A stinging sensation immediately awakens me. Screaming, my eyes fly open and I pick my head up to see where it came from.

The second strike is just as surprising and hurts so much it feels as if my back is bleeding. I scramble up and feel that I have wet the bed again, which causes me to understand what’s going on. I consider pleading with Mr. Hatchker to stop, but then remember how much he hates that.

 The belt hits me once again and he begins to yell. I scoot to the corner to get as far from him as possible, but this move is a big mistake.

“You think this can’t reach you?” he says, seeming calm all of a sudden and as if he is really asking a question. As he turns to leave, he continues, “Ah, whatever. You’re not worth it. Breakfast is ready, by the way. Come get it when you want it.”

Slowly I crawl toward the ladder attached to my bed that is raised high off the floor, starving and ready to eat something… anything. Lately I’ve been being starved in addition to spanked awake when I wet the bed. I don’t do it on purpose, and I tell them that all the time, but it only makes them angrier.

Suddenly Mr. Hatchker turns around and I don’t even have a second to prepare for what is coming. I don’t see it until it happens.

My foster father raises the belt and brings it down onto my face hard, knocking me over into a ball. It takes a moment for what just happened to sink in, and for the pain to come. When it does, I grab my face and scream at the top of my voice.

“If you scream again, or even cry… if you make a single sound again, there’ll be plenty more. I have more in me, but I’m deciding to have mercy on you. Don’t make me change my mind.” When Mr. Hatchker leaves the room, I hurry off the bed and lock my bedroom door, then move my toy chest in front of it to prevent him from coming in once he realizes I locked the door.

Kneeling in front of the toy chest, I put my hands together, close my eyes and pray aloud, but quietly. By the time I get to, “Amen,” I hear sirens in the distance. I hop to my feet and rush to the closet, hiding behind the clothes.

What if Mr. Hatchker thinks I called the police? But maybe they’re not coming here. Maybe they’re just passing by. But Mrs. Maddison has forever assumed something was going on in this house because of all the yelling and bruises. I wonder if she’s the one who called the police. She’s threatened to do that a number of times. Was she serious?

I stiffen and my eyes widen when who I assume is Mr. Hatchker bangs his fists on the door.

“Open the door before I come in and kill you!” he screams.

Many voices suddenly say, “Freeze!” and the banging stops.

Mr. Hatchker uses foul language, then says, “I can explain.”

I wait in this hot closet for what feels like forever, listening to their conversation until there’s a gentle knock on my window.

I can hear the distinct click as the door is unlocked and the sound of the toy chest being pushed away from the door. My heart is pounding as I hear footsteps coming toward my closet. Then I hear, “Son, are you okay? Where are you?” and I realize it’s a police officer.

“You don’t have to worry,” says another. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Relief fills me and I open the door. Mrs. Maddison is right there, arms stretched open toward me.

“Everything will be okay,” she says as she holds me tightly while stroking my hair. She then instructs her husband to get some ice and he hurries out the door. The officers try to ask me some questions, but she stops them as she tries to console me. That’s when I notice that she’s crying, too. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she says as she rocks me.

Her husband soon returns with a plastic bag filled with crushed ice and Mrs. Maddison puts it on my face. The sudden shock of the cold ice and the stinging of my face brings the reality that it’s finally over.

 I open my eyes and see the soothing green walls and silhouette of my white armoire in the hazy morning light.  I’m in my room, a bit confused for the moment, but safe. That was just another nightmare.

Why am I having these recurrent dreams?

The smell of Wawa coffee and bacon cooking signals Sunday mornings in my house. My parents are sure to be seated at the table doing their shared devotion.

The clock reads 7:15 and I have Sunday school in a little over an hour.

                                                                       ♥ • ❤ • ♥

After doing my daily devotion, I climb into the shower, still pondering the nightmares. They seem to be getting more and more intense. I really need to speak with someone about these. They always feel so real that I become aware of my own rapid heartbeats, even as I sleep. Can one get a heart attack from a frightening dream? Maybe I should share all of this with our youth pastor at church today. Telling someone else would save Mom from worrying, as I know she would if I shared it with her.

