Francine Rivers - Her Daughter’s Dream

She used the public restrooms to wash. She found better places to sleep. Her fringed leather jacket kept the dew from soaking into her upper body, though her skirt felt wet after sleeping on the grass.

Occasionally a police car passed by. She would sit still, arms wrapped around her knees, making herself as small as possible, like an animal hiding among rhododendrons and overgrown azaleas. She had always liked it there among the trees and flowers. The gardens reminded her of Oma’s cottage.

School buses pulled in every morning during the week, bringing children for field trips. Once when the children came out to eat their bagged lunches, Carolyn approached to beg, but a chaperone told her to leave the children alone. So she sat with her back against a tree and watched children laugh, eat, and casually toss their leftovers away.

Too hungry to have any pride, Carolyn rummaged in the garbage cans, looking for their scraps. Before a security guard ordered her away, she found a half-eaten bologna sandwich, a brown banana, a box of hardened raisins. One month rolled into another. She lived hand to mouth. Her stomach was empty most of the time, but the rest of her filled up to overflowing with shame. She grieved over Chel. Worse, the anguish over Charlie’s death returned. When he began haunting her dreams, she tried not to sleep at all.

One evening, Carolyn went to the end of the park and down to the beach. Sitting on the cold sand, she thought about Chel. She thought about Charlie, too, all the time now. She didn’t try to stop. The sun dipped toward the west. The light on the water made her eyes hurt. Her stomach ached. She hugged her knees against her chest, trying to stay warm. The surf pounded, waves whooshing up the sand while seagulls keened overhead. Two landed nearby and approached her, then flew off again when she had nothing to offer. The sky turned a beautiful rose-orange with pink streaks across the horizon.

Carolyn closed her eyes and imagined what it might feel like to walk into the surf, to go out so far there would be no turning back. She could spread her arms and drift weightless on the current until the warm water closed over her head. She imagined sinking into the blue, fish swimming around her, seaweed wrapping her in its embrace.

A blast of sand stung her face. The churning, crashing waves sounded angry, no longer inviting. The sea had come up. The mist turned cold. She got up and walked to the edge of the waves. The foamy sea lapped at her feet. In her dreams, it was warm, but this water felt ice-cold, so cold her skin and bones ached.

Courage failing, she turned away and saw a man in a military jacket sitting on the seawall, head turned toward her. Her heart quickened. Charlie? No. It couldn’t be. Charlie was dead. How long had the man been there? He swung his leg over the wall and stood on the walkway. He shouldered a duffel bag and guitar case and headed back toward Golden Gate Park.

Night approached, and it grew colder on the beach. Carolyn followed the same route the man had taken. The public bathrooms had been locked. She relieved herself in the bushes and washed her hands in a public drinking fountain. Leaving the sidewalk, she crossed a lawn and sat by a small lake. Guitar music drifted on the air as one by one the stars began to appear. Carolyn moved toward the sound. She spotted a black plastic lean-to and a sleeping bag spread out beneath it. The man sat on a log, head down as he played his guitar. Hungry, cold, desperate, Carolyn swallowed her fear and approached him. He lifted his head and smiled at her. “I hoped you’d follow me.”

“I like your music.”

“Thanks.” He had a kind smile. He was young, about the same age Charlie would be.

“Do you have any food?”

“Not much, but I’ll share.” He got up and dug in his duffel bag. He held out a Hershey’s chocolate bar. She would have to come close to take it from his hand. “It’s okay, miss. I won’t hurt you.” Though his face was young, his eyes looked old and sad.

“Thanks.” She opened it and ate half, offering the rest to him.

“You go ahead. You can share my fire, too, if you want.” He tilted his head and looked at her. “You look lost.”

“Are you a vet?”

“Yeah.” He went on playing the poignant, unfamiliar melody. “I’m still getting used to being a civilian.”

She thought of Charlie, and tears spilled over and slipped down her cheeks. “My brother died in Vietnam.”

He stopped playing and put the guitar aside. “Tell me about him.”

She did. She let the words and pain flow out of her, wondering why it felt so natural to tell a stranger. She felt something happen inside her, a spark, a tiny seed of hope planted.

He told her about friends he’d lost. When he offered to share his sleeping bag, she thanked him and stretched out beside him. She didn’t ask his name and didn’t offer hers. The ground didn’t feel as hard beneath her. When he drew the flannel-lined sleeping bag around them both, she sighed. He kissed her; she kissed him back. He was kind. He was gentle. When it was over, he didn’t let her go, but held her tenderly. He cried. So did she.

She awakened once during the night, kissed him on the forehead, and walked away, the morning mist drifting through the trees. She thought she could find her way back, but she got lost again.

Exhausted, frightened, crying, she lay on the grass. She must have fallen asleep, for she awakened when someone touched her. A man whispered her name. Oh, she thought, relief sweeping over her, he found me. He stroked her hair so tenderly. Her body relaxed beneath his caress. She didn’t want to move. She didn’t want him to stop. Warm and drowsy, she looked across the grass. Small white flowers bloomed like stars among the green blades. He touched her again, and she felt enveloped in love.

“I’ve been lost.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t find you.” She pushed herself up.

The sun rose behind him. Glorious color shone all around him. Carolyn raised a hand to shade her eyes.

“I found you.” Raindrops of sensation raced up and down her body. It wasn’t the young veteran who had found her. She couldn’t see His face in the light, but she knew His voice even though she had never heard it before. Her heart pounded wildly. He whispered again, and then He was gone.

Carolyn sat on the grass in the morning sunshine, holding tight to that one single moment when she felt loved, cherished, and for the first time in her life, certain of what she was supposed to do next.

Finally, pushing herself up, she found her way back to the sidewalk. She ducked into a public restroom to wash. Someone had broken the mirror. She stared at her reflection, like a Picasso painting, hacked up and put back together at odd angles. She dragged her fingers through her long, snarled hair, trying to make herself decent. How did she do that after spending weeks living in the same clothing, sleeping on the ground, scrounging in garbage cans? Giving up, she went back outside. She walked for a while and then sat to rest on a green lawn that tapered down to a pond.

Jesus had told her what to do. She just didn’t think she had the courage to do it.

A young mother came down the slope holding a blanket and large picnic basket. A little boy and girl raced ahead of her, each with a small plastic bag in their hands. Bread crumbs for the ducks. One quickly swam their way, eight fuzzy ducklings following in her wake.

“Not so close, Charlie!”

Pain gripped Carolyn. Her heart pounded again, hard, fast, fluttering strangely as though she had just come back to life. The little boy looked older than his sister. He took her hand and pulled her away from the edge of the small lake. Protective.