30 Nights with God Read online

  30 Nights with God

  Deborah C. Cruce

  Copyright © 2017 Deborah C. Cruce.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  WestBow Press

  A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

  1663 Liberty Drive

  Bloomington, IN 47403

  www.westbowpress.com

  1 (866) 928-1240

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

  Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

  ISBN: 978-1-5127-7831-1 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-5127-7832-8 (hc)

  ISBN: 978-1-5127-7830-4 (e)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017903554

  WestBow Press rev. date: 05/05/2017

  “Be still, and know that I am God”

  Psalm 46:10a

  For Daddy, you were my hero for a lot of my life, thank you for always being there for me

  For God the Father, because you gave me the gift of words and never gave up on me

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Day One

  Dream 1

  Day Two

  Dream 2

  Day Three

  Dream 3

  Day Four

  Dream 4

  Day Five

  Dream 5

  Day Six

  Dream 6

  Day Seven

  Dream 7

  Day Eight

  Dream 8

  Day Nine

  Dream 9

  Day Ten

  Dream 10

  Day Eleven

  Dream 11

  Day Twelve

  Dream 12

  Day Thirteen

  Dream 13

  Day Fourteen

  Dream 14

  Day Fifteen

  Dream 15

  Day Sixteen

  Dream 16

  Day Seventeen

  Dream 17

  Day Eighteen

  Dream 18

  Day Nineteen

  Dream 19

  Day Twenty

  Dream 20

  Day Twenty-One

  Dream 21

  Day Twenty-Two

  Dream 22

  Day Twenty-Three

  Dream 23

  Day Twenty-Four

  Dream 24

  Day Twenty-Five

  Dream 25

  Day Twenty-Six

  Dream 26

  Day Twenty-Seven

  Dream 27

  Day Twenty-Eight

  Dream 28

  Day Twenty-Nine

  Dream 29

  Day Thirty

  Dream 30

  Day Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  Heartfelt Thanks

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Prologue

  I didn’t always see angels. But after spending thirty nights with God, I see angels everywhere. They are all shapes, sizes, colors, both genders, visible and invisible. No, of course I can’t see invisible angels. I only see their actions. Like when your hat blows off and you chase it away from the street where you were about to step in front of a bus because you were worrying about your sick son at home …

  But I digress.

  Yes, I see angels now. Being exposed to the Trinity that is God for thirty straight nights will do that to you. Although I do not recommend in any way, shape, or form that you do what I did. I took the hard road. The toughest road. The life or death road. I want to tell you my story, in the hopes that you will choose another path.

  Choose life, not death.

  Choose truth, not lies.

  Choose God, not addictions.

  This is my story as best I can recall. Given that I have seen the face of God and lived to tell the tale.

  Day One

  November 6

  I do not remember much about that first day except that I was angry. I was sedated most of the time. When the pills wore off, I was mean and argumentative. Being locked in a ten by twelve room was not what I wanted. And I told the doctors, nurses, attendants, counselors, kitchen help, and janitors just that at the top of my lungs.

  They showed me the admission papers at about six o’clock that evening, during a brief coherent moment of calm, before I fell back to sleep. At 5:35 a.m. on a Tuesday in November, after having my stomach pumped free of the twenty-seven sleeping pills I had taken, I confessed to being suicidal. I checked myself in and gave them permission to keep me until they decided to release me. Not me. I waived my right to decide when to leave. In a lucid moment of deep overwhelming pain, I told them I wanted to get better. I wanted to live.

  What a load of garbage!

  Dream 1

  I dreamed that night of God. It was crystal clear, like a movie I was watching yet starring in at the same time. I say he was God, but he didn’t look like George Burns or Morgan Freeman. He looked more like a young Bill Pullman, an everyman kind of guy.

  I sat with arms folded, dressed in a faded green hospital gown, on a wooden bench overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. It was late. The sky was a deep dark blue and full of stars. The moon was just a bit past half full. I watched a few people with flashlights looking for sand crabs along the shore.

  The sound of the waves soothed me, as it always had. The rhythmic sound calmed me like the meds never did. It seemed like hours as we sat there—not speaking. I don’t know why I accepted his presence at the other end of the bench. Occasionally I would glance at him as he sat, bent slightly forward, hands clasped between his knees.

  My arms unfolded and slipped to my sides as I leaned back and studied the stars. I sighed, feeling some of the anger drain away. It was such a sense of relief. I looked at him again and he turned his head, a small smile crossing his lips.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  He smiled again, but did not answer.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Praying,” he responded.

