by Beth Jones
But the biggest deterrent to their victory was the blood line of Jesus surrounding Rachel; it was extremely dangerous to them. It was not visibly physical to their yellow, slanted eyes, but they sensed its power emanating from her, even as she slept. Rachel was unstoppable and untouchable because of the shed blood of Christ and God’s messenger angels, who were flames of fire, encircling the house.
*******
“There is power in the name of Jesus,” Rachel sang as she awoke. She’d survived another night, thank God. Another day to worship God, another day to hope for rescue. She knew without hope she could and would die, because “hope deferred makes the heart sick.”
Rachel was coughing more and feeling weaker, but she just couldn’t give up. She had to have faith, even if it was as tiny as a mustard seed. She remembered the mustard seed necklace her maternal grandmother Helen had given her when she was a child. Her eighth birthday. Rachel was getting old enough now that she didn’t want dolls or coloring books for presents anymore; those were for “babies,” she’d say and her parents would smile at each other.
The surprise “grown-up” necklace had come in a white-lined, hard jewelry box case, and she knew her grandmother hadn’t bought it from the dollar store where their family often shopped for inexpensive gifts and party supplies.
Grandma Helen had enclosed a Happy Birthday card with a red ladybug on the cover, instructing Rachel to take very good care of the gift because it was “sterling silver and not a toy necklace.” Rachel wondered where it was now. She didn’t remember what had happened to it, and knew she’d have some explaining to do when she saw Grandma in heaven one day. She grinned wryly at the thought of her sprite, tiny, grey-haired grandmother greeting her with Jesus at the pearly gates with folded arms, a frown, and asking, “Why didn’t you take care of that necklace like I told you to?”
She could see Grandma shaking her little, wrinkled finger at her, that finger always looking too small and weighed down with the enormous, gaudy, purple, tanzanite ring she always wore that Grandpa had given her to her shock on their 50th wedding anniversary. The mustard seed necklace gift had meant a lot to Grandma to give Rachel.
That was one of her own favorite Bible verses, she’d said. “I’ve had to use that one a lot in my life,” she explained to Rachel, nodding over pointedly at Grandpa Bruce, who just chuckled and agreed. The man would be the death of her, she’d often say to anyone who would listen. He drove her crazy. He could push her buttons faster than you could say, “Jack Robinson.” But everyone could see how much they adored and loved each other, despite the squabbling like children.
One time Rachel’s mother Stacy said she hoped they died together in a car crash at the same time when it was their time to go. Rachel was horrified mama said this, but she said that she didn’t ever want to see the emotional pain the other’s death would cause her parents.
Stacy explained the meaning behind the mustard seed to Rachel, who had never heard the Bible passage before, nor understood it when mama quoted it to her. “The Bible says that if you have faith as a mustard seed, you can speak to a mountain and it will move and be thrown into the sea,” she said, clasping the delicate, silver chain around Rachel’s neck as she pulled up her dark brown curls.
“Why would anyone want to move a mountain and make it go into the ocean, mama?” she asked and her mother and Grandma laughed.
“You know how sometimes Jerry bosses you around or Faye tries to play with your toys when you’ve told them to stop it?” Stacy asked. Rachel nodded, her brows furrowing at the memories. “Well, in those situations, you can just use this verse.”
“But mama, I don’t want Jerry and Faye thrown into and drowning in the ocean. I just want them to leave me alone,” Rachel said, her green eyes getting big, and Stacy and Grandma busted out laughing.
Rachel understood now. She, too, had used this verse many times throughout her life. She was using it fervently now, speaking grace to the mosquitoes, wanting them to drown in the ocean. Grace to the fever. Grace to hunger and thirst. Grace to fear. Grace to rescue workers and the utility companies to restore power in the hundreds of homes still without electricity, gas and water. Grace. Cultivating thankfulness even in the hard times.
She remembered reading Ann Voskamp’s book One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are on this topic.
“Eucharisteo—thanksgiving—always precedes the miracle.”
