The Year She Stopped To Pray

Pastor Ben spoke a Word from the Lord out loud. He said, “You have been avoiding a path, and He is beckoning you today to go down the path. You are going down a path that no one can go with you. Do not be afraid. My angels will be all around you. They’ll be in the bushes and in the tree tops.”
A picture instantly came to mind. A saw a little girl standing at the entrance of a giant forest on a beautiful fall day. A winding pathway made of concrete divided the trees. It looked picture perfect the way the trees canopied over the passageway, but the woods appeared to grow darker the farther away from the entrance she went. I looked a little closer, and I realized that the little girl was me. A massive reluctance instantly surfaced inside. Suddenly, I appeared small and vulnerable compared to the oversized forest in front of me. Something in me feared being in these woods alone. I sensed that I had been there too many times before, and I quickly contemplated whether to run. I thought about running through the forest in front of me as fast as I could, and I thought about running away from the path in the opposite direction through the tall grass.
Before this Word from the Lord was given, I experienced a hesitation in my heart, and I had a growing suspicion that something was about to change my life. My nauseous stomach was a constant reminder that kept me on guard. I paid attention to everything going on around me to see if I could discern what was ahead.
I spent some quiet time dwelling on my earliest childhood memories. I hoped to trigger what the Lord might be up to.
Three specific events hug my memory, and these experiences dismantled my childhood. The first incident took place during late fall when I was around seven years old. My mom was recovering from surgery, and I was outside playing. I decided to go to our neighbor’s house to see if Teah could come out to play. Her house was close to ours, and I knew that I could hear my mom or dad if they yelled for me to come home. I knew from seeing Teah around the neighborhood that she looked old enough to be a babysitter. I hoped that she was home, and I hoped that she just might want to play.
I climbed the tall stairs leading to Teah’s front door, and I rang the door bell. Teah’s father, Mr. Black, answered the door, and I asked him if Teah could come outside and play. He told me that she could, and he invited me inside to wait for her. I stepped through the front door never giving any thought to the rules my parents taught me about strangers. I found myself standing in a living room that stretched across the entire front of the house. The kitchen was ahead of me on the right side. A hallway leading toward the back of the house was on the left side of the kitchen.
I heard Mr. Black shut the door behind me, and he locked both locks. I wondered why. I thought a locked door meant that you needed privacy. I kept waiting for Mr. Black to call for Teah, but he never did. His house was dark and silent, and it appeared as if he was home alone. Something didn’t feel just right, and I felt confused as he stood there glaring at me. I glanced around his house nervously, and I noticed that his house was spotlessly clean. There was only one thing out of order. I caught a glimpse of the longest largest butcher knife that I’d ever seen. It was neatly displayed on the kitchen counter by itself, and it sent a shiver right through me. I questioned silently, “Wonder what he cuts with that? That thing is huge! Momma never leaves a dangerous knife like that lying around, but I don’t think she has a knife that big.” I couldn’t seem to take my eyes away from that knife, and Mr. Black couldn’t seem to take his eyes off me. One minute he was pacing, and the next minute he straightened up things in his house that were already straightened. He sat down, and then jumped up and paced some more. I didn’t know what to do. Something felt wrong. I became anxious, and I started to feel sick inside.
I finally broke the silence when I blurted, “I need to go home!” He was eager to convince me to stay. He scared me when he jumped up from the couch. He came around the coffee table toward me suggesting that we play a game. I went around the other side of the coffee table to move away from him, and I sat on the couch. He was now between me and the front door, and I felt trapped. I bowed my head, and my voice quieted as I told him that I didn’t want to play games. I barely squeaked, “I want to go home.” He ignored my reply, and he told me that his game was fun to play. He motioned for me to come to him…
Fear took over, and I lost the ability to hear anything else that he said. I focused on the door and how to leave his house. I remembered that he locked the door, and I wondered how I could get it open. I tried to stay calm, but my body started to shake. Mr. Black relentlessly tried to coerce me to play different games. He turned a deaf ear as I fearfully and shakily repeated, “No thank-you. I really need to go home.” He finally realized that I wasn’t going to change my mind, and he told me to sit still for one more minute. He hurried down the hallway toward the back of the house to get something. I decided to escape when he was out of sight, and my heart pounded wildly. I tiptoed quietly toward the front door, and I fumbled with the locks. I looked back several times to see if Mr. Black was coming. I was so afraid that he’d catch me, and I was scared of him. I was relieved when the door finally unlocked and opened. It felt like I took the door off the hinges as I lunged outside. I ran as fast as I could down the front stairs, and I purposed never to go back to that house again!
The dismantling of my childhood persisted after the incident with Mr. Black, and the downward spiral of my family continued. A couple of months later, in the middle of a January night, my mom woke me and my sister. She warned us that the police were going to be knocking on the front door at any minute, and she asked us to go let them in when they arrived. She told us not to touch anything as we went down the stairs-not even the handrail. We did what she asked.
When the police knocked on the door, we let them in. Everyone was rushing around. I was told to sit on the couch, be still, and be quiet. I was clueless as to what had happened. I only heard bits and pieces of their conversations as they hollered back and forth. Everyone was serious as they worked to gather clues and relay information on their radios. I heard them mention Dad, and I wondered where he was. A policeman dusted the banister that came down the stairs looking for fingerprints. Questions were asked about the description of a vehicle. A portrayal of the men was given. Again, I wondered where my dad went. Nothing sounded good. I heard the policemen say, “The phone lines were ripped out. Her husband was taken at gunpoint. He’s been kidnapped.” A dreadful fear and shock stepped in to claim their hold on me as I heard their words. When I realized they were talking about my daddy, my security was instantly and completely torn away, and my insides took up their new and future career of trembling.
My childhood seemed to just slip away, and my normal daily activities became difficult to accomplish. I couldn’t muster enough courage to attend school. I felt overwhelmed with insecurity and frozen by fear. It felt like one big catastrophe took place, and I lost my way. My strong hero was kidnapped and hurt, and my chances of feeling safe in such a big world seemed positively impossible.