From childhood, I suffered from night time fear, but not of the dark or monsters. Mine was a more sophisticated fear. I was terrified that someone would break into my home and hurt me or my family. My parents were sound sleepers and I was convinced that it was up to me to save us all.
My sleepless nights where every noise seemed to be evidence of a horrific scene about to unfold became even worse when I lived alone. My first year of graduate school, I lived amidst a wife beater, an alcoholic who thought I ought to be counseling him, and a stalker who called me repeatedly and left me notes. Many nights I could barely breathe because the fear was so overpowering. I prayed for God's protection many, many times. After I got married and practiced as a Christian counselor, I asked God for relief from the fear itself.
Having a husband who is a black belt in jujitsu did not stop the fear, in part because he traveled a lot when we were first married. To cope, I had a security alarm put in and used a door brace under my bedroom door handle. Yep, I was completely phobic. I didn't get a dog to deal with my fear, but the fact that I had a little yapper who responded to anyone in the vicinity of our home, added to my feeling of security.
One weekend evening, I was battling a bad cold. We had been invited to a friend's party two hours away and I was fine with my husband going without me. He said he would be staying overnight with them as he often did while traveling for work. After he left, I went through my security routine. I turned off the power for the garage door opener, locked all the doors, and baracaded my bedroom door after I was sure my dog was with me.
In the middle of the night (2 or 3 a.m.), someone knocked on my front door. I had heard on the news once (I am sure all my fear developed from the news!) that robbers will often knock on the door to see if you are home and if you don't answer, they will break in. I wasn't going to let them think no one was home! My dog was barking furiously. I turned on the television and hoped whoever it was would move on.
Unfortunately, the knocking became more insistent. I turned up the volume on the TV. My dog was wild. Then my greatest fear became a reality. I could hear the person trying to break in. I ran to the bathroom, locked the door, picked up the phone and dialed 911. I could barely breathe as I explained to the nice man who answered what was going on. He reassured me an officer was on his way. He asked me where Mr. Wilson was. I told him while I picked up a can of hairspray to use as a weapon.
That's when I heard the most terrifying noise possible. Someone was IN my house. I relayed that information to the nice man and tried not to notice that he sounded frightened, too. He kept speaking to me in a calming voice. I could hear whoever it was rattling my baracaded bedroom door. I was living my nightmare! That's when I heard, "Melanie! It's me!"
I told the nice man that the would-be attacker was my husband. He laughed and I could tell that he was more relieved than I was. I honestly was NOT relieved, but furious at my husband for putting me through the ordeal. He explained that he hadn't been able to get into the house since I shut off the garage door opener. After I cried with relief and laughed at the absurdity of it all, I found that my lifelong fear was gone. All those years, what I was really afraid of was that I wouldn't be able to move if someone broke into my home. Now I know they better look out!
Although an unusual answer to prayer, God used my husband's break-in to take my fear away. Once again, He did for me what I could not do for myself.
Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.” (Joshua 1:9)
I assumed I would meet my husband-to-be in college and would be married in my early twenties. When that didn't happen and I had no prospects in graduate school, I felt pretty hopeless. The relationships I did have couldn't have been more dysfunctional. I wish I could say my initial relationship with my husband was different, but it wasn't.
I met my husband in a bar after he hit on my engaged friend. Romantic, huh? He had had several beers so when he asked for my phone number, I told him I wouldn't write it down. If he remembered it after I said it once, fine. I was very surprised to hear from him the next evening. We began dating sporadically when he happened to be in town.
He did just about everything wrong. I won't recount his dating sins for you, lest you despise him as I did. I broke up with him after several dates and was as surprised by his response as I was that he remembered my phone number (he later admitted he ran to his vehicle and wrote my number down when I was in the bathroom). After my inital breakup, he told me he didn't blame me. He apologized for his bad behavior and committed to changing. I was so impressed with his attitude that I gave him another try. (I didn't understand at the time that my husband was a true salesman).
It wasn't long, however, before I had had enough and broke up with him again. He gave me the same contrite response and added in some roses. I didn't have anyone else in the wings, so I took him back once again. Everything was going okay until he left for three weeks. He called me while he was gone and rather than say he missed me, he joked about the matter that had resulted in the last breakup.