I suddenly become aware of the time and realize I won’t be able to talk with anyone there if I don’t snap out of it and get dressed.

I grab my big, fluffy, white bath sheet and re-enter my bedroom, my long brown hair still dripping-wet.

My phone buzzes loudly on the dresser, startling me just as I walk by. When I pick it up, I see that the text is from Mandy, and a wave of relief washes over me.

Mandy: Will u b there 2day?

Me: Hi! Miss you. Yes, I’ll be there. Why?

Mandy: I’ve got some amazing news!!!

Me: Okay, can’t wait to hear it! See you in a bit!

I instinctively reach for the usual “church attire” but my right hand brushes against the light, billowy material of the white skirt and matching baby-doll tank my aunt Sydney sent for my last birthday. I love this outfit but have hardly worn it because it doesn’t very much remind me of myself despite the compliments I get when I wear it.

I look again at a pale blue dress that matches my eyes and then back to the glamorous set that makes me feel pretty. Shunning the usual, I reach for glamorous. I need a boost after that last nightmare.

I return to the bathroom, quickly dry my hair, then slip into the outfit. I can hardly believe how grown-up I appear. I look as if it’s my birthday or some very important day.

Oh, and I make certain I put on my signature fragrance. The combination of my two favorite Justice perfumes, the pink and the blue, are amazing together. My mom says she can tell when I’m feeling bad about something because that’s the combination I wear to boost my sagging spirits.

“Oh my!” my dad exclaims as I enter the kitchen.

My mother gasps dramatically. “You look beautiful! Is today a special day?”

“Do you have a date?” my father adds, frowning.

“No, Dad,” I answer. “Dates are for when I’m married. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me?”

“Smart girl,” Dad says. “And you can only date then. Grab some breakfast, honey. I have to go practice with the band before church.”

I grab a hardboiled egg and a yogurt, then run out to the car.

♥ • ❤ • ♥

Mandy finds me as soon as I walk into the youth services building. “Guess what!” she says excitedly. I have never seen a bigger smile on her face than the one she wears now. Her green eyes reflect her excitement.

“What?” I question, already excited for her.

“I know I didn’t tell you any of this, but…” Mandy pulls a book from behind her back and holds it up with a big smile on her face. The cover of the book is light green and in the center is the title.

Wait…

It has her name on it!

My mouth drops open. “Did you write that?!”

“Yes!” Mandy squeals, jumping from excitement. “I’ve been writing for a few years, but I finally figured out how to self-publish without it costing a fortune!”

“Oh my goodness!” By now I’m jumping with her. “That’s great, Mandy! What kind of stories do you write?”

“Christian fiction!”

“How many stories have you written?” I say, hardly able to contain my excitement!

“Ten, but I’ve only published one,” she answers. “The rest are incomplete.”

“When do you have the time to write all that?”

“Hey guys!” a tall blonde girl shouts, getting our attention. “Is it okay if I take a picture of you guys for my photography class? And if it comes out really good, they said that they would upload it to the church’s Facebook page!”

Mandy and I look at each other.

I shrug. “Sure, why not?”

“Okay,” Mandy answers hesitantly.

The girl snaps several pictures from different angles, saying, “Your smiles are so beautiful! I bet these pictures are going to turn out great!” When she’s finished, she tells us that her name is Monica, and we introduce ourselves as well. “You guys are on Facebook, right?”

At the same time, we both reply, “Yes,” as we nod.

“I should have these up by this afternoon if they all turn out well,” Monica says. She thanks us and then rushes off to find her next photography subjects.

“I’ve never seen her before,” I say, turning to Mandy with knitted brows.

“I’ve seen her before,” she replies, “but she looks different today.”

Sierra joins us and we find our seats, watching the countdown on the screen above the stage. Twelve seconds left on the clock.

When it goes down to ten, most of the kids in this room count down with it.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two… ONE!” nearly everyone shouts at once, excited to begin. That’s one thing I love most about this church… Pretty much every attender loves being here.

