Girl in the Song

by Chrissy Cymbala Toledo

  It was a surreal moment—here I was in the church I’d grown up in, a beloved pastor’s daughter, now unmarried and with a baby in tow. Mom sat next to me, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lorna being escorted in with Susie. She sat down on the other side of me, with Susie on her lap. Mom and Lorna joined in with the ocean of voices surging forth to God, the sound I had missed so much.

  There in the presence of God, I closed my eyes and started to open up my heart wide to Him. At that moment, the only words I could say were “thank You, thank You,” over and over. Suddenly a tide of love washed over me as God drew near. I felt like I was getting the same hug of perfect love that I had experienced at that little prayer meeting on Atlantic Avenue when I was a child. I just knew God saw me as that same little girl . . . that even more important than my parents forgiving me, He forgave me. For the first time in my life, I just had to praise and worship Him. I was crying, and although I wanted to worship out loud like everyone else, there weren’t really any words coming out . . . my heart was saying it all.

  God loved me so much that He forgave me and gave me another chance. I had turned my back on Him, but He didn’t turn away from me. I thought about what Jesus did when He gave up His life on a cross for me—something I hadn’t thought much about until now—and how He took those ugly sins I had committed on His own body and died for them. It was real now! I understood why He did it. Now I could come into His presence unashamedly because of the great price He paid for my sins.

  All eyes could have been on me at that moment, but it didn’t matter—my heart felt as though it would explode. I closed my eyes, drinking in the sound of voices surrounding me, feeling uninhibited for the first time since I was a little girl. I raised my right arm followed by my left, reaching up toward heaven. I was so overwhelmed by what God had done for me.

  The wave upon wave of voices settled into an interlude of sweet-sounding worship as Dad walked to the pulpit and took the microphone. He motioned to Mom, who was holding Susie now, to pass her up to him.

  Holding the baby next to his heart, Dad began, “Last Tuesday, if you were here, you’ll remember that I received a note and read it to the church. The note said, ‘Tonight is Chrissy’s night.’ At that time, I shared with you that we had somehow lost our daughter. She was far from God and was even away from our home. That night the sanctuary sounded like a labor room, as we all cried out to God for my daughter.

  “Today I am so blessed to tell you that Chrissy’s back! God answered our prayers! Not only is she back, but she brought a gift with her, and that gift is my granddaughter.”

  No sooner had he spoken that last word than a torrent of cheers erupted from the congregation. People jumped to their feet, shouting, whistling, and applauding.

  “Listen, everyone,” Dad continued, “today we are going to dedicate my granddaughter, Susie Joy, to the Lord. Chrissy, will you come up?” Standing at the altar surrounded by my family and friends, I bowed my head as Dad began to pray.

  “Lord, we thank You.” Then Dad’s voice rose and he shouted, “WE PRAISE YOU, LORD! We give You all the glory and all the honor because nothing is impossible for You.” I closed my eyes and it was as though heaven was singing over me right then.

  I was overwhelmed by the way the church celebrated my return, especially since I had abandoned all of them. They kissed me, hugged me, and poured out their love, treating me like a princess. I was their little girl again, as though there had been no gap in time, and it felt amazing. The euphoria of that celebration was like a lingering perfume that stayed with me. My parents were so happy, and that had always been something that meant the world to me. But despite the joy and celebration, melancholy started to set in.

  I woke up on Monday morning and felt sad for the first time since I had come home. I surely didn’t want to dampen the joyful atmosphere in the house because my parents were elated that Susie and I were with them, and I was too. We were a family again, and everything was back to normal. Yet now I had to live as a single mom, and the reality of ending my relationship with Jaye began to hit me.

  One night that week, while sitting at the dinner table, I had trouble hiding how low I was feeling. I tried my best to finish dinner, even though my stomach was churning. Dad reached over and put his hand on my arm. “Is everything okay, Chrissy?”

  I debated whether to open up and share with my parents how I felt about my sobering reality but then decided to keep my feelings private for the time being. I didn’t want to spoil anything so I gently pulled back. “I’m fine, Dad. Just a little tired.”

  My mom got up from the table and offered to give Susie a bath before bed so I could get some extra rest. But since she had been bathing her every night to help me out, I insisted on doing it myself.

  My sadness transitioned to tension as I walked into the bathroom with the baby and closed the door behind me. I didn’t like how I was feeling, and it was escalating with each second. Pulling Susie’s shirt gently over her head and steadying her while I turned on the faucet, a current of negative thoughts rushed through me.

  Suddenly I was assaulted by that accusatory voice in my mind that said, You’re worthless; you’ll never be good enough.

  I muffled a whimper with my hand, covering my mouth to keep the sound from escaping the room. My mind had been so clear and I had been in such a good place! But hearing those things, I felt drawn back to the same obsessive feelings again.

  I wish I knew where he was.

  “Lord, please help me,” I cried out, my plea camouflaged by the sound of the running water. “I need You to—” Before my desperate prayer even got out, I heard the cruel taunts getting nastier, telling me that I wasn’t going to make it and that I was nothing but a fake. I broke down again, keeping one hand on Susie as I roughly wiped the tears off my face and tried to get the baby’s bath over.