I was so disgusted that I went out with a girlfriend and latched onto a guy whose only date-worthy characteristic was that he repeatedly said, "You're hot." I spent enough time with the 6'6" 300 pound guy to discover that he, too, could be quite irritating. But when my now husband returned from his trip, I broke the news to him that we were through. I was shocked by how emotionally he took the news. But I didn't relent, even when he called later and tried to change my mind several times. In an effort to confirm to myself that I had made the right decision, I decided to take the new big boyfriend to my cousin's wedding back home. He didn't own any clothing besides sweats, so I "lent" him the money to buy something to wear to the wedding.
My mother was mortified when she met him, but I couldn't worry about that. At least I had a date for the wedding. He sat head and shoulders above everyone else. Everything was fine until the soloist (a family friend) was singing while the bride and groom struggled to light the unity candle. Everyone began giggling and best as I can surmise, the soloist thought they were laughing at him. He completely choked. That's when the buffoon I was sitting next to said in his deep booming voice, "Wow, he's a really terrible singer."
I was the one mortified now. I elbowed him and shushed him only to have him say even louder, "Well, he IS terrible." As I sat there taking stock of my life, I suddenly had a vision of me marrying the guy I'd dumped. I had this sense of peace that could only be from God, despite my embarrassment. I knew in my heart of hearts that I was supposed to be with my other bad boyfriend. That sense of peace didn't keep me from chewing out the big fool for his lack of social skills as we left the church.
Unfortunately, there was more to be mortified about. My date began shoveling the food into his mouth before the bride and groom arrived at the reception–no plate or silverware. Everyone stood and gawked at him. One of my aunts giggled, "Is it serious?" Before we left, my date met my cousin and commented on her cleavage. I guess she was supposed to be flattered? When the reception was over, I wasted no time telling Mr. No Social Skills that it was over. While he snored away that night, I told my mom that I was going to marry my other boyfriend. She wasn't reassured.
Once back at grad school, I called my three-strikes-and-you're-out boyfriend and asked if we could get together. He seemed as surprised to get my phone call as I was to get his very first call. When we got together, we established some ground rules for the relationship. Five months later we were engaged. Today as I write, I have been married to this man for almost 19 years.
I like to say that ours was not a fairy tale romance, but you know, maybe it is. There was a suitor with much to learn, an ogre, a separation, a reunion, and a love that will surely last forever. Only God could have given this story a happy ending.
My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. (John 15:12)
My dad changed dramatically when he retired. He had worked his entire life and he was truly happy when his time was his own. He quit smoking after five decades and spent lots of time fishing and spoiling my youngest brother. It was heartbreaking, when it seemed my dad had a new lease on life, to learn that he had COPD. He eventually required full-time oxygen.
I had a hard time watching my father, who had never been afraid of anything, have panic attacks when he couldn't breathe. Traveling and any activities that required him to walk became nearly impossible. At one point, he developed pancreatitis and was given a 50/50 chance of making it. He survived, but I had been warned. My dad was mortal.
Warning or no, I wasn't prepared the evening I got my mother's phone call telling me that my dad was near death once again. I cried and cried and kept saying, "I'm not ready. I'm just not ready." I had recently developed a habit of asking God to communicate with me through His Word. I begged God to let my father live. I loved him so much and I wasn't even sure of his salvation. I opened the Bible randomly and read from Isaiah 38:16, 18
You restored me to health and let me live. For the grave cannot praise you, death cannot sing your praise; those who go down to the pit cannot hope for your faithfulness.
I was absolutely convinced that the Lord had heard my prayer and was giving my dad more time. I wasn't disappointed. My dad recovered. He had to move to a nursing home to get the care that he needed, but he never complained. He seemed to enjoy teasing the nurses and staff. I used the extra time with my dad to write him a letter explaining the Gospel and expressing my hope that he had received Christ as his Savior.
During a visit following my letter, my dad said, "Let's talk about what you wrote." He told me that he believed in God and had been baptized in infancy. I still had my doubts. My dad was a humble, generous man, but he had never said anything about God. Was it just because he was quiet? Or did he lack an authentic faith?
My dad and I had a routine. I called him at the nursing home the same night every week. On occasions when I had something else planned, I almost always forgot to call him until the next day. Dad was never upset when I forgot to call, though I always felt awful. I knew he looked forward to our talks. I did, too!
