Held Captive by a Dark Force: Abigail’s Story (Part 7)

WARNING: This post may contain graphic or disturbing content… If you struggle with cutting, or are sensitive to the graphic description of cutting, do not read this post. The intent is to create awareness in the body of Christ, of a struggle that is relatively common, and tragically hidden, because of fear of judgement. Healing comes when silence is broken.

…As the seconds ticked by, I grew restless. We passed the four-minute mark… four and a half…

I stood to my feet, and walked to the cashier, a mature, friendly woman. “Excuse me, Ma’am,” I said, “I am concerned about the young woman in the bathroom. She’s not doing well, and I told her I would call 911 if she is not out in five minutes. Her time is pretty much up, and I am heading back to knock on the door, and see if she will respond.”

The cashier gave me a knowing look, as if she had already observed that something wasn’t right, and nodded. “I understand. If you need a key to the bathroom, let me know. I’ve got one and will give it to you.”

Would I really invade her privacy in the bathroom, if she didn’t respond? I processed that thought. There’s always the question of, how does one determine how seriously to take a moment like that? To disregard it, in the worst case scenario, would be to lose a life, or risk losing it…

“I’ll let you know if I need it,” I said,thanking her, and walked toward the bathroom. I made it half way back when Abigail stepped out. I took a deep breath. I had remained calm, but the inner tension had been there, more powerful than I had realized until the moment the stress lifted.

We seated ourselves in the corner, again, and the cashier brought us some glasses with water. She told us we could stay awhile, that they were not closing for quite some time. She looked at me, a question in her eyes, but never spoke a word. I smiled, nodded, and thanked her. She just wanted to know if we were going to be okay.

Moments like that, sitting there in relative silence, with the enemy feeling quite victorious, can make you feel pretty vulnerable. Especially when, only days earlier, it felt like such amazing breakthrough. Every now and then, when I pictured her going home with the blades, my heart would shrink back, and the mild sick feeling would wash over me.

Abigail just sat there, looking at me, the defiant smirk never leaving her face. It was almost chilling, the change that had come over her when she held the blades in her hands. Almost as if she felt stronger, more confident and more powerful. As if they held some secret power.

“Is that you smirking at me, or is that the enemy?” I asked her. The words formed, almost before I consciously processed them. I was suddenly aware that the battle had moved to a whole new level.

“I don’t know,” Abigail said.

If I spoke much at all, I don’t remember it. The shock of seeing her reclaim the blades wiped parts of that night from my memory, and only the memory of grief lingers powerfully, and that feeling of freezing to death.

“It’s cold in here… I’m freezing,” I said. “Could we go sit in my car? I need to warm up.” I had not removed my coat, still, I shivered.

“Sure, I don’t care,” she said. With that we packed up and moved to my car.

My car holds no secret powers, but it has become somewhat of a haven, a sanctuary, where sacred moments happen. It’s my little ‘church on wheels’, where I sit with broken-hearted women and girls, and lead them to the heart of God, and tell them about the love of Jesus. And in my car I have access to a spiritual weapon that I knew we needed in that moment.

If we were to experience any breakthrough at all that night, it would have to be away from the activity of the coffee shop, in a place with less distractions, where truth would speak into the darkness.

We jumped into my car, and I cranked the heat. First things first.

I connected my iPhone to the radio, to play worship music. “What’s your favourite song right now?” I asked. She looked at me, saying nothing. I couldn’t tell if the enemy had silenced her, or if she was unsure. Then I remembered her dream.

I did a search on Google, chose the song, and the lyrics started to play…

The hurt that broke your heart
And left you trembling in the dark
Feeling lost and alone
Will tell you hope’s a lie
But what if every tear you cry
Will seed the ground where joy will grow

And nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted

It’s from the deepest wounds
That beauty finds a place to bloom
And you will see before the end
That every broken piece is
Gathered in the heart of Jesus
And what’s lost will be found again

Nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted

From the ruins
From the ashes
Beauty will rise
From the wreckage
From the darkness
Glory will shine
Glory will shine

Nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted

[x2]From the ruins
From the ashes
Beauty will rise
From the wreckage
From the darkness
Glory will shine
Glory will shine

(Nothing is Wasted, Jason Gray)

I spoke truth over her, in agreement with the song. When it ended, I went to my iTunes list, and chose an appropriate playlist. Worship, I have learned, is one of the most powerful weapons against darkness.

I watched as her spirit softened. But behind the pain, and the desire in her eyes, lurked a dark force. I saw it. I felt it. It almost seemed as though she could see the light, but that force held her captive.

And that force would need to leave for breakthrough to take place….