Goodnight to My Thoughts of You Page 2

Chapter One

  Postcard

  I never thought I was stupid enough to fall in love with a man who was so much older than me. After all, I was only 17 and Paul was 27 years old. I didn’t want to love him. I tried hard not to. But it happened anyway. And it happened so severely, suddenly, mercilessly. It was the worst kind of embarrassing infatuation, the kind where your friends are embarrassed for you. The kind that crushes your spirit. The kind you remember forever.

  And when I was 17, about to graduate from high school, I wrote everything on my heart with permanent marker. Partly because I was freaked out that everything was about to change once I graduated but mostly because I knew I wasn’t going to change my mind later.

  For spring break my senior year of high school I planned to go with my church youth group to Mexico Outreach, a week-long excursion hosted by Azusa Pacific University. I had attended the same trip the year before. I knew I would get away from the material comforts of the States, live out of a tent, and show love to some niños (little kids) in a small village located just about an hour past Tijuana. Our team had prepared for weeks in advance. We had Bible verses, skits, songs, crafts, and stories to share with the kids.

  When I arrived at the church the morning we left for Mexico, I felt ready for anything. After we packed up the trucks, we learned that we couldn’t leave because we were waiting for one more person.

  “Paul is running late,” said Jeff, another youth leader.

  “Who? Paul Greer?” I asked. “I didn’t even know that he was back in town. He’s coming with our team to Mexico?”

  “Yes,” Jeff answered. “He’s coming with us. For the entire week.”

  The first time I met Paul I was in sixth grade and he was in college. He spoke in our Sunday school service way back when our youth group consisted of about 20 students. I definitely saw him as a man teaching us kids. Right away I loved his personality. He was calm, poetic, and spiritual—like my dad.

  He stood with confidence and towered over our group like a lanky saint.

  “My name is Paul,” he began, tapping the spine of his Bible in the palm of his hand. He had clean-cut, sporty dark black hair and light blue eyes, a square jaw and heart-shaped lips. He was wearing a white T-shirt, shorts, and white tennis shoes.

  “I’ve been attending this church since high school,” Paul said. “I’m in college now. And now that I’m in college, I am learning that I am a nobody. God, for some reason, has chosen to bring me here this morning to speak to you—but I am no one special. I have nothing but Him. I have nothing more to share than what He has done in my life.”

  He went on to tell us about his family history. “I grew up in a large Mormon family. I have four older brothers and a younger sister. We had a Suburban and a trampoline, plus a refrigerator full of orange soda because my parents didn’t let us have caffeine. When I was in sixth grade, my dad had a disagreement with the leaders at our church. Then, within a matter of weeks, we weren’t Mormon anymore. We were—nothing. After that my dad seemed angry all the time. My mom was quiet all the time. For a while, my brothers and I acted like nothing happened. Then we started drinking—Coke and Mountain Dew.”

  “Three years later,” he continued, “My little sister got sick with leukemia. She had her first bone marrow transplant and barely survived. My parents were desperate for help and support. They decided to try out this church; you know, this Christian God, this family of believers, to find a new church family. At first I just came to church because my parents forced me to. I always thought religion was like Boy Scouts. I just went because my parents made me, and I did what I was told so I would fit in. I didn’t see faith in God as something really necessary for life. I didn’t understand the depth of God’s love for me. Of course, I went to winter camp and summer camp with the youth group year after year. I heard all the messages about the Holy Spirit and the Almighty God who loved me. But all I cared about was my little sis—was she going to be OK? Would I have to live every day of my life wondering if she would make it? I started arguing with God. I’d lie on my bed at night and tell him how unfair life is. Then, one night, I opened my Bible to Psalm 34 and read this:

  ‘I sought the Lord, and he answered me, and delivered me from all my fears. Look to him, and be radiant; so your faces shall never be ashamed. This poor soul cried, and was heard by the Lord, and was saved from every trouble. The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and delivers them. O taste and see that the Lord is good; happy are those who take refuge in him. O fear the Lord, you holy ones, for those who fear him have no want. The young lions suffer want and hunger, but those who seek the Lord lack no good thing...’”

  As Paul read the words of the Psalm, my heart heard the heart of God. It was like I entered a holy place. I was young, but I knew after I heard Paul speak that he feared God and that he was a man of God.

  I stayed afterward to thank Paul, and when he shook my hand, he looked straight into my eyes. I saw warmth that I had only seen in my family’s eyes. In his handshake I felt a connection, like two trees grafted together, and then quickly tucked that feeling away into my heart.

  “God bless you,” he said.

  In December of my junior year of high school, five years later, he came to our youth group again. Our youth pastor, Bob, introduced him to the crowd, which had grown to about 100 students.

  As he approached the stage from the other side of the room, I turned around to my best friend, Bianca, and teased her because she, like most girls at our church, had an innocent crush on Paul. I pretended to be melting in my chair, and I grabbed my head and moaned dramatically, “Oh my gosh, Paul Greer!” The room quieted down just as I said it, and I realized that everyone heard me. When I turned toward the stage, he was just over to my right and my face burned with embarrassment. I laughed and leaned down to hide my face in my knees.

  He looked so good. He was wearing glasses with black frames, a black shirt, tan pants, and boots. He sat with his legs apart, like a Euro soccer player, both friendly and mysterious. His jet-black hair had grown out, sort of messy and cute. It was the first time that I admitted to myself that I found him attractive. Then I remembered how fond I was of him when I was in middle school, and my appreciation returned.