One evening, I realized that I was supposed to be at church the next night, which was my regular night to call Dad. I decided to call him right then. I joked with him that I was really on top of things this time and hadn't forgotten until it was too late. We did the usual chit chatting. I told him about our new mini-van with the remote control door. I said I was walking around like the Queen of Sheba, expecting every door to open for me at the touch of a button. He laughed. He told me that a pastor had come and talked with him for a long time. My dad said, "And you know what? I agreed with everything he said." I was so happy to hear that. I was sure that the pastor had shared the Gospel with my dad and my dad once again affirmed that he believed.
The next evening I was getting ready to go to my church meeting when my mom called. My dad had had a heart attack, she said. They didn't think he was going to make it. In that moment, I knew he wouldn't. When I returned home from church, I got the phone call that confirmed it. My dad was gone. Although I felt ready in comparison to the previous time his life was in danger, I still felt like someone was trying to rip my heart from my chest. I am so thankful my husband was there to hold me up.
Even in my grief, I recognized how loving a God I serve. I'm fully convinced that He moved me to call my father a day early and made sure that I knew my father's salvation was secure. The Lord continued to comfort me as I attended a memorial at the nursing home where he lived. The staff seemed more broken up than I was! Today I continue to be comforted with a vision of my father living in perfect health and peace with the Father of us all.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. (Matthew 5:4)
Me in Leningrad (St. Petersburg) in front of a statue of Alexander the Great
I traveled to Europe in 1989 as part of a month-long May Seminar through my college. I was so excited to go to the Soviet Union, especially. Although I was excited, I was also afraid of losing my passport. I had a history of losing things, but I couldn't afford to lose my passport or the case I kept it in. Inside the case were my cash, credit card, visas, airplane tickets, as well as my passport.
On the initial flight to London, I awoke with a start and realized I had lost something very valuable. The girl next to me could see that I was searching for something and started helping me. She enlisted the help of our other seatmates. Soon we were all searching diligently for the lost item. "What does it look like?" my initial helper asked. I didn't respond verbally, but gestured wildly as I tried to explain the inexplicable. We both started laughing when we realized that I had just been dreaming.
Two weeks later I was living the nightmare. We were on an overnight train from what was then Leningrad traveling to Moscow. Our seminar leaders advised us to sleep with our passport cases. American passports were very valuable in the Soviet Union, we were told, and were often stolen from train cars while their owners slept. I slept with my case around my neck. Early in the morning we were awoken and told we had to prepare to get off the train immediately. Groggily, I gathered my belongings and got on the bus that would take us to our hotel. We drove for an hour, listening to our tour guide tell us about the area.
When we boarded the boat motel where we would be staying, the hotel employees began collecting our passports. Foreign visitors always have hotel staff collect their passports for safe keeping. In that instant, I knew where my passport case was–in the sleeping car of the train. I had given the sheets a once over, but didn't see the case lying there. I searched my bags, but the sick feeling in my stomach told me I wouldn't find the case. I was shaking when I told my seminar leader what had happened. He immediately tried to get information about the train's location. We were told the train had been moved to a cleaning station. There was nothing to do, but check into the hotel and wait.
I had my clothes and about $250 in cash. I had no visa, so I would not be permitted to leave the country. My seminar leader gave me the grim news that the group would have to go on without me. I knew I would have to contact my family and ask for emergency assistance. The assistant seminar leader pointed out that my passport had probably already been sold. He further warned that a phone call to the US would be outrageously expensive. I had to admit to myself that my parents did not have the money to help me even if I could reach them.
That evening, the other students went off to explore Moscow. I stayed in my room, realizing that I could not afford to spend even a penny of the money I had. I took a shower and the water alternated betwwen freezing cold and scalding hot. I may have needed that shower to bring me out of the shock I was in. I cried and cried. I realized that all I could do was pray. I hoped that God was still God in the USSR. I remembered hearing once that you should pray until you feel peace. I began praying more fervently than I had ever prayed in my life. "Lord," I said, "You can do anything! You can cause the person who finds my passport to turn it in rather than sell it. Please, Lord, please return my passport case to me!" As I continued to call on Him for help, I felt a peace come over me. I knew that my prayer had been answered. Even though I was in the worst spot of my life, I fell asleep peacefully.
At midnight, my seminar leader awakened me to tell me that my passport had been recovered. I was not surprised. I went back to sleep. The next day, my seminar leader and I made a trip to pick up the passport. My leader was nervous as we were away from our guides. When we arrived at the station holding the passport case, a sterm looking military man watched as I verified that not one coin had been stolen. He shook his head in disbelief, the same way my mother always did when I lost something. When we were back with the entire group on board our tour bus, my answer to prayer was announced and the group began cheering in response.
