The Midnight Hour

by Donna Poole

The house was quiet except for John’s soft snoring and the white noise whirring of the fans in our bedroom. My pillows were soft, the covers cozy, and the midnight sky dark. Everything was perfect for sleeping, except for one thing. I was high on steroids and bouncing off the proverbial walls.

Legit steroids—the kind they give you to counteract the cancer treatments. They work well unless you want to sleep. I needed sleep. This was day five of steroids and very little sleep, but we don’t always get what we think we need.

So, I prayed. I read some in the book of Revelation. I played spider solitaire. I came this close to waking John and asking if he wanted to watch a Christmas movie with me. And then I did what I’ve often counseled others not to do when tired, discouraged, and sleep deprived. I started thinking.

It’s a good thing the Lord came along and asked if I’d like to talk to Him while I meandered down a dangerous backroad where tree branches twisted ominously overhead and threatened to tangle in my hair.

“I’m not going to write anymore, and that’s final,” I told the Lord.

“Okay. It’s your gift. I gave it to you; you can do as you wish, but I thought you wanted to tell generations yet to come about me?”

“See, that’s just it. Who do I think I am, trying to give people a glimpse of Your tenderness, Your beauty, Your greatness, Your love? I’m a sinner. You know it; I know it.”

“Let’s take a detour,” Jesus said to me.

He touched my elbow, and the country road with the too dark trees disappeared. We stood on huge boulders and wild ocean waves smashed against them. The ground shook. I was cold, wet, and terrified.

“Please, can we leave this place?” I asked.

“In a minute. I want to show you something.”

Jesus pointed down. “Look.”

He held me so I didn’t fall, and I looked down, down into a whirlpool that sucked the water furiously into itself and seemed to plunge into infinity.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

“Your sins. I died for them, remember? I forgave you and promised to bury your sins in the depths of the deepest sea. I told you I’d forget them. Do you want to dive in there and bring them up?”

I pushed back into the safety of His arms and shook my head.

“Then never again mention to me the sins you’ve already confessed. Do you understand? And I don’t want you to think of them yourself. I paid a terrible price to throw them into that hole.”

I clung to Him in gratitude.

The Lord touched my elbow, and we were back on my walking together on my country road again. But the moonlight was shining softly through the branches now, and they didn’t look ominous at all. They wove an intricate design against the sky, almost like poetry. I could write about them, if…but no. I could write no longer.

I didn’t have to use my words. He knew.

“What’s your other reason for wanting to quit writing?”

“Lord! You need Michelangelos who can paint Your picture with words! I’m a child with a fat crayon. I’m clumsy at this. What if I use the wrong colors? You know I never was any good at staying in the lines! I’m afraid. I could mislead someone. I might paint a picture with words less than true.”

“Do you remember when your granddaughter printed her name for the first time and gave it to you? She printed the “C” backward. Did you throw it away?”

He smiled. He didn’t need the answer. He knew I’d kept that scrap of paper on my refrigerator until the paper turned yellow, and then I’d tucked it into a drawer to keep.

“That’s how I feel about what you write about me. But it’s good you’re afraid. It means we’re finally getting somewhere after all these years. How about if you let me put my hand over yours and guide that fat crayon and see what happens? But didn’t I teach you this lesson long ago? Perhaps you’re just so tired you’ve forgotten it.”

I stopped, right in the middle of the road. Now I remembered my forgotten lesson. I looked up at the stars; for a second I thought I could see the millions of galaxies beyond. Jesus had created all of this with the breath of His mouth; who knew what He could do with me and a few fat crayons?

“Lord! Do you think I could ever graduate to a paintbrush? Could I maybe someday be a Michelangelo with words and write a masterpiece about You?”

He chuckled. “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. You may never get beyond your box of five colors on this earth, but creative work continues through all eternity. Who knows what might happen there? But for now, steroids or no steroids, I think you should probably try to get some sleep.”

“So, don’t wake John and ask if he wants to watch a Christmas movie? Or maybe go have a cup of coffee and look at our beautiful Christmas tree?”

“No.”

“Could you explain the book of Revelation to me? I have a lot of questions.”

“Some other time.”

“Okay, but before I go to sleep, I’ve always wondered what Your plans are for the billions of galaxies up there in outer space. Could You tell me something about that?”

“Goodnight, Donna. Go to sleep. I’ll leave your box of crayons on your night table. Draw me a picture in the morning.”

***

These blogs are now available in eBook and paperback on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter