Lost and Found

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  Each time the infection returns, it's worse—though never anything like this. I dread what's to come—more doctor's appointments, blood work, antibiotics, surgery, hospitalization. I wear each possibility like a lead jacket as I make my way back to bed.

  How much more, Lord?

  At dinnertime, Hannah brings me a mug of hot chicken broth and another glass of juice. I sit on the sofa in the alcove and sip both. By evening, I feel strong enough to sit at my desk for a while and check my e-mail and respond to blog comments.

  Readers can either make direct comments on the blog for all to see, or e-mail me at lightseeker@iluminar.me. I also have a private e-mail address. I'm surprised when I open my private e-mail folder to find a note from Brigitte. I glance at the time on my computer and realize she's just sent it.

  Ma chérie,

  Hannah tells me you're ill. I've given her Dr. Bernard's number. She will call in the morning and schedule an appointment. I will wrap up business here tomorrow and return to the city on Wednesday morning.

  Take care,

  B.

  Another day alone. I am grateful for the time, but wonder at her note. It seems her tone has softened. Is she really staying away due to business? There is no trusting her.

  I move on to my other e-mail folder and see several new e-mails from readers. As I begin reading through their comments and questions, my computer dings, telling me a new e-mail has come in. I glance at the list and see it's from Andee.

  Oh Lord, lead me . . .

  Jason called a few days ago and told me that Andee had ended their relationship. I open the e-mail.

  Lightseeker,

  I have a couple of questions about your last post. But I'm uncomfortable not knowing who I'm dealing with. Want to share your identity? I'm a public figure and need to know I can trust you not to reveal our e-mail exchanges.

  A. Bell

  Oh Lord, now what? I sit in silence for several minutes hoping I'll hear from God, or experience a sense of direction, or something. Anything. But nothing comes. So I decide to just be honest with her.

  Dear Andee,

  I am aware of your public status and understand your concern. I assure you that any exchange we have will remain confidential. However, I cannot reveal my identity at this time. I'm sorry. I ask for your understanding. Because of the personal nature of my posts, I need to protect myself from those who would disapprove. I'd like to continue our exchange and ask that you trust me—and if not me, maybe you can trust that God has brought us together.

  I reread the e-mail before sending it and feel a pit form in my stomach. Will my insistence on remaining anonymous drive her away? No more than my identity would drive her away. Because of her relationship with Jason, I'm certain I'm one of the last people she'd open up to. So for her sake, I tell myself, I need to remain anonymous.

  But then there's also her relationship with Brigitte. And in that instance, my anonymity is all about my own protection.

  No, I don't have a choice.

  I press send.

  It's in Your hands, Lord.

  I continue going through my e-mail and come across a note from Matthew.

  Hey Jenna,

  Your secret life is safe with me. Enjoyed the time together Saturday. Look forward to seeing you soon.

  Matthew

  I smile and recall the sense of freedom, the soaring joy, that accompanied Matthew's admission that he knew who I was—really knew. Somehow, he assimilated the parts of me and came up with the whole. And he accepted the whole.

  Could that happen with others?

  I allow myself to consider the thought—to dream of freedom. But then I think of Brigitte. No, I've shared too much in my blog.

  I can never reveal my identity.

  She can never know.

  For the first time, a question occurs to me: Is it Brigitte who keeps me bound? Or is it myself? The familiar swirl of confusion accompanies the question.

  I get up from my desk and go to the window. The city lights cast a pink glow in the night sky. Lord, lead me . . .

  And again, I'm met with silence.

  So you can see how tragically you will be imprisoned if you cling to the old self.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Andee

  "TRUST HER? YEAH, right." I get up from my desk and walk circles around my office. "Why should I trust her?"

  Sam mews.

  "You're a big help."

  Trust her, or trust that God brought us together? I don't think a few e-mails constitutes a divine intervention. Good grief.

  I walk back to my desk and read her e-mail again. She needs to protect herself? Listen lady, I can tell you something about protecting yourself—it doesn't work. Then it hits me. If it doesn't work, then why am I protecting myself with her?

  "That's different." I walk away from the desk again. "Right? Right? I'd love an answer here."

  But I'm met with maddening silence.

  So what am I expecting? The voice of God to agree with me?

  I make another loop around my office and find myself wanting to sit down and e-mail her back. To begin a relationship that's . . . real. Honest. I laugh. Like I'd even know where to begin.

  But it isn't just her I want to trust.

  It isn't religion—it's a relationship.

  I want to trust God.

  I want . . . I need . . . the perfect love she writes of.

  Is it possible?

  I go back to my desk, sit down, and read her e-mail again. So, maybe I trust her? What's the worst that could happen?

  "She could sell your e-mails to the tabloids. That's what. Think it through, Andee. Don't be an idiot." I can see the headlines now: Financial Guru Seeks Market Advice from Jesus. And then, of course, I'd be abducted by aliens. As I laugh, bitterness bites at me.

