cannot harm
us without gaining our consent.” AH 405)
The grace of the Almighty makes my heart soft. It deepens my
desire to focus entirely on the cross, and stirs up within my heart a yearning
to pull others from the chains of him who only harms. I thank my God for the
privilege of being a witness to His mercy. Oh let me embrace the pain and
questions I will face here on this earth – for my Father has all of the healing
and the answers. Though all of the powers of death and destruction combine to
crush out the light, His truth shall prevail – for His name speaks of sweetness
and power, His heart hears every cry, and His arm is not shortened that it
cannot save.
The promise stands true to all who believe - "in the night His song shall be with me."