  “For who?”

  “For you, Elizabeth.”

  I shook my head. “That’s a waste of time. I’m too far gone. God wouldn’t want me back.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  I snorted. “Right. How do you know?”

  “Because I Am.”

  “What? God doesn’t pray to himself. That would just be silly. Who are you really, and why are you in my dream?”

  He held out his hand, but I folded my arms again and clenched my hands into fists. I was not touching or taking this stranger’s hand. Yet he c
ontinued to hold it out toward me. The moonlight cast a glow across his palm and wrist, and I saw scars there. Old wounds, healed, but I could tell they had been deep. Had he tried to kill himself? No, I thought, not the right kind of mark. Then it struck me.

  Who. He. Was.

  Abruptly I rose from the bench and walked away. Then ran. Tears fell one after the other until they streamed down my face. I ran until I collapsed from the burning in my lungs, the stitch in my side, and the raw pain in my heart.

  I would not, could not, look Jesus in the face.

  I wrapped my arms around my knees, clenching my eyes closed. “No, no, no …”

  Day Two

  November 7

  “Shhhhh, child. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  A cool rag wiped my face, and I blinked my eyes open. I was staring into the blackest eyes I had ever seen. Even more unusual was the kindness I read in them. For me. Toward me. I didn’t want kindness. I wanted out of there. My dream rushed back over me and I pushed the washcloth away. “Leave. Me. Alone.”

  She stood there a moment and looked down at me. “I can’t do that. You need help and that’s what I’m here for.”

  I threw back the sheets and sat up. The room swayed and me with it. I thought I might throw up.

  “Hold on girl. I’ll help you.” She steadied me with her arm around my shoulder.

  I pushed her away. “Just get my clothes. That’s how you can help.”

  “They haven’t come back from the laundry yet.”

  “When will that be?” I said as I focused on her name tag, “Mabel.”

  She looked at the bright-blue watch on her wrist. “Tenish, I’d say. It’s seven now. What do you want for breakfast?”

  “I don’t want breakfast.”

  “I’ll let Dr. Pearson know,” her tone disapproving. “And we’ll start an IV for nutrients.” She turned and headed for the door.

  “Wait! I don’t want an IV!”

  Mabel turned back. “Sooo … you do want breakfast?” Her right eyebrow raised, forming a question on her beautiful cocoa-colored face.

  “Sure. Fine. Toast is good.”

  Mabel brought back toast, scrambled eggs, a banana, and a glass of orange juice. I ate the toast while sitting in the chair by the window and looking outside at the sunshine. I ignored the rest of the food. Pushing the tray away, I noticed the red plastic bracelet on my wrist. Somehow the red indicated I was a nut case. But typed precisely on the label was “Elizabeth Ann Grace Sullivan, forty-six, December 7, November 6, and Dr. S. Pearson”—whom I did not know and had not seen. Basic info. That told them nothing about me, the real me.

  What other info was needed?

  Mabel hadn’t left my chart clipped to the end of the bed. But instructions were written on the white board on the opposite wall. It recorded my urine output, blood pressure, temperature, and other vital statistics. I did not understand the need for any of that, because physically I was healthy. A number of doctors over the past eight months had said so. I had complained of pains that no one had been able to diagnose.

  That’s when I suspected that something was really wrong. Sleeping pills didn’t work. Antidepressants didn’t work. Alcohol worked at first. In fact for several months it worked quite well. I worked all day, successfully, and then drank all night until I fell asleep.

  I was a functional situational alcoholic. At least that’s what I read on the Internet. A specific event triggered the use of alcohol as a coping mechanism, but I was still doing normal things okay. I ate. I bathed. I worked. I paid bills.

  Then the alcohol stopped working.

  I was smart enough to know what was happening, but not smart enough to stop it or get the right kind of help. My reasoning became faulty. The doctors couldn’t help so what would a counselor do except tell me that I was grieving. I already knew that. The counselor would prescribe more meds and I already had my drug of choice. Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum with caffeine-free Coke worked quite well.

  Until it stopped working.

  Mabel watched me take my meds before she left me alone. I was physically calm but a bit agitated. I was cloudy mentally but still alert enough to feel angry and have the desire to get out of there.

  Mabel brought my cleaned, pressed blue jeans, long-sleeved Pike’s Peak T-shirt, and black fleece jacket at ten o’clock as promised.

  “When will the doctor be by?” I asked.

  “After lunch.”

  “After lunch? I’ve been waiting since seven this morning!”

  “He does have other patients to see, and your lab work isn’t back yet. We had some difficulties getting enough samples to run the tests.”

