Night // Chapter 10
Our days were full of sweet provision from the Lord. In time, we started to settle into our new normal and even became a little girl gang. We started to delight in the small things. A walk around the neighborhood. Discovering a new playground. Checking out a stack of books from the library. Little Caesars’ $5 pizza on a Friday night. Tuesday dinners at a friend’s house.
I began to homeschool—not for any other reason apart from our need to be together. Life had shattered, and more than ever, we just needed to be in the same room. We were together almost constantly during the day. Just me and my precious daughters. We were like wee birds in a nest, all tucked up and cozy together.
Visits began with their Dad. We usually met in the McDonald’s parking lot just off the highway exit, exactly between our two homes. The ache I felt driving home each time was torture. I cried every single time. It was agony to be apart. So many “what-ifs” tortured my brain. I remember praying, “Lord, babies are supposed to be with their mamas. This feels horribly wrong.
But we would get through the long days apart, debriefing on the 90-minute drive home while eating $0.99 cheeseburgers. It became more normal. Never, ever void of ache and tears—but normal all the same.
Transitions back into the nest were always a little rocky, but we managed and learned that we all needed a bit of quiet time when we got back home.
Things were beginning to feel pretty normal each day.
Until it started to get dark.
Something happened inside all three of us as the sun began to set each day. It’s like a physical darkness would creep up the edges of our little house, eclipsing all peace, all light, all hope. Agitation would take over. Nerves would be on edge. Anxiety would settle over us.
Our days had become sweet. But our nights? Our nights were wracked with fear.
It happened like clockwork. As darkness settled over the horizon, fear blanketed us. Every single night, it lurked in every shadow, every creak of the floor, behind every closed door. Our home, which felt like a cozy little nest, suddenly felt like a haunted house as soon as the sun slipped behind the hills.
Bedtime rituals took ages. My bedroom downstairs suddenly felt miles away from my daughters. We would cuddle, read the Bible, pray, start to say goodnight and just freeze. I would put on my brave face and work to comfort them. Sometimes it took ages to get them to settle. But the truth they didn’t know is that all I wanted to do after I closed their doors was lie down outside their doors and spend the night as near as I could be. I hated the walk downstairs to my empty bedroom.
Those were the moments I felt the most alone. The house was dark and creaky in the wind. And my room was empty. I no longer shared my bed. All that waited for me was…nothing. My room felt like a tomb, and I hated being in it. Somehow, I was now the PROTECTOR—the one who would fight off the monsters and bad guys if they showed up.
And one night, they did.
We were all in my daughter’s room one night, mid-bedtime ritual. I was trying to settle them, speaking words of peace and comfort.
And then we heard it. The thunder of trucks barreling down our quiet suburban street. It sounded like a freight train. And all of a sudden, four trucks plowed into our driveway. Their headlights filled the bedroom with light. My daughters froze—panic twisting on their faces.
What’s happening, Mom? Who is at our house? Why are they here?
BANG! BANG! BANG!
One of them was at the door.
He started to pound—harder and harder and harder. My girls started to cry. I was shaking so hard. All color drained from my face, and my mouth went dry.
Lay down on the floor and hold onto one another I whispered to them.
I crept to the window and peeked through the blinds to see four giant men staring up into the lit bedroom. And they saw me.
All four saw me.
My mind was racing—they knew I was there—they had seen me. I couldn’t hide.
Stay in this room, no matter what. Stay right here. Be so quiet. I will be right back. I’m going to call the police and shout at them to leave us alone.
I crept down the stairs. I thought I was going to collapse or tumble down the stairs. I was terrified. But they kept pounding, and I was afraid they would break down the door. I pulled out my phone and had the number for the police up and ready to call. I unlocked the door and cracked it just enough for them to hear me.
I am on the phone with the police. Why are you here? I asked.
WHERE IS JOHNNY they shouted. WE KNOW HE LIVES HERE, SEND HIM OUT NOW!
There’s no one by that name here, we just moved in,you must have the wrong house I replied.
I made eye contact with the leader, and suddenly he clocked and absorbed my terrible fear. All of a sudden, his face transformed into a gentle, repentant man. He was so sorry. They were looking for someone who used to live at that address. They felt terrible. In a moment, they transformed from fierce bounty hunters to apologetic gentlemen. They aplogized over and over. They got back in their trucks and drove away.
I slammed the door closed and locked both locks. I shouted up to my girls that all was ok, that they were gone. And then I slumped to the ground and sobbed.
I would have stayed in that posture all night, but instead I wiped my tears and climbed the stairs to find my terrified babies still huddled together on the ground.
I walked them down to my bedroom, and we all bundled into my big bed, and we spent the night huddled together in my locked bedroom. They finally fell asleep. Me? I lay there all night long, tears down my face, forcing myself to breathe. It was torture.
God, where are you right now?? Why did that happen? Why didn’t you stop it? Will we ever recover from such a fright?
My fear melted into rage. I was so mad.
At the scary men.
At my husband for not being there.
At my new life and my role as protector.
At God.
All of my fear, my anger—shot like arrows into the night.
The thought that tortured me most was WE ARE NOT GOING TO MAKE IT.
And yet, the sun rose, filling my bedroom fortress with soft light.
We did make it. We survived the scariest night of our lives. My girls dozed on, and I stared at their angel faces and cried again. The Lord stood watch over us. Both he and I stood watch over the night, together. And yet, only One of us did so without a worry in the world.
While I fretted and wrestled and shot anger arrows into the dark, He held onto us, quieted us with his love, and sang songs over us in the night (Zephaniah 3:17). Even when I couldn’t see it happening. Even in my rage and panic, He held it all together.
The sleepovers became a normal thing after that night. We spent more nights together than apart. If case studies had been written about attachment and trauma, we probably would be labeled: DEFUNCT. But we did what we needed to do to feel safe. And together felt safe. Together brought sleep, and restfulness, and peace.
Every night felt like a battle against the darkness and all the forces of evil. Against despair, and emptiness, and panic. Against hopelessness, really.
Some nights it felt like fear would swallow us whole. But it never did. Every morning we woke again to new mercies. The Lord did not leave us or forsake us. He stood watch through the hours of the night.
Sweet, sweet days and horrific nights. That became the pattern. But we made it. Day by day, night by night, we made it. Every night became a mark in the sand, etching another reminder of God’s faithfulness.
The anger towards God began to release a bit.
But the anger towards my husband for putting us in this wretched place?
Well, that began to
simmer,
and stew,
and bubble
and froth.
Poison—just below the surface…
TO BE CONTINUED…
Missed the first nine chapters? Head back to the beginning to read Chapter 1: SHATTERED
**Maybe you are also in a place where you feel completely fearful and hopeless? While the writing of my story is going chapter by chapter, I would like to fast forward you today to the most glorious ending. Hopelessness doesn’t have the final say when Jesus steps into the story…