My knees weakened and felt like they might give out if I didn’t sit down immediately. I stumbled towards the couch and lowered myself onto the cushions. I leaned forward so my head was in my hands.
Lord, I don’t know how to deal with any of this. I understand that Gene was a random stalker that has an issue with women and has done stuff like that before. What I don’t understand is who that man was who attacked me in the parking lot. There was no rhyme or reason for what he did. And what about Daniel?
I began to weep softly as my late husband’s face came to mind. My partner. My best friend. The man I would never get over.
How could you allow that mugging to happen to us, Lord?
Tears slid down my cheeks as the pain of losing someone so dear settled in my chest and throat, clenching and tightening as if a cord had been wrapped around my neck.
This wasn’t the first time I’d prayed and asked God for answers. Over the years, I’d often come to the Lord pleading for justice. The man who murdered Daniel had gotten away, and it killed me to know he was out there somewhere, living his life as if he would never have to pay for what he did.
I wasn’t the vengeful type, but it had taken quite a while for me to get to the place where I was able to forgive. I knew that was what God asked of all His children, and I put my trust in Romans 12:19. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.”
Whether that would happen in this life or the next, I didn’t know, but I had learned that I had to put all the unknowns into God’s hands and believe He was wise enough to handle them for me.
Anxiety pulsed in my stomach and a feeling of impending doom hovered over me like a black cloud, threatening to overtake me. My heart rate sped up so fast I feared I might be on the brink of a panic attack. I didn’t often have them, but occasionally I succumbed to my body’s way of having a meltdown.
I did a breathing exercise a therapist had taught me, and then I lifted my Bible from the lampstand next to the couch and flipped to the place I bookmarked for situations like these. Over the years, I’d used scripture to tame my frantic thoughts and bring them into subjection before the Lord. Yes, I’d attended therapy and learned tools to help, but they all worked in the short-term, and nothing compared to coming before the Great Physician. He was my Creator and knew and understood me better than anyone else. The Word was what I needed for the long-term.
There was one Psalm in particular that I’d turned to after that incident four years ago, and a day hadn’t gone by since then that I didn’t read it to find comfort. I held my Bible in my lap and read Psalm 91:1-6 slowly so the words would overpower my fears.
He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say to the LORD, “My refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.”
For he will deliver you from the snare of the fowler
and from the deadly pestilence.
He will cover you with his pinions,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness is a shield and buckler.
You will not fear the terror of the night,
nor the arrow that flies by day,
nor the pestilence that stalks in darkness,
nor the destruction that wastes at noonday.
When I came to the end, I let out a breath and closed my eyes, appreciating the protection I found in those words. God was my refuge and fortress, and the picture in that Psalm of hiding underneath His wings brought an image of peace and safety and great comfort. I kept my eyes closed and rested in Him until I felt my heart rate coming back to normal.
And then something completely off-topic came to mind. Daniel’s clothing. It was time to give it away…if I could stomach the task.
When I’d moved after his death, I’d gotten rid of his tools and garden supplies, but I hadn’t had the heart to get rid of his clothes. They still smelled of him and reminded me of happier days. Now was the moment to donate them to a charity. Now. I sensed it was the right thing, and if I didn’t do something soon, I might never do it at all.
Even so, I recoiled at the thought of packing up his belongings. It felt too final, and I couldn’t imagine not having the opportunity to look through his things one last time. I stood and walked to the guest room with a purpose, and, yet, I held myself back. I wanted to move forward with my life—to live in the present rather than the past, but why was it so hard to do that?
Once I was in the room, I slid open the closet door and ran my fingers through the shirts and pants hanging there, reminders of a different life. In the first few months after he passed away, and even a year after that, my heart had throbbed with intense