  Now going down the slippery slope in my mind that I knew I should resist, I began to think, Maybe he’s with someone else now. I just wish I could see him. My heart was crying out to God for help, but my mind just wanted to call him. “I’m not going to make it unless You help me, God, and I really feel like sneaking out and calling him.” I started to think of ways to get out of the house without my parents knowing.

  Everything in me wanted to run.

  MY FACE WAS BURIED IN THE PILLOW as I slowly woke up and became aware of my surroundings. Squinting at the bright sunlight streaming through the windows, I pressed my face back into the pillow, struck by one thought: I’m still here. As I started to get my bearings, I had a flashback of the night before in the bathroom, sitting on the floor, crying. This was the first time I had stood up to temptation on my own. But God had heard my cries and He helped me!

  As I lay in bed, I thought about how the church had prayed for me, and I knew that was the reason I was home. But last night, my prayers reached God. Although I hadn’t been honest with my parents the night before when Dad asked me how I was doing, I was grateful that God answered my desperate prayer anyway. Today was a new day—and I was okay.

  When I came downstairs, I found my parents in the kitchen. “Mom and Dad, can I talk with you?”

  Mom turned around and Dad looked up from what he was reading, slipping off his glasses.

  I sat on the edge of my chair and leaned on the table. “Last night, when you asked me if I was okay . . . the truth is, I wasn’t. I’m so sorry, Dad, to have been dishonest, and I don’t ever want to do that again. When I went upstairs, I felt I was being attacked in my mind, so strongly that I was tempted to run. I know that if I had just talked to you and Mom, you would have understood and would have prayed for me and talked me through it. God was merciful to me anyway, even though I don’t understand it. I cried out to Him, and somehow I went to bed and slept peacefully.”

  As I was sharing with my parents, I noticed that their expressions seemed to show relief that I was finally opening up to them. “I want to start talking to you because when I keep things in the dark, I only end up being
an open target.”

  Before they could even respond, I continued, “So I may as well talk to you about something else that’s been on my mind a lot. I’ve been thinking about Jaye, and I want to do things right before you and before God. But I just want to know, if God did a miracle for me—and I know I’m different now—why can’t He do a miracle for Jaye? Then we could be a family and Susie could have her daddy. I don’t want to sneak around anymore, but you need to know that I do think about him often.”

  My dad looked at me tenderly. “Chrissy, all your mother and I want is God’s plan for your life, and we know that God can do anything . . . not just in you, but in Jaye as well. The question is timing.”

  “If you really want our counsel, Chrissy,” Dad said, “we feel that you should wait a year before having any contact with Jaye. Mom and I are willing to arrange visits for Jaye to see Susie and will take care of the details. By the time you see him again, we will all know whether this is the right thing for you. If God is in this, we believe that time will tell, so let’s give Jaye an opportunity to show that he can take care of you and the baby.”

  When they left the room, I sat alone, reeling at my dad’s suggestion. No contact with Jaye for a year! The impact of those words was a blow to my heart as I began to imagine each day that stretched out between now and then. I just can’t do it! I silently cried. The longer I sat there, the more I felt like the walls were closing in on me. I wanted to do the right thing, but this . . . it was too much.

  In the few weeks that followed, as difficult as they were, I knew that I had a decision to make: I could either set myself under my parents’ authority and listen to their advice for the first time in many years or I could do things my way. I knew, however, that left to myself, I could potentially ruin everything. My dad’s counsel to refrain from contacting Jaye triggered my memories of the last few years. As I replayed them, the bad memories always outweighed the good, and I realized that more than anything, sadness had been my constant companion. As much as I wanted Jaye and me to be together again, I knew that I didn’t want us to “be” like we were. The more I thought about it, the more I knew my parents were right: I needed time to heal, to learn to trust God and myself again, before diving back into a relationship.

  Dad and Mom were clearly aware of the impact our conversation had on me, especially when Dad asked me to join him on a ministry trip that he was taking in a few weeks. I did end up going, and we had a great time together. But during the entire trip, I was there but I wasn’t there. My mind was consumed and distracted by the what-ifs and how-wills of my life.

  On the last night, Dad knocked on my hotel room door. “Honey, I have a present for you.” He handed me a paper bag. Inside was a beautiful black leather Bible with my name engraved in gold on the bottom right-hand corner. Breathing in the new-leather smell, I opened it up. On the dedication page my sweet father had written:

  Presented to:

  Chrissy

  By:

  Daddy

  Philippians 4:6

  Later that night, when I was in bed, I reached for the Bible and looked up the verse Dad had written on the first page. It read, “Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done.” Even though I didn’t feel better that instant, lying by myself in the quiet of the evening, I was strangely comforted by that verse.

  Over the next few weeks, I made it my sole focus to put all my energies into being the best mom I could possibly be. My world was starting to feel narrow, though, since it was now composed of simply going to church and being home with the family. A growing desire to be more responsible by finding a job prompted me to approach my parents.

  One morning at breakfast, I brought up the subject. “What do you think about me getting a job selling makeup or clothing, like at a department store, maybe in Manhattan? I know I’d be good at it, plus it would be commission based.”