  What am I doing?

  I close the e-mail, click back to my desktop, and instead open my personal financial portfolio. I look at the balances in my accounts. Stocks, 401Ks, money markets, on and on it goes. I have more money than I could spend in ten lifetimes.

  I have everything I've strived for. Why would I need anything else? Or anyone else?

  I stare at the figures on the screen. My fingers shake as they claw at the mouse, clicking to reach the bottom line.

  The figure is staggering.

  Yet, I feel the familiar tremor. The tremor I've refused to acknowledge. The tremor I've demanded bow to my control. I feel the tremor of . . .

  Fear.

  You'll never have enough, Andee. You'll lose it all. You'll have nothing. You'll be nothing.

  You are nothing.

  What's driven me? Ambition? No.

  I'm driven by . . . fear.

  Fear owns me.

  I lean my elbows on my desk and put my head in my hands as the realization dawns: I am no different than Brigitte. The same disgust I felt for Brigitte at Gerard's memorial service, now rises like bile in my throat.

  Fear has dictated my every choice. And tonight, fear has me flat on my back.

  I've achieved all I set out to. There's nothing left to strive for.

  Nothing to live for.

  Nothing.

  And no one.

  Head still in my hands, hot tears run down my face and pool on my desk. I move my hands from my forehead to my scalp and grab fistfuls of my hair and pull until I can stand the pain no longer. But physical pain is a weak manifestation of the pain writhing within.

  I jerk my head up and get to my feet. I walk away from the desk, walk away from the office, and want to walk away from . . . myself.

  I go to the bedroom and without turning on any lights, I make my way to the nightstand next to my bed. I feel for the hand
le on the drawer and pull it open. I reach inside and feel around until my hand lands on cold, hard, metal. I wrap my fingers around the grip and pull it from the drawer.

  I stagger back to the living room, heart pounding, blood rushing.

  I look at the gun in my hand, feel the weight of it, and then lift it to my face—the metal is cool against my hot cheek.

  I set the gun on the glass coffee table and walk to the windows. I stare out at the city I've clamored to own. I've demanded the respect of those I've deemed important. Yet—I take a deep, shaking breath—I have no respect for myself.

  I loathe who I've become.

  A scream rises in my throat and my skin crawls. I reach for the thick robe I wear and rip it off my shoulders. I wrap my arms around myself and dig my nails into the flesh of my arms. I dig until the crawling stops. I dig until I feel the sweet release of pain. Until I feel the warm trickle of blood.

  But it isn't enough.

  Hatred rages.

  I turn back, take the few steps to the coffee table, and reach for the gun.

  And I lift it to my head.

  I present you before the Lord with all my heart.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Jenna

  I SPEND THE evening shifting between the sofa in the alcove, my bed, and my desk. I can't settle anywhere, and just when I think I might, I'm drawn back to my computer, hoping for a response from Andee.

  But I hear nothing more from her.

  As the final curtain is drawn on the nighttime hours, I stand in front of the window in the alcove, looking out on a city that never sleeps. A people riddled by restlessness. Tonight, I share their angst. Sirens, the sonorous backdrop of the city, wail in the distance.

  The darkness wrapped around my soul portends evil.

  I shudder, cross my arms across my chest, and turn away from the window.

  Lord, I know You're here, though I don't sense You. I know You've defeated evil for all time.

  I stand for a long time. Silent. But with my soul open to God, trusting that His Spirit prays what I cannot. What I know not.

  I usher in the midnight hour, wide awake after having slept most of the day. I check my e-mail one more time, then shut down my laptop. I reach for the Bible sitting on my desk and lay on the sofa with it open on my lap. I thumb through the thin pages and read stories as familiar as my own history—Adam and Eve, Noah, Abraham. I scan the pages, looking for hope. I try to immerse myself in the story of Moses and the rebellious Israelites, but everything I read feels stale, lifeless.

  Finally sleepy, I flip through the last pages of Deuteronomy, my eyes scanning passages, but taking little in. Then I land on a passage that stirs something. It is the first stirring I've sensed for many days. I sit up and read aloud God's words to the Israelites:

  "This day I call the heavens and the earth as witnesses against you that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live."

  But what does it mean?

  Lord, what do You want me to see?

  I receive no response.

  Frustrated, I close the Bible, set it aside, and get up. The sense I felt was nothing more than my own wishful thinking. I go back to the window and stare into the inky night. But as I stand there, a knowing settles over me.

  I am to pray the words.

  A shiver of fear crawls up my spine. Why, Lord?

  He reveals nothing.

  I am to pray.

  Pray without ceasing.

  I bow my head and repeat the words. Choose life. Choose life. Choose life. The words become a chant. A mantra. I repeat them as I walk away from the window. I whisper them as I slip into my pajamas. They course through my mind like a raging river as I brush my teeth. They nag at me as I climb into bed. And in the wee hours of the morning, they lull me into a fitful sleep.

  Choose life.

