That Time I Hid in a Beer Cave
no beer cave needed, only the faithfulness of my God
All I really wanted that day was a slushee—a mix of cherry and cola. But when I walked into my local gas station fresh on the heels of a nasty broken-engagement, I received way more than I bargained for.
The side of his face as he picked up a snack from the aisle caused my feet to halt. Long had it been since he had control over me. Many days and nights had passed since he had shown up at my work while I crouched down behind a wall. Weeks had come and gone since he chased me to my apartment, spending the night on my porch.
The memory of jumping in the darkness as his fist hit the door and his mouth called out, “I know you’re in there!” flashed in my mind and I shuttered. There he was. Standing directly in front of me. The man who had wrecked my heart. This abuser who had lied, cheated, and harassed. And my body had definitely kept the score.
Like any good Baptist, I took refuge in a Speedway beer cave. As I stood with frigid air seeping into my skin, it was the numbness of panic that caused me to shiver. It was anxiety that made my legs weak.
I watched and waited and, yet again, prayed for God to get me out—to make me invisible. I knew he’d see my car and wait for me. So when his back was turned toward the cash register, I felt the Spirit prompt me, “Now.”
I got away that day, but I was not unscathed by those moments in the beer cave. I thought that he no longer had control over me, but my body believed differently. And like I have so many times in my life, I hid.
Like when I hid under the table as a child while my mom was beaten.
Or when I hid in my bedroom closet from my first long-term boyfriend as he threatened to kill me.
Or when I kept hidden in my heart all that had happened to me Sunday after Sunday in a church pew, for years.
In all of these situations, my safety, either emotionally, spiritually, or physically was invaded. Control over my own being was stolen. Or maybe I gave it over to them, tied with a bow. Either way, the body doesn’t forget.
But my soul remembers something too. My soul remembers how God has been faithful in every single one of these situations.
Recently, another safe place was invaded, and I survived it. More than that, God’s presence was evident in it. Instead of hiding, I faced it head on by the grace of the Spirit who lives inside me. Sure, my body revolted in panic, and traumatic memories flooded my mind—the body keeps the score—but I was okay. God used it to confirm what I knew to be true about the abuse I endured. It could have hindered my faith, but God used it to bolster it.
Hiding isn’t wrong; sometimes it’s necessary. But something healed in me the day I faced those who hurt me and didn’t run away. No beer cave needed, only the faithfulness of my God.
Image: Tony Eight Media via Unsplash
ICYMI
Recent Essays, Articles, and Poems:
Is Sex Actually Important in a Christian Marriage? on Core Christianity
The Gospel Frees You From the Shame of Sexual Sin on Core Christianity
My Firstborn is Not My First Baby on Substack
May Recs: It’s Been a Minute + a Book Update on Substack
Steadfast Devotional through Well-Watered Women