Short Stories

Beloved

 

I whispered your name today, but you didn’t hear Me.

Do you hear Me now as towering, concrete walls stare down at you? Grocery bags weight your hands, and your heart sags with despair. Masses of Asian pedestrians surround you, yet you’ve never felt so alone.

Curious, dark brown eyes linger on you—a foreigner in their vast land. Your soul cries out. Why can’t I be happy here? Why hasn’t God made me into the missionary I’m supposed to be?

Pain latches onto My heart. “Oh, Beloved, I don’t want you to be someone different from who you are.”

Your eyebrows twitch together. Did you hear Me?

A gray-haired man hobbles close and spits out a stream of berry juice, splattering your shoes.

You wince as if I struck you.

“No, Beloved! I will never lash out at you. When I wound, it’s to heal, just like a doctor who cuts in order to take out the cancer then knits muscle and skin back together.”

But you don’t let My words penetrate as you renew your grip on runaway emotions and sacks of perishables.

You step onto a dirty street curb. Cars stream by. Horns screech and tires swerve as you weave your way through the city’s unrelenting traffic. Sweat creeps under your armpits from Hainan Island’s polluted humidity. You’re so close to paradise, yet so far. You’ve seen what others come to enjoy—the crystal beaches, sparkling sea, and ornate five-star hotels. Wealthy Asians and vacationing Westerners lounge in comfort while you struggle to climb seven flights of unforgiving, spit-stained steps to the bare apartment you try to call home.

You reach your steel door then lean against it a moment. A grimace of pain shoots across your face. The pain inside bubbles to the surface, like boiling water that can’t leave a hot stove.

The Lord didn’t send me here to make me happy. He wants me to make a difference.

 “No, Beloved, that’s not what I want.”

You jam your key into the lock, scared of connecting, frightened of what I’ll ask. You rush into the apartment and slam the door, but I enter with you.

You shove groceries into cupboards and dump fruit onto a glass table, but the flurry of activity doesn’t last. You’re too tired. Too defeated.

Your shoulders slump, and you bow your head. You walk to the westward balcony and lower yourself to the cool floor. As dusk settles over the smog-coated city, you gaze out at blinking neon lights and ache for diamonds in a velvet sky.

Passion for you—just you—burns within My heart, and I gentle My voice. “I miss you, Beloved. Will you spend time with Me?”

Anguish and longing surge inside you, but fear snatches away your sense of My presence. You jump to your feet and rush from the balcony, chased by a cacophony of accusing voices.

You’re a failure. He’s not happy with you. Run away. Hide.

You awaken your computer then stare at its fluorescent screen. You press keys, trying to breathe life into the story you’ve created, but I obscure the sentences.

“No more escaping into fiction, Beloved. You’re hurting far too much. These stories can’t give you the love that you crave.”

Tears spill down your cheeks, and finally distress overrides the risk of conversing. You whisper, breath soft as feather-down, “Jesus, I’m so sorry. I know you want me here to tell these people how much you love them, but I’m just pretending to have Your joy and love inside. Just take me to Heaven now. I’m of no more use to You.”

My heart breaks open, pouring rain onto barren ground. “Oh, My darling child, there’s nothing further from the truth. I’m not angry with you or scornful of you or disappointed. I’m not the harsh taskmaster you thought you had to serve. I love you, and I will always take care of you.”

You lift your head, and hope sparks in your eyes like dawn in an iridescent sky. “Really, Jesus?”

My heart sings. “Yes, Beloved. Really.”

Experiencing Papa's Heart

Jay Bennett perched on the stool in front of our half circle of desks, one heel caught on the stool’s lowest rung, the other slightly higher. He had been introduced as a respected itinerant teacher, ministering for over a decade to missionaries throughout Asia.  Lanky and relaxed, he studied each of us, the six students of a missionary training school, as we shared snippets of our background.

I shared, “My husband and I just came from a year in China; we have three children; I love to write fiction; I’ve been a Christian all my life.” When I finished, the young man next to me took his turn.

Inside I thought about all that I hadn’t said, couldn’t say. I’m hurting and sad. I love Jesus, but in the last six months, I’ve hated myself so much I’ve wanted to die. Can you help me? No. No one can. I already know the rules: Jesus says I have to make my marriage work. But no one warned me that loving my husband would be this hard. Everyone just assumes my struggle is with the Chinese culture. How can I say otherwise when divorce is at stake? It’s my fault any way. I haven’t treated him with the respect he needs. I’ll just try harder.

I pulled my attention back to the people around me, shutting down the hurt inside. Jay taught us for the next two hours then we dismissed to the lunch hall. In the afternoon, I returned to the tables with the other students, expecting the lecture to continue. Instead Jay asked us to stand in a circle. He wanted to pray over each of us individually because we were at different places in life and the Lord wanted to speak specific words.

I’d been raised in charismatic circles, and I’ve never doubted that God speaks. So I bowed my head and listened as Jay spoke words of encouragement and hope to the two girls next to me.

When he began to pray for me, he asked respectfully if he could lay his hand on the top of my head. “That’s fine,” I said. He didn’t apply any pressure as he continued praying. Then he took his hand away and said, “The Lord wants you to know—He’s taken away the paddle.”

Paddle? What paddle? I’ve never owned a boat. Confused, I cocked my head and risked a skeptical look at him. He gazed at me, undisturbed by my obvious doubt, and said gently, “The spanking paddle.”

Oh, Jesus. That paddle. Hot tears hit, stinging hard. How had he known? The spanking paddle symbolized my deepest shame. Although my parents had never spanked me without reason or in anger, since being married a crueler paddle had materialized. Not physically, but psychologically. This spanking paddle was big—wide and demanding. It slammed into my backside, ripping shame across every inch of my heart every time my husband “corrected” my behavior as a wife or a mother. The feeling wasn’t just emotional; it was physical. I had to willfully stop myself from putting my hands behind me to protect my anatomy. I had to forcefully tell myself he wasn’t going to hit me, and he never did. Instead the word “divorce” upped the cost of resistance so high that I learned to walk around the parameters of our relationship.

Jay spoke again kindly. “The Lord’s removed the paddle. It’s gone.”

Had He really? Oh, if only He would! I closed my eyes, tears coursing over my cheeks as an emotional whirlpool formed with such sudden intensity that it sucked into its vortex every self-despising thought I’d had. Although I’d passively rebelled and disrespected my husband as well as neglected my kids’ emotional needs, Jesus wasn’t holding up a measuring stick to see if I was worthy of His love. He wasn’t dealing with me as a child in need of a beating but as a daughter in need of His tender touch.

How joyous and wonderful to know the “paddling” wasn’t His will. How glorious to overflow with His love so that I could love without seeking anything in return. And how amazing to know that Jesus never has and never will shame us for our faults. Rather, He sings over us songs of deliverance and pours on us His amazing love, thereby healing our emotions and transforming our thinking to be more like His. That is His Father's heart!