  She stared me down. I knew she was referring to me knocking over the first tray of vials and breaking them all. I guess they got the next batch when I was knocked out. “I’d like to see the doctor as soon as possible. I need to get home, call work …”

  “I’ll relay the message. Would you like a ham or turkey sandwich for lunch?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Mabel just stood there. Hand on ample hip, sassy as could be. All black power and kindness still. Firm. White uniform, chocolate skin, dark hair with just a few streaks of gray. It occurred to me I might like her under different circumstances. But here she was all up in my circumstances and in my way.

  “Ham sandwich.”

  “White or wheat?”

  “Wheat.”

  She left then, closing the door behind her. How she got in and out of my room and I couldn’t puzzled me. Yet another sign of my cloudy mental faculties. I flopped down in the chair and spotted my Vera Bradley backpack in the corner. I didn’t remember bringing it, but it made sense since I carried it like a purse.

  I unzipped the front pocket and found all my identification, cash, debit card, credit card, and contact information still there and intact. Contact info?

  Who knew I was here?

  Dream 2

  I’m on the bench again but with my own clothes on, not the wretched hospital gown. I had refused the gown and was sleeping in my jeans and shirt. This night was very similar to the previous night except I was alone on the bench. No Jesus.

  I sat and stared at the waves rolling in, listening to the sounds of the ocean, that low constant crash and retreat of the water. I could feel the soothing rhythm running along my nerves, calming me like the night before. My fists unclenched. It had been a frustrating afternoon.

  The nurse who relieved Mabel was too perky and too young for me. The doctor was distant as he answered my questions, meeting my eyes as he stated his refusal to release me until I had a thorough psychological evaluation. Following a loud outburst filled with multiple curse words, I refused dinner and knocked my meds to the floor.

  Now my stomach grumbled.

  “Want some?”

  Startled I looked to my right to see an older man offering me his open package of Oreos, my favorite cookies. Why not, I thought, it’s my dream. I took three cookies and nodded my thanks. I bit into the first one and sighed. Too bad he didn’t have milk too.

  “Here you go.”

  He handed me a tall glass of milk and smiled.

  We ate in silence. Dipping our cookies in our milk and biting off small bites. He handed me three more cookies and I even ate those, though three was my usual limit. They tasted chocolaty sweet on my tongue and the milk was fresh, rich and cold.

  I brushed my hands off and sighed again, draining the last of my milk all the way to the crumbs in the bottom of the glass. I sat my empty glass on the bench between us, next to his.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly, digging my bare toes in the cool sand, looking at the swirls made by my feet.

  “You’re welcome.”

  There was no one out tonight, so we were alone. I felt sleepy and found myself lying down on the bench, my head pillowed
on my hands. Our milk glasses gone, vanished from between us.

  He slid closer and offered his lap. Why I accepted, I have no idea, except I felt safe. I wanted to ask who he was, but feared the answer, so I kept quiet and closed my eyes.

  His hand smoothed my hair back from my face like I was a small child instead of forty-six years old. It felt good. How long had it been since I received a touch offered in compassion, without need of reciprocal touch or act? I could not remember. It seemed like years since I had accepted a hug in comfort.

  Yet I allowed this familiar stranger to feed and smooth my hair like my mom used to when I was little. She loved me dearly. I knew that without doubt. But she too had retreated from my anger of the past months. She hadn’t understood. No one had.

  “Peace, child,” he whispered, “sleep in peace.”

  Day Three

  November 8

  I did not know what day it was. What day of the week nor the exact calendar date either. I knew it was November, but that’s all. Every nurse, lab tech or blasted person who came through my door wanted to know my name, birthday and today’s date. I told the first two Elizabeth Ann Sullivan, December 7th, and November something. I told the third one Sarah Palin and none of her friggin’ business. I told the next one Lois Lane and she just checked my red bracelet.

  Finally Mabel brought the shrink-slash-counselor-slash-doctor in to see me. Aimee Conner.

  “Would you like to go to my office, or stay here and talk?” she asked.

  I wondered if this was a test and I studied her before answering. She had shoulder-length blonde hair, straight, thick, and tucked behind both ears. She wore pearl studs, but no necklace that I could see. Her blue eyes assessed me from behind rectangular dark-framed glasses. She was medium height and slender enough to wear the straight cut of her charcoal pant suit well. “Your office.”

  “Okay then, follow me.”

  She punched some code and opened the door, holding it open for me. I looked up and down the hall, curious about my surroundings.