“I can empty because counting His graces has awakened me to how He cherishes me, holds me, passionately values me. I can empty because I am full of His love. I can trust.”
I can trust You, God, Rachel thought, weakly looking out the dirty window. The waters were receding some now. That means easier access for the rescuers, she mused, and then suddenly she felt nauseous and threw up on the wood floor. The stench, the heat, made her sick again.
She lay on the floor, tears slowly falling, her head spinning and her face and body drenched with perspiration. She was getting severely dehydrated from the heat, her fever, and no water and food. The lack of sleep was affecting her, too. God. Jesus! she prayed. That was all she could pray for now. Her angel lifted his sword in Christ’s authority as the demons moved in closer to Rachel, their hissing like the sound of a steam engine and snickering gleefully as they watched her suffer and struggle to have hope and faith.
*******
Jackson flipped Faith’s grilled cheese sandwich over in the red pan, his head cocked to hold the Phone on his shoulder. He was so done with their disorganization and uncaring, lazy, almost inhuman attitude. “This is my wife!” he screamed at Lance. “Why aren’t you doing everything you can to find her?”
Lance yelled back that they were. “You aren’t here, man,” he said. “It is absolute chaos. Nobody knows who’s really in charge. I’m beginning to think nobody is. Every time we try to go somewhere, we’ve got some arrogant Son of a Batman official telling us that area is restricted even to police and medics. They’ve actually got crates of water locked up at the airport, refusing to disperse them to the survivors until the FEMA relief coordinator Arlene Myers arrives on a flight late tomorrow night! That’s part of the reason people are rioting and looting stores. They’re hungry and thirsty and nobody is really helping them, except a few small churches who are running out of supplies fast and are scared of the thugs and gangs. The flooded streets, the utilities still being off, the dead bodies and animals, all these mosquitoes and the rats that didn’t drown, the transportation issues, and especially the red freaking government tape, it’s all making rescue efforts really slow and tedious. I know you’re worried sick, man. I’m trying!”
“Well, trying isn’t good enough! Find her or what are you even good for? Do something more!” Jackson hung up and burst into angry tears. They’re a bunch of incompetent, useless idiots, he thought.
Then he felt guilty for talking to his best bud that way. Lance was going out on a limb for him to help, calling in favors from every law enforcement, EMS, fire, and government agency he knew to find Rachel. Things were looking really grim, and at this point chances for her survival were slim to none. He was now down to unethically bribing people just to find out info on her. Jackson called him right back, apologizing.
Lance sighed and simply said, “I know, man. I understand. I’ll call you when I find her.” Just those words, “when I find her,” gave Jackson a tiny ray of hope.
He couldn’t lose hope. Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but desire fulfilled is a tree of life, he thought, remembering Proverbs 13:12.
He texted Faith that lunch was ready, amusedly wondering why he was texting his daughter in their own house, instead of going to her room and just telling her. Part of it was the heavy spirit in her bedroom. He knew Faith was stressed out and depressed and he didn’t exactly know how to deal with his own emotions, much less female ones, which were usually all over the map.
“Hey honey,” he said as she walked in, earbuds on. She tapped her purple iPhone to turn off the l
oud Christian rap music. An oxymoron, he told her. Rap is crap.
“Mm,” she said. It annoyed him that sometimes she didn’t even use English. She wasn’t an animal; why didn’t she talk more?
“Want some pickles?” he offered, changing the subject and stabbing a big garlic dill pickle with his fork and putting it on his plate, brightly painted like a kindergartner’s work in red, yellow and orange colors with a desert sunset and a large, prickly cactus plant. Rachel had loved them and bought a set of these unique dishes when they vacationed for a week seven years ago in Albuquerque, New Mexico, just the two of them. His mind went back to the big, whirlpool bathtub at the hotel, where they’d relaxed, shared pepperoni-anchovy pizza and salty, cold margaritas on the rocks together with some hot romance following. A rare, good memory.
“Dad, you know I don’t like pickles!” Faith said, scowling at him.
