"I named my baby," I told them, over pizza and blonde brownies.
Chel said nothing, but Rachel said, "I've always heard that's a good thing to do. What's the name?"
"13," I answered.
She frowned, asked, "Why 13?"
"Because I got my answer on 1/3," I told her. "I don't want to forget. What an unlucky day."
"I was born on the 13th," she said. "13 has always been my lucky number."
And I knew, of course, that the 13th is Rachel's birthday; her birthday is three days before mine, in April. But her birthday hadn't been anywhere in my thoughts when I named my baby, and from that point in the conversation I proceeded to dump the truck: to tell them how angry I've been, and why.
Rachel called, today, to yip and yammer in my ear, and even as she wore severely on my nerves, I found myself impressed by her bravery.
The world's been standing by, waiting for my call. For the most part, I haven't. Called, that is. You would be amazed by all the people to whom I haven't been talking...mostly because I've been dangerous.
But Rachel? She jumps down in my pit. She gets all up in my business...up, even, in my face. She goes on and on, and I try to shut her down. Today, I told her: "You're not saying anything to me that I don't know. I just said this same stuff to Twinkles* a couple weeks ago. It's easy to say when you're not in the pit, even if you've been in the pit before.
"And I'll be honest," I continued, "No one's saying what I want to hear right now. No one. I know I need to let God speak to me, but I haven't been reading the Bible, and I've only been praying about some things. Not everything."
"You're letting Satan win," Rachel said (along with a bunch of other, unwelcome things). "Don't."
I sighed; said, "I'll see you tomorrow"; and hung up the phone. I walked by my Chronological Bible Reading Plan. I'd stopped reading the day I got my answer: 1/3. I'd read only the first 11 chapters of Genesis.
I hadn't realized: the readings ever since have been in Job. And then I knew. Then I cracked open the Bible.
*Made-up name to disguise person's true identity. Because most people don't name their children Twinkles. Or 13, for that matter. But whatever.