—Chapter Fifteen —
Friday morning the phone rang while I was getting ready for work. Karen and Bruce called to say that they were praying for me. “We hope you’ve planned something special because it is supposed to be an absolutely beautiful weekend,” they cheerfully said before going out of town.
Having been in their home many times, they knew my struggle with the weekends. I was thankful that God had placed me on their heart prompting them to lovingly reach out, so I politely thanked them for calling and wished them an enjoyable time at the shore.
Slowly I put the receiver down and started getting ready for work. I asked my reflection in the bathroom mirror, “What can I do? I don’t have any plans! I went to my dad’s last weekend, visited Sharon a couple of weeks ago. Lord, I don’t have a place to go and no one has called!”
It was hard to get ready when my make-up mixed with tears. Streaks like road maps ran down my face. That phone call, even though appreciated, had stirred up panic that I had tried so hard to suppress. Once again I found myself standing at the same old intersection between “lonely” street and “left out avenue.” And that gnawing sick feeling in the pit of my stomach started up again.
The mirror reflected more than my image. It revealed what was welling up inside. “All I have is God this weekend and that’s not enough!” Translated more precisely, I meant that if I wasn’t invited anywhere or I didn’t have somewhere to run, then it would be the pits to have to spend the weekend alone with God.
Stunned at what I had spewed from my thoughts, I wondered how God felt. Deliberately, I laid my brush down by the sink, walked into my bedroom and fell on my knees.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry! I was so wrong to think that way. If I were You, I’d be hurt by my words. Lord, I just want to tell You that it’s okay. Please help me to consider this weekend as Your special time You have planned for us. I will be thankful that You are here with me. Even though my stomach churns because of the unforeseeable emptiness between now and work on Monday, I will thank you for this weekend, no matter what!”
Rushing to the office, I settled down at my desk, hoping no one would ask whether or not I had any plans for the weekend.
Around two o’clock in the afternoon my friend LaRose, who worked across the street, stopped by. In her customary cheerful manner she asked, “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I answered, believing that if I added the word “much” she wouldn’t pick up on how desperately lonely I was feeling. She told me that some mutual friends were coming over for a cook-out and invited me to join them.
“I’d love to!” I exclaimed. “Thank you so much!”
I was so excited! The palpitations from my heart were loud enough to reach the angels in heaven who could rejoice with me! I was beyond words to describe the joy I was feeling as I drove home to change clothes. It wasn’t just the invitation, although that was huge, but I knew, I KNEW that God had done that for me.
“Oh, Lord! Thank You! Thank You! Thank You!” I sang joyfully on my way over.
It was a perfect evening. The temperature was near seventy as candles flickered in the gentle summer breeze. I enjoyed a delicious meal cooked on the grill under an umbrella of bright stars with dear friends. We laughed as we listened to the guests’ adventures of floating on a barge down the Seine River during a recent mission’s trip to France. I couldn’t remember the last time I had laughed so hard.
As I drove home that night, praises reverberated from the front seat of the car to the back. “I can’t believe You did this for me, Lord. I just can’t believe it. This is who You are! This is what You do! You are my Father who even cares about my weekend! Thank You so much!”
“[My] mouth was filled with
laughter, [my] tongue with songs of joy…The Lord has done great things for
[me]. The Lord has done great things for [me], and [I] am filled with joy”
(Psalm 126:2, 3 NIV).
Copyright 2001, 2004 Donna Christensen
All rights reserved.
Published Online by: The Biblical Reader
www.biblicalreader.com