A wounded woman hides in the darkness and dares not approach the light. He calls her name. “Deana.”
She turns, eyes wide, limbs trembling. “Who are you? Stop. What do want?”
The squeeze of her ears deafen the sound. “No. I’m not hearing things.”
He calls again. “Deana. Come.”
“Leave me alone!” She bellows.
Little does she know the voice is not in her head—not this time. The voice whispers in the dark. One lone tear trickles down her quivering cheek as she cowers in the corner. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this!” her mind screams.
“Shhhh, it is well. I’m here. I will help you.”
She finds the courage to open her eyes. One thin light beams through the curtains creating a strong glow. Plush carpet glides through her fingers as her hand approaches the beam. Her body soaks up the warmth. Fingers beat up and down as if alive on their own, but she stays tucked in a fetal position in the darkness.
“I am the light. In me there is no darkness.” The voice speaks to her. Her eyes are fixed upon the movement of her hand. “No one can escape my spirit. They can never get away from my presence. I am always here.”
“Breathe me in.” The sound of an inhale and then a large release surrounds her quiet space. And in that moment, she feels the impression of a hand upon her back pushing while she exhales—as if to help her release every bit of the ache. She releases the air until all is gone.
Her limp body lies prostrate on the floor, too relaxed to move and too drained to get up. A strong presence sweeps over her and tears flow. More tears follow. Her stomach heaves the pain from the wound, sorrow and heartache trail.
And when there are no more tears, she rests in the stillness and beautiful silence until one word escapes her lips . . . Lord.