Never Are We Truly Lost

A damp, grey drizzle fell over everything. I pulled my ragged collar higher to cover my neck, hoping to prevent the steady stream of cold droplets that seemed to find their way from the ends of my short curly my hair to the base of neck, travelling downward as I walked. The wind wraps its arms around me, squeezing as if in a lover’s embrace. An embrace I could do without, I thought, as I shivered uncontrollably.

Looking around, I noticed there were only a few souls out walking in the rain. Some going from one place to another. Others, like me, without a place to go to.

Picking up my pace, I walked toward the one place I knew would shelter me, offering a reprieve from the wind and rain. An old abandoned house that sat at the edge of the forest. Nobody would look for me there. In fact, nobody would look for me at all. I had broken every strand of connection to me, not out of cruelty, but to protect them from the me I was becoming. No medication could unravel the twisted darkness that had become my mind. I looked away, down to my feet, at the worn shoes that squished and pinched with every step. Next time I’m in town, I’ll pick up a new pair from the dumpster when no one is looking. Hopefully, they will fit better, and won’t leak.

The lights cast an eerie glow as the mist settles in the air, hanging as if unwilling to fall to the ground. Wet, damp fog is the worst. It clings to everything, spreading icy coldness into every crevice it can find. In winter, it was cold, but there was less dampness, and you could stay warm with the right attire. This stuff was like bony fingers stretching out, feeling their way as they crept into every fibre, every pore. Hunching my shoulders, I picked up my pace.

“I know.” It was all I could manage. I searched his gaze, looking for some magical answer to all my problems, but found none. Only a set of gentle eyes, saddened by life’s events, looked back at me.

Up ahead, people lingered. Something was not right. Too many people, I thought as I veered off the path, circling unnoticed around them. I watched to make sure no one saw me. They were too busy. A police walkie suddenly filled the air. I spun, searching for the man in blue, but could not see him. Through the crowd of onlookers, I saw a pair of feet on the ground. Twisted shoes lay in opposite directions. Not good. Whoever it was, was no longer here. A stark reminder of what life had in store for the likes of the wanderers. I knew those shoes. They belonged to a girl who had lived on the streets longer than I. I found myself turning, walking back toward the scene I had tried so desperately to avoid a few seconds earlier.

A hand landed on my shoulder as I tried to work my way through the crowd. The man in blue, I thought as I stopped and turned, but no, not the police. It was the preacher who walked the streets trying to bring lost souls home.

“You don’t want to go in there, son. She’s gone.”

“It’s not safe out here anymore. Will you not come back with me?”

“It wasn’t an accident then.” Not a question, a statement. I already knew when I saw the feet.

“No, someone did horrible things to her.”

“She shouldn’t be alone. None of these people knew her.”

“Son, she’s not alone. He’s with her. She’s finally free.”

I didn’t have to ask who He was. I knew. Somewhere in my twisted mind, the years of church going settled in. I closed my eyes, saying a silent prayer for the girl I knew, who was not my friend, but with whom I had so much in common. Shaking my head, I turned, retracing my steps so that no onlooker would discover my true destination. The house and shelter would have to wait a while.

I could hear him calling me as I walked away. It wasn’t the first time I had heard these words, and I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be the last time.

“Please, come home for a meal. Your mother is sick with worry.”

Raising my hand in a wave, I walked away. Guilt no longer worked on me. ‘How did a pastor’s son get so far from the Lord?’ I asked myself. Raised in the church, sang in the choir, living a life filled with love, yet here I stood.

I knew the answer. The voices. They began at eighteen. I tried to control them, but when I couldn’t manage them anymore, I left. They were better off without me. I knew what the voices said, and they scared me.

Drinking shut them off for a while, so I drank. When drinking didn’t do the job anymore, I experimented with drugs. They only seemed to make the voices worse, but they calmed me enough so I didn’t care. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a lighter and lit a smoke, inhaling as fully as I could, exhaling slowly. Stopping, I leaned against a tree for shelter.

Eventually, I made it to my abandoned shack. One man’s house is another’s castle, I thought, chuckling to myself. I went over to the chair I had salvaged and sat down, lighting the burner. The flame was small enough no one would notice. It brought little warmth, but still it was soothing. Pulling out the bread I had bundled inside my coat, I tore off a piece. Movement in the corner had my head snapping up. Not a person. A dog, also finding shelter.

“Don’t worry, boy, I won’t hurt you,” I said, tossing him a piece of stale bread. The dog was hesitant, but too hungry not to pass up free food. We sat studying each other, and eating. The loaf should’ve lasted me a few days, but between my hunger and the dog, we finished it. Turning off the burner, I walked to the corner to retrieve my bed roll. The dog had been sitting on it, and growled. Gently moving him, I freed the sleeping bag, took off my soggy shoes and jacket and wriggled my way inside. It was warm where the dog had laid on it. A small mercy.

“Don’t eat me in my sleep,” I said, and closed my eyes.

It wasn’t long before I felt the dog curl up against me for warmth. I woke a few hours later, and the dog was gone. Sitting in the darkness, I thanked God for the brief companionship. No sooner had I finished my thought when a light appeared before me. A man stood in front of me. Hollow, yet solid at the same time, glowing. I felt as if I knew him and yet he wasn’t what I imagined.

“It’s time to come home,” He said.

Pondering this, I looked back at the man. No fear befell me, rather a quiet peace. “I’m not quite ready to die, but thank you anyway. Think I’ll stick around here a bit.”

“Return to me, my son, and be well. There is much for you to do. Your wandering is over. It is time to come home.”

He disappeared as quickly as He came. The voices began yelling inside my head. Demons trying to convince me to run. I recognized them, but they did not have the same impact any longer. Somehow, I realized they had no control over me. As soon as I realized this, the voices faded; a soft murmuring in the background, like the buzzing of bees.

“Come home.” I couldn’t see Him, but I heard Him clearly. His was the loudest voice. “Come home.”

I sat pondering what I had seen. Night began to fade, giving way to the dawn of a new day. Looking around the house, I said a silent farewell and thank you for the shelter. Stepping out into the early morning air, I knew where I needed to go. Home.

The sky was just beginning to lighten as I walked up the driveway that led to both the church and my childhood home. I knew he would be awake, so I walked into the rectory and sat down in the chair opposite him. We looked at each other, saying nothing. After a time, my father stood, walked around the desk and sat down beside me. It was a simple gesture, but an impactful one. He waited until I was ready to say whatever I had to say.

“I need help. Jesus came to me. He told me it was time to come home. The voices have quieted, but they are still there. I’m afraid, not sure no what to do next. Will you help me?”

My father bowed his head briefly. I imagine he was offering a prayer of thanksgiving. Standing, he pulled me into a deep embrace. The kind that goes straight to your toes. “I’m here for whatever you need, my son.”

I spent the next six months in recovery, getting sober and getting help for my schizophrenia. The voices went away. I didn’t miss them. A new voice had stepped forward, guiding me on my journey. His is the only voice I listen to now. It is His work I do as I wander the streets at night, reaching out to help other struggling souls. My life is one of service and of love now, because of Him and His love for me. There is purpose in my night wandering now, not fear, nor loneliness. I thank God every day for saving me back then. The struggle is still there, but with Him, and Him alone, I stand strong. I can endure and help others.

Never are we truly lost, for He is always by our side.

If you liked this faith story you can find others on the Faith Stories link of Leslie’s website.