This was something different.
She cleared her throat softly, almost embarrassed in the dark.
“God,” she whispered, “I… I do not understand.”
The tears came now, not fast, but steady.
“I do not understand any of it. It frightens me. I do not know what made my father this way—if he was born like this, or if his experiences with school changed or warped him.”
Her mind recoiled in horror at what her father had described, and she could only be grateful that Mark had been kept home, that he had not been forced to endure what her father had.
That must be why Papa allowed Mama to keep him home.
She swallowed.
“I know what he is doing is a sin in Your eyes. Your Word is clear on that. But I know he is good. And I know he loves people the way You say we are supposed to. And he has done his best. And I know—I know—he loves You. So please…”
Her voice broke.
“Please forgive him. Please protect him. Please have mercy on him.”
She sniffled, then whispered more quietly, “And please… please help me find someone one day. Someone I can love. Someone who will love me the way my parents never could love each other. Someone who will choose me. And I will choose him.”
She closed her eyes.
Please.
“Amen.”
She lay there in silence, not knowing if what she had done was right. It was not a prayer so much as it had been a conversation, but there was no real way to know if God had heard her… or if He even really existed.
And then, it came.
Not in a thunderclap or a dream or any grand thing, but in the deep stillness of her heart—a profound, overwhelming calm.
A warmth that wrapped around her like a blanket, deeper than breath, softer than words. It was not heat like fire, but like light—soft, golden, safe. It was almost as if someone had wrapped a thick quilt around her soul.
Her breath slowed. Her fingers, which had remained curled so tensely against her collarbone, finally uncurled and relaxed into the sheets. The tightness behind her eyes eased. The storm of thoughts in her mind began to scatter, like birds lifting from a tree and flying home.
And she knew.
She did not know how she knew, but she did.
That somehow, beyond her sight and far beyond her wisdom, God was real. And God was listening. And God was holding them all.
There were still no answers.
But God had heard her, and He would take care of her.
Of Papa. Of Stephens. Of everyone.
She no longer needed to decide if something was right or wrong for someone else. She no longer needed to fear the answers. She could trust the One who had made her. The One who had made her father.
She released a long breath and smiled through her tears. The weight slipped from her shoulders.
And she fell asleep with peaceful dreams of love and light and warmth, of arms surrounding her in love.
She dreamed of sunlight through trees and a voice that said her name with joy.