“Oh yeah, sorry, honey, I forgot. But you should!” he said, wagging a pickle and grinning at her. She didn’t respond, but bit into the grilled cheese sandwich, eyeing his vinegar-salt potato chips. She shook her head no when he offered those, too.
“Any word yet?” she asked, her voice sounding detached and, yes, hopeless. She had very little appetite, but knew she needed to eat something. She was skipping a lot of meals since the hurricane, so her dad would try to cook different kinds of food to entice her to keep her strength. He wasn’t very hungry either, but he forced himself. He had to eat to do the kind of labor-intensive work he did in construction.
The smile left his face and his eyes clouded. “No,” he said, trying to control his emotions again. “Lance says the government agents there, the flood water, the bod—“, he stopped, cleared his throat. “The impassable roads are making things next to impossible. But he’ll call me as soon as he finds her. He’ll keep me posted.”
“That’s what he said two weeks ago!” she said, her voice raised and having a hard edge. She needed to target her anger, rooted in fear, somewhere. “He isn’t doing jack to find her!”
Faith was usually a calm, steady, even-keel sort of person. She’d probably be emotionally unmoved if you told her a volcano had exploded and destroyed all of Hawaii. Despite the dire circumstances, her emotional outburst was still surprising to Jackson. Faith’s words echoed his own from moments ago, but Jackson defended Lance so as to not cause her more stress.
“Honey, they are doing all they can. It’s chaos there. Have you been watching the news? Have you seen what the rescue workers, FEMA, cops, and paramedics are up against and dealing with there? ”
“Yeah. There’s a bunch of dead people and animals. Power is still off. The National Guard is there. Riots and looting. It’s gonna’ cost gazillions to repair and rebuild. So what? Nobody is helping us find her!” Faith was hurriedly eating now. It reminded Jackson of a lion attacking its prey.
“Slow down there. I cooked that special just for you, so I want you to slowly savor it,” Jackson said, attempting a smile again. But she was just saying exactly what he was thinking and feeling. He looked down at his plate a minute and took a deep breath.
“I’ve been thinking I should just fly there myself and find her,” he said quietly.
“Oh great, then you’ll go there, get sick from the mosquitoes and I’ll have to worry about you being dead, too!” It was too late. The words were now out there, spoken like a Divine judgment. Faith looked down at her plate so he wouldn’t see the sudden tears. She wanted her mom! Jackson put his hand over her arm, a bit roughly.
“Stop it! She’s not dead!” he yelled. He realized her words scared the crap out of him. He had thought the same thing many times, but kept pushing the unwelcome intrusion away by staying busy, making calls, working, eating, and watching sci-fi shows with Faith.
She was just voicing what he was too afraid to deal with right now. Faith was just like her mother, direct, confrontational. Like a bull in a china shop, Jackson thought. God, what if Rachel is dead?
He shook himself, like God in Psalm 76:5, NIV: “Then the Lord awoke as from sleep, as a warrior wakes from the stupor of wine.”
“I can’t just sit here anymore, wondering and worrying, Faith. I’m booking a flight right now to Fort Walton. The commercial airport in Destin is still a madhouse, Lance said, but Fort Walton is only 20 minutes from Destin. I’ve got to do something or I’m going to go stir crazy. That is, if this rain will just stop one second for me to fly out of here. Do you want to go sleep over at Autumn’s while I’m gone or stay here until I get back? We’ve still got groceries here to last for a week. I just can’t take this not knowing anymore,” Jackson said, looking at her angry blue eyes for understanding and to read her true feelings. In the ocean-like depths of blue, he saw deep sorrow and fear. No, it was deeper than fear. It was terror. His heart broke for her. Her eyes mirrored his soul. He put his hand on her shoulder to comfort her, looking at her in love.
Faith softened and actually seemed relieved at the news. “Okay, dad. I’ll be fine here. I’ll call Autumn if I need anything,” she assured him. Knowing something, even the worse, was better than this horrible waiting game. Her stomach and his were in constant knots. She now got how her military family friend, Haley, felt when her dad went missing in action in Afghanistan two years ago.
