Waiting for Him

It is cold. No, it is freezing. She is barefoot, though the grass below is dripping. The drops on the grass are the only evidence left of the storm. All else is calm now. But she is cold. No, she is freezing. She is waiting. She is waiting for someone. Chills sprint up and down her spine. But she is alone. She is utterly alone. The bumps appear on her skin, like tiny rolling hills. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stand alert and vigilant. She is waiting. She is waiting for someone.

It is dark. No, it is black. She couldn’t see her own hand in front of her face. She remembers the stories she’s heard and wishes she were home, warm, with Him. But she is freezing, and she is utterly alone. She hears a crackle. She turns to see what is around her. But it is dark. No, it is black. She feels a surge through her legs that says they want to run. But she is waiting. She is waiting for someone.

She is quivering. No, she is shuddering. She hugs her book, His book, to her chest, as if it is an impenetrable shield. She wants to run. No, she needs to run. But she is waiting. She is waiting for Him. She falls to the ground. She is afraid. No, she is petrified. As she lies there breathing in the frigid air, she is frozen, isolated, quaking. Now she sees that she will forever be waiting, waiting for Him.