  After sipping her coffee, Mom set down her mug, “Chris, we are totally fine with helping you out in this season. We want to take care of you and the baby right now. But if your heart is set on working, then we’d recommend you pursue something different. Maybe there’s an office job available that is closer to home. What do you think?”

  I took my mom’s advice to heart. Just a few days after I applied at a nearby temp agency, they placed me in an office five minutes from the house. Every afternoon, I came home for lunch and was able to see Mom and the baby.

  It wasn’t easy being a single mom, going to work each day and trying to get into the routine tasks of life. Living in New York City was even harder—knowing Jaye was not only a phone call away but I could quickly find him with a trip into the city.

  “Absolutely, sir, would you please hold? I will try that extension for you.” The phone lines lit up as soon as I got back from my lunch break. I was so intent on directing the calls to where they needed to go, I barely noticed the steady stream of people heading to and from lunch.

  Someone dropped an envelope in the in-box on my desk and motioned to get my attention. “Would you have FedEx pick this up before 3 p.m.?”

  I nodded and continued to connect the flow of calls. Sunlight filtered through the wall of windows about ten feet away from my desk and brightened the reception area, inviting people to engage in conversations and business away from their cubicles.

  I reached into my lower desk drawer to pull out the overnight delivery paperwork when a sound arrested me. Usually the music playing overhead blended into the general sounds that filled the reception area, but this time I could hear the familiar song clearly, one that I hadn’t heard in a while. Without warning I became paralyzed, and a knot started forming in the pit of my stomach. The sultry melody created a haze around me that began to cloud my mind—the song tempting me, wrapping its notes around me, and gradually luring me back.

  The voice in my head was so strong, as if someone were leaning over me, seductively whispering, “You know you want to be that girl he’s singing about. You will always strive to be that girl . . . won’t you? Why don’t you leave now? You don’t want to sit at this desk. You know exactly where to find him.”

  I started to plan what I would say to my parents, figuring out how I was going to get to Jaye’s job in Manhattan and where I would wait, even if it was just to get a glimpse of him.

  Wait a minute! No! What am I thinking?

  I covered my face with both hands. “I don’t want to think like that anymore,” I whispered aloud. “I’m gonna destroy everything. God, I need Your help again . . . These voices . . . I’m so tired of the voices! Lord, please help me right now.”

  The flashing phone lines on the board snapped me back to my responsibilities.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Harris is not available. Would you like to be connected with his assistant? Hold please.” Even while I was taking the calls, I was still trying to shake off the sense of attack I had just experienced. But as the last two hours of work went by, I experienced a wall of calmness surrounding me. This whole episode reminded me of something that I’d heard a preacher say when I was a kid: “When we walk with God, it’s not that we stop fighting—it’s just that we’ve now invited Him into the battle.” Once again, I knew that I was going to be okay and was actually excited to get home to my family because I would walk through the door with another battle won.

  On the drive home from work, I thought about my reaction to the song I had heard in the office. Over the last few years, I felt as though the music had vanished from my life. Music had always been inside me, but with all the running, the obsessing, and the stress, it had become more irritating than soothing. I had stopped playing records and tapes or listening to the radio because I connected it to so many unpleasant feelings inside. Am I the only one who is affected by music this way or is it true for other girls too? My heart had been so moved by the messages and promises of those songs, but in the end I was always let down. I tried so hard to live out what the lyrics told me I needed to
be, yet the words left me feeling hopeless and empty. I began to think about the songs that rattled me inside because I wanted to be “that girl” for Jaye. My playlist needed to change once and for all to keep me from going back down that road again.

  As soon as I got into the house, I knew what I had to do. There weren’t any empty boxes around the house, so I grabbed some garbage bags. I scanned my closet, my suitcases, even my old bedroom in the basement, feeling a sense of urgency. I didn’t want to do it, but I knew it had to be done once and for all.

  Once I started stuffing the first garbage bag, my actions became almost mechanical—efficient and quick.

  One by one, I crammed in my albums, to throw them all away. I tried not to look at the covers because I knew once I did, I would drown in a flood of memories. Emotionless, I labored through the daunting process until I got two-thirds of the way through the pile. Sting’s album was on top of the almost-full bag. Tempted to pick it up and look through the song list to pull up every feeling, every experience with Jaye that was somehow tied to each song, I nearly gave in. But I tied the bag shut and resolved not to do it.

  I started filling another bag. Placing the last album into the second trash bag, I stretched the black plastic edges and formed a tight knot. I slowly dragged the heavy bags up from the basement and out the back door to the trash cans, careful not to snag either of them. Trudging through the snow, I grunted as I lifted the first, then the second one into the metal can, and firmly closed the lid.

  I started reading my Bible regularly, hoping to hear what God had to say about me as opposed to the voices that tried to torment me. I knew I needed a lifeline to get through this journey out of my mess. God did speak to me through His Word—He made promises to me that jumped off of the page, words that I clung to. I felt like I was getting closer and closer to Him with each day. Surprisingly, the closer I was to God, though, the more I felt the sting of my past and saw the debris of my life. It was as though He was shining light on everything.