They still didn’t know where he was, if he was a prisoner of war, being tortured, or dead. Faith thought it was strange and heartless when Haley told her one time that she’d rather hear news that her dad had died than to keep being in eternal limbo, not knowing anything. “Your mind never shuts off, always thinking the worse about the situation. Those ISIS terrorist guys over in the Middle East are merciless to their prisoners. The waiting is the worst,” she’d told Faith. Now Faith understood.
As Jackson called the airlines to book the earliest flight possible, he looked out the dining room window and noticed the rain had suddenly stopped. The sun was shining through the canopy of green trees, like the bridegroom from the bridal bed in Psalm 19:5, and as Jackson looked to the east at the blue sky, he smiled big at what he saw. A double rainbow, with some of the most vibrant colors he’d ever seen. All of God’s promises are yes and amen. He pointed it out to Faith, and her heart lifted with joy, too.
Chapter 10: Redemption
Lance and his partner Nick were walking property to property in Destin through the sludge, searching through the few houses standing, some parts of the water over knee deep. Both men were cussing because their boots were now ruined, the mosquitoes were eating them alive, and this was arduous, thankless work.
But they’d had their orders from Sheriff Chad; he had every man and woman in his department out on the streets as first responders, searching for any possible survivors (very unlikely now!), and he had called in aid from sheriff departments, police departments, and other agencies state-wide. It was going to be a long, long day.
Lance swore again as he stumbled over a piece of pottery, soaking his uniform pants up to his thighs.
What a mess! I think even God would cuss in this, Lance thought and then felt bad. After all, what were wet pants compared to being dead or hurt and losing everything you had?
Sorry God, don’t mean to be irreverent or ungrateful. I know You got the patience of a saint and then some—but I ain’t no saint and You know it.
No telling what’s in these waters, Lance thought, grimacing. The day had already been hellacious, with him and Nick tagging lots of bodies instead of finding any survivors as they’d desperately hoped. He didn’t want to have to call his bud Jackson and tell him that his wife Rachel was another sad statistic. They were close to the neighborhood where she’d rented that beach house for the summer and he was trying to hurry to find her. Some of the debris had finally been cleared on the single narrow road leading to the private properties there, where Rachel’s beach house was, and the water was finally receding, making access much easier now.
The men approached a pile of red bricks and sky-blue-painted wood that used to be someone’s home. Lance’s he
art sank as he saw scattered toys (stuffed animals, Legos, plastic red and yellow sand pails, dolls, a basketball), knowing inside this one there had been kids. Lance was so tired of seeing the dead children today. Any dead body wasn’t a pleasant sight, but the innocent children’s lives taken from the storm really shook up Lance.
“Not again,” Nick groaned and Lance knew he felt the same way. The Destin Police Department, working with other agencies, was having difficulty identifying some of the people’s bodies. Everything was in chaos under the rubble of houses, including birth certificate papers, driver’s licenses, bank statements, credit card receipts, anything which might give a clue who these people were. Some of the bodies they had to tag on the toe, simply using their race, gender, and approximate age.
Whereas in a tornado you could mark homes with a big painted X, there was barely anything left of these homes to mark anything. Nick called in on the radio after each body was tagged, and now he sighed loudly.
“Why doesn’t God do something?” he asked angrily. You could hear the disgust, but also the distraught and perplexed question, in his low voice.
Lance looked over at him, surprised. Nick passionately claimed to everyone at the sheriff department and whom he met to be agnostic, not believing in God. Lance had never really believed him; he thought Nick was just angry at God for his father abandoning him when he was eight years old, to run off with another woman, leaving his family financially destitute.
Nick’s mom Allie had worked 2 jobs then just to put food on the table for Nick and his two brothers and two sisters. Nick got a job at 15 years old at the Publix store, bagging groceries, and worked as a waiter, too, at the Jumpin’ Catfish restaurant for tips, just to help out his mom with the bills.
