The Terror of the Night
It started with the realization of forgetfulness. The bottom door to my apartment, one of two doors between me and the outside world, had been left unlocked and wide open for the better part of an hour. At the top of the stairs, right across from the second door that led directly to my apartment, was the attic door.
It was hanging wide open.
I was convinced, for the most part, that it was the wind that had blown open the attic door. I knew anybody could have come in, up the stairs, and into the attic—the perfect hiding spot—without me having even the slightest clue. But it really couldn't be all of the things my imagination immediately conjured... could it? "No. It's the wind, not a murderer. The wind, not a robber. And zombies don't exist, silly. But the wind, the wind exists. It has to be the wind."
In the darkness of the night, however, this quick consolation did not hold up. Could I risk the possibility that it hadn't been the wind? Immediately, my mind was engaged in imaginary sparring with each of my would-be murderers. Before long I had a plan for every plausible scenario—and some implausible ones, too. Nothing could happen for which I wasn't prepared. But as a result, I had to know what was around every corner.
That night, there existed no villain on the planet—or on any other planet—that wasn't in my apartment. My mind turned against me. I invented monsters I had never seen before, even in a movie. My imagination created villains that would make the creators of Dr. Who jealous.
Sleep laughed at me as my imagination and my self-perpetuated monsters used it as the ball in an elaborate game of keep-away. Day and night the self-onslaught continued.*
What might seem to be semi-humorous anecdote about the wiles of my own imagination, my sleepless situation betrayed several things about me:
1. I think I'm in control.
In those moments of hypersensitivity, when I was aware of every single object in my apartment and every movement outside on the street, it was I that kept me safe. My actions betrayed my conviction that I was ultimately the one responsible for my own well-being. Over the course of multiple sleepless nights and trance-like days, I found that being in control is exhausting.
I had forgotten about the God of the Psalms: the King of glory, strong and mighty, my sun and my shield, my fortress and my refuge, my stronghold (Ps. 9:9-10, 24:8-9, 27:1, 62:1-12, 71:3, 84:11). The heavens and the earth stand because He said so (Ps. 119:90-91). I had forgotten about His Son Jesus, who stooped to become human so that through death he could destroy the one who has the power of death, the devil (Heb. 2:14). I forgot that physical death was but a result of spiritual death: sin. And I forgot that Jesus conquered sin and death on the cross.
In my self-preservative scramble, I had neglected to acknowledge that it is Jesus who is truly in control, for after he accomplished redemption, he sat down at the right hand of God where he is now, ruling and reigning until his enemies are made his footstool.
2. I don't know what real danger is.
With every rush of adrenaline that happened at the creak of a floorboard, a thump from the kitchen, or the appearance of another gory scene in my mind, my idea of danger ran further and further from the truth. I valued my life to such an extent that I considered its loss to be my greatest nightmare. Murder, zombies, and blood were the scariest things in the universe to me.
I had forgotten that I'd already been spared from what was in reality the scariest, most dangerous thing in the universe: God's great wrath toward my great sinfulness, and experiencing that wrath for eternity. God is the only being in the universe who has the power to determine one's fate for eternity. And because my utter sinfulness made me an enemy of God, I deserved his punishment forever. I confirmed my fallen nature when I forgot about God in the face of my imaginary but ruthless murderer.
An axe murderer is scary until you're dead. But hell is scary for eternity.
3. My definition of "safety" is completely wrong.
Even though I didn't take God's wrath seriously, Jesus did. I strove to save myself from nonexistant zombies; Jesus labored on the cross to secure my eternal salvation. When he accomplished my redemption, he received the punishment for my sinful disregard, and I received his record of having recognized God's wrath for what it was. He not only acknowledged but received the wrath of God that I deserved, so that years later when I would neglect to regard God as I should, God would still see me as innocent. The scariest thing in the universe, once my enemy, became my greatest friend in the cross.
Because of Jesus' birth, life, death, and resurrection, I am eternally safe from God's wrath. Though my body is perishable and susceptible to fatal gunfire, death only serves to usher me into the arms of the loving Savior who took death upon himself for me.
A week of nightmares, triggered by an open attic door and perpetuated by having the imagination of a fiction author, taught me to hold my life with an open hand. As Paul said, "For me to live is Christ, and to die is gain" (Phil. 1:21). I sleep far more soundly at night because I know that not only am I spared from being an enemy of the One who would be the scariest adversary in the universe, I am actually adopted as his daughter. Because of this, not a hair on my head can be touched without him not allowing it, but also ordaining it. Because I am God's child, I get to say, "My refuge and my fortress, my God in whom I trust... I will not fear the terror of the night" (Ps. 91:2, 5).
This is safety.
* Note: I'm not the kind of person that sees a demon under every rock. However, I am also very aware of the reality of spiritual warfare. Our battle, after all, is not with flesh and blood. That said, I'm not entirely convinced this was entirely self-onslaught. If you want to know, ask, and I'd be glad to indulge in some more story time. ;o)
