Who Is My Shelter? by Neta Jackson Read Free Book Online

times I didn’t particularly want to know God’s thoughts about something. Not if what He wanted to say might conflict with what I wanted to hear.
    Some Christian I was.
    Sighing, I closed my Bible and pulled one of my mom’s old afghans around me. It wasn’t just Philip’s safety that was distracting me. It was what he’d said in the hospital the morning after he’d been attacked. I could still hear the words, hear the pain in his voice.
    â€œGabby, I’ve messed everything up so bad. I don’t know what to do! You . . . you were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I . . . I drove you away. Please . . . please, don’t leave me. You have every right to . . . to walk out of here, but . . . can you forgive me? I’m begging you! Please . . .”
    I shuddered. Lee Boyer—my lawyer friend, who’d started to become “something more”—had shown up at the hospital right then. Told me what Philip was saying was a load of crap. Practically made me choose then and there. Either stand by Philip—in a crisis of his own making, Lee reminded me—or come away with him. Choose?! How could I choose! Lee had become a real friend, the kind of guy I should have married—down to earth, casual, fun, kind. Except he wasn’t interested in God or church or faith. And all that “religious stuff,” as he called it, had once again become very important to me.
    Something deep down—God?—wouldn’t let me walk away from my husband right then, even though months earlier Philip had thrown me out of the penthouse, left me homeless and penniless, and taken our sons back to Virginia to stay with their grandparents without telling me. Even though it hurt like hell to see Lee walk away that day in the hospital. But I’d told Philip I couldn’t answer his question right then either.
    I needed time.
    That was a week ago. A week ago today. And he hadn’t brought it up again.
    Oh God, what am I supposed to do?
    Arrgh . I needed more coffee. Knowing I was procrastinating, I threw off the afghan and took my empty coffee mug back to the kitchen for a refill. As I grabbed the coffee pot, I glanced up at the card I’d taped to the cupboard with the scripture Jodi Baxter had given me back when she first agreed to be my prayer partner. I’d been obsessing about whether my House of Hope idea would ever get off the ground. There it was, the verse from the book of Proverbs that had sustained and guided me through the whole House of Hope process.
    â€œTrust in the Lord with all your heart and don’t lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your paths.”
    In all my ways .
    Including the next steps for the House of Hope? Hadn’t God been faithful so far? Couldn’t I still trust Him?
    In all my ways .
    Including my relationship with Philip? Hadn’t God picked me up, dried my tears, given me hope when it looked as if my entire life had fallen apart? Could I still trust God about Philip?
    Acknowledge Him, and He will direct my paths . . .
    Forgetting my coffee, I sank down into a chair at the kitchen table and put my head in my hands. “Jesus, I’m so sorry,” I murmured. “Sorry that I take my eyes off You so easily. I want to trust You—I do trust You! Just . . . show me the way to go. Show me the next steps for the House of Hope. Show me if I should take Philip’s plea to forgive him seriously. Because, okay, I admit it, I’m scared. What would it mean to forgive him? I don’t know! And . . . I’m scared to find out. And show me—”
    Loud knocking at my front door jerked my head up just as I was going to pray about whether I should encourage Philip to get out of the penthouse or not, and my eyes caught the hands on the wall clock.
    Ten minutes to nine!
    Worship at SouledOut started at nine thirty. And Precious said she wanted to go with me