  His message was about his soccer ministry in Europe. He leaned forward in his chair and told us a funny story about a girl there who had a crush on him.

  After the service Bianca tugged on my arm, insisting that we go over and say hi to Paul. “Miriam, come with me!” she begged.

  “No, I don’t know him well enough,” I said, and I stayed back and chatted with our friends. I looked over my friend Kai’s shoulder and saw Bianca hugging Paul, and jealousy pinched my heart, just for a moment.

  In June, I got a phone call late in the night. It was Nico, my good friend who lived down the street.

  “Miriam, I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he whispered. “I’m scared to go to sleep.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked, still only half awake.

  “I feel itchy. It’s like there’s bugs all over me. I scratch my arms and legs but nothing’s there.”

  “Are you on something?”

  “I think I’m being attacked by demons or some freaky crap like that.”

  “I’ve never heard of that before. Demons make you itch?”

  “Has this ever happened to you?”

  “No. Just get up and get a glass of water or something.”

  “But they are watching me. They’re freakin’ following me!”

  “OK, just relax. Demons can’t do anything to you. Just know that, OK? Everything will be fine in the morning.”

  The next day I asked my small-group leader, Kelly, what I should do. Kelly was one of my church leaders, and I felt like I could tell her anything.

  “I’m worried about my friend Nico,” I said. “I think it might really be a spiritual thing. Last year he accepted Jesus into his life but then turned away again when his parents found ou
t. They threatened to kick him out of the house for being a Christian. Ever since that happened, he’s had one thing after the other go wrong. Now he is becoming an insomniac, and last night he told me there are demons following him!”

  “Let’s go for coffee and talk with Nico and see what’s going on,” Kelly said. “I’ll ask Paul to come too. He’s good at this kind of thing.”

  “Thank you, Kelly, you are awesome. This means so much to me. I have been friends with Nico forever, and I have been praying for him ever since I was a little kid.”

  At a Starbucks in Burbank, the four of us—Nico, Kelly, Paul, and me—sat around a wrought iron table and talked about what happened to Nico. I tried to get him to say what he told me over the phone, but he brushed it off.

  “It’s OK now,” Nico insisted.

  By the end of the conversation, I felt better knowing that he was at least stable after everything that had happened. We went to the parking lot and stood by our cars and prayed. When I prayed for Nico, I cried, and the words came out chokingly through my tears.

  “Dear God, please help Nico. Please take away the itching, insomnia, and whatever evil thing is keeping him from resting at night. Please be in Nico’s life and keep him safe in your arms. We love you God, and we thank you for hearing our prayers. Thank you for your power. Thank you for being in control.”

  Still tearful, I hugged Nico, and he got in his car and left. Paul handed me a napkin to wipe my tears.

  At our youth group houseboat trip in August, Paul went out of his way to hang out with Bianca and me. He jumped in the boat with us, just as we were leaving for a ski run.

  “Oh, Paul!” Bianca cried. “You can’t watch us wakeboard; we don’t know what we are doing!”

  “Even better!” he laughed. “Here, let me take a picture of you two.” Bianca and I looked at each other and then smiled for the camera.

  “Take one with mine too,” Bianca said, handing him her camera.

  Our boat driver was one of the dads from our church. As we zoomed to the middle of the lake, Paul and Bianca chatted with him while I stared off in the distance, lost in thought—admiring the curves of the mountains and enjoying the sprits of water that landed on my arm with every bump of the boat. I glanced at Paul and caught him watching me. He smiled. I collected my hair into a ponytail and looked away.

  On the last day of the trip my leader Kelly invited the students to get baptized in the lake if they felt it was the right time to start fresh with God.

  After a few students walked down to the lake, I looked at Bianca.

  We walked down together, arm in arm. We waded into the water, the whole group clapping to encourage us.

  As I approached Kelly, Paul waded over to us. Kelly and Paul baptized me, one on each side of me. I was plunged backward into the water and when I came back up all I could do was sob as I stood there dripping, watching Bianca get baptized right after me. We all hugged. It felt like one of those days when God was actually right there in the water with us.

  Paul went back to work in the soccer ministry. I started my senior year of high school. One day in late October I received a postcard in the mail. It had a picture of a large foreign building, maybe a museum. I could tell it was from a guy, so I brought it upstairs where I could read it in the privacy of my room.

  Dear Miriam,

  Just want to say hi. I hope you are enjoying the sunshine of Cali. I can’t wait to come home and go surfing.

  Well, I have to get back to work, but I want you to know that I think you are a very special girl. You have a kind and compassionate heart for others. I look forward to seeing you and the youth group soon. Keep praying to our awesome God.

  Paul

  Does that say Paul? The name was squeezed into the bottom corner, half covered by post office markings. Why did he send me a postcard? That was so weird.

  I didn’t tell anyone about it until the weekend when I saw Bianca. Bianca and I went to different high schools, so we mostly hung out on the weekends. We were in her bedroom talking about guys, and I just couldn’t pretend it wasn’t a big deal anymore. I finally blurted it out: “I got a postcard from Paul!”

  “So did I,” she beamed.

  “You did? Wow. He must have sent one to every kid in our youth group.”

  She let me read her postcard, and it said the same stuff that mine did—except for the words “special girl” and “kind and compassionate heart for others.” Because those phrases were unique to my postcard, I believed that Paul saw something different in me, something that he liked. And I let that thought sit and grow, silently and contentedly, for a long time.