  Choose life.

  Choose life.

  The loss of all the things of the earthly life will be deep and long.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Andee

  CONSCIOUSNESS COMES ONE aching, throbbing, moment at a time. Before I open my eyes, I know something is wrong, but can't recall what. I shiver and reach to pull the blanket close, but find none. I roll from my back to my side and realize I'm lying on something hard and unforgiving. The floor? I open my eyes, startled by the hues of pink, orange, and gray splashed across the expanse of sky visible through the windows in front of me.

  I lift my head, but it pounds me back down. I cover my eyes with my hands as memories of the night before flood my mind. When I dare to open my eyes again, I see Sam curled near me, his body wrapped around the gun on the floor next to me, as though protecting me from . . . myself.

  "Oh, God!"

  The exclamation isn't an expletive, but rather a recognition.

  I force myself to sit up and take stock. I feel like I've been through a battle. My sinuses are swollen, my mouth and throat are dry, my head and teeth ache, and worst of all, every single muscle in my body is screaming. "Oh . . . please tell me I don't have to call the massage chick again."

  The plea, I realize, is my first honest prayer.

  Stiff, I struggle to get up. I roll over onto my hands and knees. But before I push myself up, I reach for Sam and run my hand through the fur on his back. He stretches, stands, and arches his back. His blue eyes accuse.

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  I push myself up, then bend and take the gun off the floor. I take a slow walk to my bedroom, where I replace the revolver in my nightstand drawer. I look at the bedside clock and make a decision. I reach for the phone on the nightstand and dial Cassidy's number.

  She answers after the first ring. "Morning, Andee."

  "Hey, Cass. Take the day off."

  "What?"

  "We're taking the day off. Don't come in. Do something . . . fun. Oh, but first, call and reschedule my appointments for the day."

  She's quiet. "Are you okay? Are you sick? You know it's Tuesday, right?"

  "I'm . . . fine. I know it's Tuesday. And we're both taking a paid day off."

  "Is this Andee Bell?"

  "Very funny, Cass. Have a nice day. I'll see you tomorrow."

  I hang up and go into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and then take off my robe and hang it back in the closet. When I come out of the closet, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I see long, red scabs on my arms. The marks left by my own nails.

  I lower my head and look at the floor—the realization of what I almost did sobers me. I lift my arm and place my hand over my chest and feel the beating of my heart. I'm still here, but the ache, the desperation, also remains.

  It's time to make a few changes.

  I step into the shower followed by the realization that change won't come without a fight. A fight with myself.

  "I'll need help . . ."

  I whisper not to myself.

  But to God.

  Let all your old ideas go as God directs.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Matthew

  ON TUESDAY AFTERNOON, between counseling clients, I listen to my messages. One is from Jenna asking if we can meet at the outdoor labyrinth at Grace Cathedral tomorrow morning, rather than in my office. I check my schedule and see I have some extra time. Cool. This is one of the freedoms spiritual direction affords. I'd always rather meet outdoors. She says to drop her an e-mail or call with my response. I check my watch—my next client will be on my doorstep any second, so rather than call, I shoot off a quick e-mail.

  Jenna,

  Can't wait for tomorrow! See you at the lab at 9:00.

  Expec
tantly,

  Matthew

  Wednesday dawns brilliant, baby. Crisp and clear. I pound the blocks from home to the office, and then from the office to the cathedral. My walk and talk with God is rich. Life is good. No complaints.

  Well, maybe just one.

  Tess came home from New York more enthused than ever about fashion and her career. I'm happy for her. Dude, I really am. But I want more with my wife and as I walk, I feel resentment toward her desires. And I go down the What-about-me-and-my-desires? road. Warning: That road is one big ol' dead end! And I know it. But I walk it again anyway.

  Head down, arms swinging, I hash it out with God.

  How much longer? I pray and pray for Tess, and . . . nothing changes. Her heart doesn't change. Her desires don't change. Kids? Still no. You? Still no. Yeah, it's cool she's reading the blog, but c'mon—she needs You.

  I round a corner and broadside a guy with a briefcase. I lift up my hands and step back from him. "Sorry, man."

  I catch my breath, and then pick up the pace again. Not only does she need You, but I need her to surrender to You. I want that for her—for us. You say You'll give me the desires of my heart. This is my desire. Aren't I faithful to You? Don't You love Tess? I want more—more of You—with Tess. I want that intimacy with my wife. I want to see in her eyes what I see in . . .

  To feel with her what I feel when . . .

  My pace slows.

  "Oh man"—I rake my hand through my hair—"that's it. That's what I've felt all along."

  A woman passes, staring at me like there's something wrong with me. "What? Never seen anyone talking to themselves before?"

  She steps off the curb and crosses the street.

  "Take it back inside, buddy. You're scaring the locals." I stop, stand still for a minute, and figure out where I am. I look at my watch—still time before I need to be at the lab. Better take an extra lap or two around the block and finish this.