The Runaway Pastor's Wife by Diane Moody, Hannah Schmitt Page A

TV.
    And at that moment, a voice spoke quietly inside
her head.
    Annie, it’s all right for you to build a
snowman. And it’s all right for you to be here, to have some time to yourself.
Quit beating yourself up and just relax. You needed Me—and this is how you felt
you must find Me. I am here for you.
    With only the slightest shiver down her back,
she felt strangely calm. This was nice. Yes, this was good. Yet, something
stubborn was tugging at her heart. She had avoided the thoughts and feelings
dammed up inside her long enough.
    It was time to face the volcano inside.
    The scripture came to her mind at once. Come
to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest . . . for I
am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. She
clung to the words as though lost at sea, clinging to a life raft. She had to
believe those words even though doubts assailed her. She needed to
believe those words.
    Annie turned off the music and returned to her
spot on the sofa. The sense of dread about confronting this moment had
diminished. Now, taking God at His word, she allowed the door to her heart to
gently open.
    I don’t even know where to begin, Lord. I’ve
tried so desperately to bury these thoughts for so long, and now when I need to
uncover them, I don’t seem to know where to start. God, You alone know the pain
that has burned inside me all these months. You alone know all the feelings I
have experienced. Show me, God. Open my eyes to examine all of it. Don’t let me
hold anything back anymore. God, I’m begging You to help me. Give me strength
to do this.
    Once again, in the depths of her soul, the
familiar words of the Psalmist spoke to her heart. I lift up my eyes unto
the hills—from whence does my help come? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker
of heaven and earth.
    She took a deep breath and tried to clear her
head. This was not going to be easy. When did it first begin? She closed her
eyes, mentally watching a parade of faces and situations. It was like walking
down a long, dark corridor lined with doors on either side. Doors she had
barricaded. But she knew healing would only come as she unlocked each and every
one of them. Skimming through her journal on the plane, she had cracked open a
few of those doors. Now it was time to face the memories and individuals behind
every single one of them.
    The apprehension crawled back into her heart.
Any one of these doors would stir up a myriad thoughts and feelings she had
kept safely entombed. Annie shook her head, as if she could toss aside the
months—no, years—of unacknowledged bitterness that had given root to these
painful thorns in her soul. She sprang up to stoke the fire, poking the logs
with unusual force, causing a fierce blaze to roar against the hearth. She
stood transfixed, staring into the flames, surprised by her racing heart rate.
    She tossed the poker back into its place and
began to pace. Back and forth, back and forth. “Look at me! I’m like a wild
animal here.” She stopped in her tracks at the sound of her voice. “But who
cares? I’m all alone here. Who cares if I sound like a raving lunatic? I can
pace if I want to!”
    It felt odd to talk out loud like this. Then
again, it felt good. Real good.
    “Hey! I can shout out loud if I want to! I can
talk to myself, I can stomp all over the room, I can even scream if I have to!”
She nodded in satisfaction with her new-found freedom and continued her pacing.
“This is good. This is good.
    “Okay, Lord, I’m ready. You asked for it. Well,
here it is.” Rubbing her hands together, she took several deep breaths,
bolstering her courage. “I am sick to death of being a pastor’s
wife.
    “There. I said it!” She blew out a lungful of
air. “In fact, I might as well be totally honest. I absolutely despise being
a pastor’s wife. I love David—at least the David I used to know—but I
abhor the role I’ve been forced to accept just because I married him. I