If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer. (Matthew 21:22)
Pictured above is my high school speech team, with my coach at the top.
I have been able to win at the two-truths-and-a-lie game by including a statement that I was runner-up in a Miss Teen USA pageant. Maybe I should be insulted that people think that's a lie?
My junior high years took a serious toll on my self-esteem. Although I began my school years as an extrovert, I had become very fearful of rejection. My mother was reading the paper one weekend morning and found an ad for the area teen pageant, which extolled the virtues of participation, including more self-confidence.
For whatever reason, I let her convince me to enter the pageant and I set about conquering my fear of asking businesses to sponsor me. The pageant was scheduled for a Sunday and we had a bit of a drive to get to the church where it was being held. That morning I was listening to the radio while I was doing my makeup and a sermon was on. The pastor said, "The Lord stands with the losers of the world. Just when you are about to became a winner, God changes the rules." I thought that was a nice sentiment, but really didn't want to be a loser.
My mom, my aunt, and I got in the car and drove to the church. I am not sure if my mom took a wrong turn or if we were supposed to be driving on a gravel road, but I remember distinctly her mowing down a flock of chickens that were in her way. She didn't seem the slightest bit remorseful either! I was concerned that our bumper would be covered in blood and feathers.
Once at the church, I was happy to discover that there were only two of us entered in the pageant from my county. I figured I was a shoe in! But you already know that I took second place. As I went back to the prep room following the announcements, I was honestly feeling pretty humiliated. As I fought back tears, I remembered the sermon I'd heard. That's when my attitude completely changed. I really felt like God was standing with me. I was actually in a great mood! I probably teased my mom all the way home about her chicken massacre.
The following fall, I was in a high school speech class. Our assignment was to give a personal experience speech. I spoke about my experience in the pageant and how God had taught me what winning really means. After class, my teacher told me I needed to give that speech in competition. My sophomore year of high school, that's exactly what I did. Many times after giving that speech, other competitors would come up and thank me for sharing my experience and my faith. An extra bonus was the winning season I had.
Becoming a loser at a beauty pageant was the beginning of a speaking ministry that continues today. It was also the beginning of my understanding of God's ways. He has consistently used my failures and disappointments to change me and even to bless me. I have learned that when God stands with you, there is really no way you can lose.
This is what the LORD says— your Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel: “I am the LORD your God, who teaches you what is best for you, who directs you in the way you should go. (Isaiah 48:17)
This is my brother with the vehicle we referred to as "The Plymouth." After the accident, it was our only car–at least for a while.
People are shocked when I explain that I was allowed to drive at 14 in South Dakota (dawn to dusk). They should be shocked! If they only knew the crazy way we drove at that age. We drove 80 miles an hour on gravel hills because fish tailing was fun. We drove one another's cars, or should I say we drove the cars that belonged to one another's parents. My girlfriend stopped her vehicle by throwing the transmission into park. You can imagine how excited I am to have my own kids get behind the wheel.
When I was 16, I could drive at night, and often did. We lived a good distance from my high school and I was involved in a number of extracurricular activities that kept me from home until later. I also had a boyfriend (don't tell my kids). I don't recall what had me driving the Plymouth home in the dark alone one particular evening, but I will never forget the drive.
On a dark and deserted county road, I suddenly heard a voice yell, "Watch out for that deer!" I was so startled, I slammed on the brakes. That's when a deer ran across the road in front of me. I spent the rest of the trip home trying to figure out what had just happened.
Had I seen the deer in my peripheral vision? Honestly, no. Was I looking out for deer? No again. Whose voice was that? Honestly, it seemed to be mine, but like someone else had taken over my head. It was too loud to be a thought. What would have happened if I had not heard the voice? Would I have been injured or killed? Would another accident have crippled my family financially and emotionally?
1 Kings 19:12 calls God's communication "a still small voice." I can't recall God ever yelling at me other than the night I avoided a deer collision. But I have heard His still small voice many times. I look forward to telling you what He had to say.
Could He be speaking to you, too?
for he is our God and we are the people of his pasture, the flock under his care. Today, if only you would hear his voice (Psalm 95:7)
I’m a Christian psychologist turned homeschooling mother of six. My life can be a little crazy, so I look for sanity-saving ideas to use and share. I hope you’ll read my About page to learn more.
