Chapter Eleven
Crushed
On my drive home, all kinds of thoughts and emotions came bursting out. At one moment I was so filled with love and adoration for this man, that I turned everything he said into something positive. How awesome, I convinced myself, that he wants to take things easy and wait on the Lord. That’s wise, I thought, and wisdom is very attractive.
In the next moment, I was devastated, defeated. My expectations were deflated, and my hopes were rejected. What now? How can I save this?
But more than anything, I was filled with rage against my mom.
I drove to the parking lot of my favorite getaway spot, Peyton Park. It was the park where my dad would take Anna and me when we were little, where I learned how to ride a bike and a skateboard and jump off a swing. In elementary school, my friend Kelsey and I would climb through the bushes and look for little toads and other creatures to capture and take home with us. In middle school, my friends and I would ride down the grassy hills on ice blocks, and skim down the slides on wax paper. In high school, the park was best for nighttime adventures, like running around in my underwear with my friends. Then it became the romantic site of late-night kisses with boyfriends.
But on this momentous Sabbath day, as an official graduate, officially rejected by my true love, the park was my sanctuary. I pulled up in my parents’ old station wagon and rested my head on the leather steering wheel. I prayed and cried thick, helpless tears. I thought about all that had happened in Mexico, The Grove, Santa Barbara, and all God had taught me through this experience. It couldn’t be for nothing!
“God!” I pleaded, “What do you have for me? What is all this for?” I struggled and argued aloud with my own spirit and with God, tears dripping from my chin onto my lap.
My only answer was the word that God had given me in Mexico: no.
It didn’t make sense. That word could mean so many different things.
I was crushed and sick inside. I had never felt this kind of illness before—a spiritual sickness. My spirit was being wrung out, and I could hardly take it. This was gut-wrenching pain, a constant, insatiable desire for something I could not have. Something that I held so tenderly in my hands was slipping away. The more I reached for it, the faster it slipped through my fingers.
Would God let this happen to me? Would he lead me to a dead end? I had to keep believing that Paul was a part of God’s perfect plan for my life and my future. I held on to every sentence he said to me that encouraged me to think we were destined for each other. I held on to each touch. I held on for dear life.
I called Bianca and told her everything that happened, every word of the conversation at church.
“I’m so sorry, Miriam,” she sympathized. “Come over; let’s have a girl’s night.”
We went to the grocery store and bought chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream, chocolate syrup, and brownies. At the checkout counter, the hot bagger said, “You girls got enough chocolate?”
“Nope,” we giggled and whispered to ourselves on our way out the door. “Come on over, please!”
At Bianca’s house, she and I watched our favorite chick flick and cried together. We laughed and laughed, deliriously, about buying all that chocolate, and how the hot guy at the grocery store probably thought we were insane. Then we painted each other’s toenails, and prayed for each other before we fell asleep. Whenever I was with Bianca, I felt like everything would be OK.
That Wednesday our youth group went to Six Flags for our midweek outing. When we got to the theme park, I clung to Bianca, avoiding eye contact with Paul as much as possible. Then Bianca and I separated from the rest of the group and headed for the biggest roller coasters first. After riding Viper a few times, I finally started to relax.
Later on in the evening, while in line for Batman, we ran into Paul, Jeff, and Bob, who were in line ahead of us. We had to keep passing them every five minutes as the crowded lines wound slowly back and forth. Every time we passed, we did the usual high-fives, pretending to see each other for the first time again and again: “Hey, we know you!” When that got old, we just passed nonchalantly, distracted by our own conversations. During one opportune passing, when no one was looking, Paul placed his hand heavily on my hand and left it there for a moment, then gently dragged his fingers away as he followed the person ahead of him.
The line was moving slowly, and I had to wait until he was just far enough away before I could say anything to Bianca. I had to time it just right, before we wound back around to face them. “Paul just put his hand on mine! What’s he trying to do, torture me?”
“Just don’t think about it, Miriam,” she whispered back. “Just ignore him.”
Oh, I didn’t want to ignore him. I wanted to jump over the ropes, leap into his arms, and fly to Vegas. I knew it was stupid, and I pushed the thoughts away.
The next time he passed, I waited for him to do it again. But, of course, he didn’t. And we didn’t talk to each other for the rest of the night.
Goodnight to My Thoughts of You Page 12
