Free Storm Tossed: A troubled woman finds peace with herself and God in the midst of life's storms. by Beth Jones

preferred living, at least a little longer. The thunder boomed, one right after the other, the sky lightning up glorious rainbow colors, and it was as if God Himself were in the house shouting.
    What was He shouting to her?
    I want to go home , she prayed. God, please get me home to my family. Nothing matters but you and them. Have mercy, Lord Jesus. Please don’t let me die. I forgive Jackson. I really forgive him, God, for everything—even the floozy. I forgive Autumn for how she has hurt me. Forgive me for not loving her the way she needed to be loved. I forgive Faith for hurting me, never hugging me back and never saying ‘I love you, mom.’ I forgive my parents for not loving me the way I needed them to. Oh and that snotty lady at church, God. What’s her name. I forgive her, too. Maybe she’s just really hurting inside—like me. God, please rescue me. I want to go home and really live a life of love. Please show me how. Teach me to love. Save me from the storm and save me from a loveless life. Because You are love, God. I want to be like You.
    *******
    Rachel woke up at 5:59 a.m. Somehow, by some miracle, she must have fallen asleep in the storm. Like Jesus on the boat with his disciples , she mused. He woke up, rebuked the storm, and asked His disciples where their faith was. Where was hers?
    Her body was stiff and ached. Her neck had a bad crick in it. Despite the circumstances, she laughed at herself for the thought, remembering how her grandmother Taylor always said that. What a funny expression, but now she knew what it meant.
    She’d fallen asleep on the hardwood floor, not in her usual, comfy beach house bed with its beautiful soft, white comforter and white goose down feather pillows. Everything in that room was white and pure. Lots of open space with a big bay window overlooking the beach. Decorated with a few large shells, sand dollars, dried out red and purple starfish, and turquoise, unique bottles filled with the soft, white Destin sand on bookshelves: shelves lined with wonderful books to read all summer.
    Alone, reading, writing, laying on the beach, listening to its beckoning sounds. The waves, the sea gulls, the sound of children laughing, were like a heavenly orchestra to her spirit. That bedroom with its books, sea shells, and starfish, its blue glass bottles and white comforter, was a slice of heaven on earth and why she’d chosen that beach house. As for the ocean, it was her heart’s home. Always welcoming and promising, always a peaceful, renewing, healing balm to her soul.
    She’d come here to write. That, and the fact that it was miles away from everyone and everything so she could think straight and because it was a “hurricane-proof” Topsider home. At least the storm surge hadn’t reached the second story and she hadn’t had to wield the axe, cutting through the roof to be rescued.
    Not that she would have known how, and she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to do that anyway. That thing was so heavy. She’d practiced a couple swings on some hardware store planks with Ben showing her how to do it. He’d laughed with her at her feeble attempts, but said she was doing pretty well for a “foreigner” there . She was relieved she hadn’t had to use it for real. So far, she thought, shivering. God, please hold back the water.
    Now where was her hairbrush and makeup bag? Oh my gosh , she thought, habits die hard. Here she is after a hurricane and she’s worried about her hair and putting on her face. You’re so vain , Carly Simon’s song lyrics ran through her mind. Forgive me, God. Thank you that I’m alive. I praise You, God, because You are worthy of all worship and praise. Please let my neighbors be alive somehow, miraculously, God. Please help me, them, and others.
    She didn’t worry about her wrinkled clothes or for once, putting on her black eyeliner, her trademark. She quickly pulled on her lemon-yellow gumboots and by habit, checked her phone. How stupid , she