Cast a Road Before Me (32 page)

“All these commandments I have kept; what am I still lacking?”

Inexplicably, the words of the rich young man in the Gospel of Matthew popped into my mind. I pictured Pastor Frasier preaching, remembering my anger at his sermon. That was so long ago. What purpose did it serve to think of it now?

“Nothing,” I said aloud. “I lack nothing.”

I pressed on. Fear bubbled, then rose within me. Desperately, I prayed again for my mother.
Please let her answer me, God, please. I know you will. I know it
.

I drove through another small town. Two stoplights, just like Bradleyville. A pretty, blond little girl waved at me from the sidewalk. I waved back. Beyond the town limits, I got stuck behind a U-Haul truck, and it was a while before I could pass.

Please, Lord. I’m begging you
.

The minutes ticked by, my car wheels whirring.

Finally, my dogged pretense began to tremble. Somehow, I knew that if I did not shore it up, it would crumble quickly, as a long-enduring, rain-soaked hillside slides away under that final inch of water.

So I struggled. I sat up straighter, back not touching the seat, gripping the steering wheel. My shoulders squared, and my chin raised, as though I were staring down an ancient foe. But soon my back muscles grew weary, and my fingers cramped. I felt the first pebbles begin to fall, skittering sickeningly to the depths of my soul.

My eyes smarted. I swallowed hard and drove.

They picked up speed, those pebbles, then collided with little rocks, sending them tumbling. The rocks hit larger ones. And then heavy stones. The stones rolled into motion inside me, crashing into bigger stones until, ultimately, the boulders moved. The weight of the boulders’ riotous descent crushed tender soil
beneath them until the very foundation of
who I was
shook, slid, then heaved itself in one mighty spill.

Anyone watching would not have known; would only have seen a young woman, tired and hot, gauging curves in the road. No one could have guessed my despair.

Not another car was in sight when I finally pulled over. My tires crunched on the graveled shoulder of a turn-about as I rolled to a slow stop. I turned off the ignition, even then trying to convince myself it wasn’t true, and sank my forehead against the wheel. But I knew it was.

No “guardian angel” could give me the peace I sought.

The realization cracked my consciousness like a hammer on glass. Aunt Eva was right. My dream and all its temporary solace had led me away from God, not toward him. Somewhere, somehow, in the tumult of the last three days, I had lost the belief in my guardian angel that I’d thought would sustain me forever. Like the angel on Connie’s lamp who wore my mother’s smile, she had crumbled to ashes. Without her, I wanted to wail, I might as well be the baby on that lamp, scattered also into nothingness. My eyes squeezed shut as I sought my mother in futility one last time, begging and pleading to God to let her sustain me. And if not, I screamed silently, just let me die, just let me be with her. We’d rise again together, from ashes to angels. I couldn’t believe that God sought to take her and my dream from me. God could not be asking this of me. I’d clung to my beliefs for so long, I didn’t know how to let them go.

“God,” I cried, “I can’t do it! What do I have without her?”

I am all you need
.

A moan escaped my lips. Hollowly, I gazed at the bends in the road before me. Minutes passed as I stared at them with locked eyes, measuring their demands, their ultimate path. As I stared, they began to reshape themselves, looming narrower, more precarious.

Fruitless.

Time flattened itself, slipping over a distant horizon. I hunched in my old Ford, oven-like under the sun, still fighting.
Soon trickling tears began to flow, a sizzle in their wake. No amount of denial could now stanch them. I do not know how long I sobbed, body rocking. Only that it was for a lifetime. The force of my tears soon shook me as jarringly as had the force of my blows against Al Bledger, a blurred succession of images deepening my grief. I cried for my apartment, its blank walls so expectant and ready. I cried for the job I’d worked so hard to earn. For Hope Center. For the dresses I’d sewed and the boxes I’d packed. For blue paint. For the years I’d spent planning, dreaming. I cried for the despair of a life “not good enough.” And finally, helplessly, I cried for my mother—for a long, long time until the tears ran dry and my chest ached and my head pounded.

When I was done, I slowly raised my head. My swollen eyes could barely focus. I was weary of fighting.

“Okay, Jesus,” I whispered, “here I am. I’m yours. Forgive me for not listening for so long, for putting my plans ahead of you. I promise to follow you.” In desperation, then, I tried one more time. “So please, Lord,
please
, will you change your mind and let me drive on now? You can be with me in Cincinnati,
can’t
you?”

I waited for the peace to come that would tell me God agreed. I waited and waited for it, then ultimately demanded it. “Why, God,
why?
They’re
good
plans; I’m going to serve others; what’s
wrong
with that?”

For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you an expected end
.

Uncle Frank’s verse for Aunt Eva. The decision I faced now seemed no less calamitous than that night. I covered my eyes with both hands. For a long time I sat unmoving. Finally, in the end, I lifted my fingers away, my head tipping upward.

“Oh, Lord,” my voice was barely audible, “I’m going to need so much help.”

My hands trembled as I turned on the ignition. My breathing was unsteady, and I took my time, inhaling deeply. Strangely, then,
the air seemed to grow alive, filling my chest, offering strength. With determination my back straightened, my fingers firming on the wheel. I put the car in gear and rolled into motion.

Then I turned around—and headed home.

B
RANDILYN
C
OLLINS
is the best-selling author of
Color the Sidewalk for Me
and
Eyes of Elisha
. She and her family live in California. Link to her website from:
www.zondervan.com/collinsb

In the pages of
Cast a Road Before Me
, Brandilyn Collins not only delivers a captivating story, she literally draws you into the lives of the characters. As those characters become real enough to touch, suddenly Bradleyville becomes your town.

Sally E. Stuart,
Editor,
Christian Writer’s Market Guide

What a page-turner! The character of Jessie is wonderfully vulnerable yet feisty. The Mayberry-like town of Bradleyville is both homey yet mysterious. This is
not
predictable Christian fiction!
Cast a Road Before Me
contained all the elements of a gripping story—tension, romance, inspiration, and yes, even humor. I read it in a single sitting.

Holly G. Miller,
Contributing Editor,
Clarity
magazine,
Travel Editor,
The Saturday Evening Post

Brandilyn Collins’s
Cast a Road Before Me
is an intense tale of one woman’s confusion over God’s role in the universe, in her life. Ms. Collins’s characters are portrayed with realism and candor. A thought-provoking story.

Lyn Cote,
Author, Blessed Assurance series and
Hope’s Garden

Brandilyn Collins writes with a depth and clarity that makes the sights, sounds, smells, and the just plain folks of the South spring to life! She breathed life into her characters and fanned the flame of faith in this reader—just wonderful!

Annie Jones,
Author,
Deep Dixie
and
The Snowbirds

Cast a Road Before Me
is an engaging and sensitive story of a young woman’s coming to faith. Full of drama, romance, and subtle humor, it has all the makings of a good read.

Ann Tatlock, Author,
A Room of My Own
and
A Place Called Morning

Brandilyn immediately transports her readers back to a slower, and what seems from the outside, a more gentle time, then jars you with one of those tragedies that changes a life in an instant. You cannot stop reading as you have to see what happens next. Her lyrical use of language evokes emotion and compels the reader into the heart of the story, the heart of her characters, and makes them come alive in the heart of the reader.

Lauraine Snelling,
Author, Red River of the North series,
Daughter of Twin Oaks
, and
Sisters of the Confederacy
(Secret Refuge series)

Books by Brandilyn Collins