The band hurries onto the stage and begins to play. The first song is This Is Amazing Grace by Phil Wickham. Somewhere in the middle of it, someone beside me says, “Abigail… You look beautiful.” I turn to my right and see Devon, staring at me with a small smile on his face.

“Thanks,” I say quietly as I feel my cheeks grow warm. I hadn’t quite realized how much attention this outfit would call.

“Is this spot taken?” he asks.

“No, it’s not taken.”

“Is today a special day for you?”

“No,” I answer, “not really. I just wanted to… to wear something different than my usual.” I stopped myself mid-sentence before accidentally admitting that I just wanted to feel pretty.

Oh, no. Could Chase’s hurtful words be getting to me?

“Oh, well, it looks very nice on you.”

“Thank you, Devon,” I say, now openly blushing. I wish I could control this heat in my face.

The last song that plays is Give Me Faith by Elevation Worship. But there’s one particular part that Pastor David requests that the band plays on repeat.

 “Think about that for a moment, guys,” the pastor says before telling the band to continue playing, only softer. “Even when we fail, we can rest assured that He never will.”

After the band stops playing and tithes and offering are received, he prays for our hearts to be open and receptive to today’s message, and for us to be sensitive to the Holy Spirit. I feel so overwhelmed already by the presence of God in this place.

“The title of today’s message is called ‘Out of Tune’,” he begins. I pull out my book to take notes as I usually do.

Pastor David begins by telling us about his car and the fact that he knows when it needs a tune up. After it’s been serviced, it runs smoothly. His analogy is that humans need God’s tuning hand, much more often than cars need tune ups. Then he discusses his favorite musical instrument. Comparing us to guitars, he says that we’re more like these woodwind instruments than we are like cars. That gains him laughter from the audience.

“Guitars need frequent tuning,” he continues. “When we are in tune with God, our lives are more joyful, and we are more pleasant to be around. When we’re out of tune, we’re a mess… no picnic to be around. Like that Disney movie, ah… the one with Belle?” He seems to struggle to recall the title, so a few kids yell out, “Beauty and the Beast!” I roll my eyes as I’m reluctantly jolted back to the memory of that ridiculous conversation with Chase. “Oh, yes. The Beast is not fun to be around. He is out of tune.”

Mandy leans forward and steals a glance at me but I pretend not to notice and instead slump down in my chair.

Pastor David scans our faces, as if gauging our understanding of his analogies. Not appearing satisfied with what he sees, he then gets down off his wooden stool, walks to the back of the stage and picks up a shiny, black acoustic guitar. Turning back to us, he looks in a certain direction and says jokingly, “I promise I won’t hurt your baby, Adam.”

“You’d better not, ‘cause I know where you live!” Adam, the worship leader, shouts. We laugh, especially because we all know Pastor Adam is deadly serious.

Once Pastor David returns to his stool, he places the guitar on his lap and begins to tamper with the tuners. Then he strums it a few times. Some of us cover our ears as the noise becomes increasingly irritating.

“Sounds horrible, doesn’t it?” the pastor asks with a satisfied smile. “I know. We don’t want our thoughts to sound like this terrible noise, nor our words, nor our actions. Our lives shouldn’t sound like this guitar.  Want to hear the flat out truth?” When he speaks these words, a hush comes over the audience. He has everyone’s attention now, with that simple question.

“Yes,” a few of us respond, eager for him to share.

 Pastor David continues, “We will never be perfectly ‘in tune’, because we are by no means perfect. But this doesn’t at all mean that we’re supposed to get comfortable playing out of tune. We’re to want God to play us so that we make beautiful music that glorifies and leads people to Him. We are to desire God’s tuning touch in our lives, so that we reflect His light. We will then be a pleasure to be around. No one will cover their ears as you play, like you just did as I strummed Adam’s poor, out-of-tune guitar.”

“Sleep with one eye open, Pastor David!” Adam shouts.

Mr. Richardson laughs. “Okay, thanks for the heads up. I’ll be sure to.”

“Adam is so cute,” Sierra whispers, a hand on her chest. “I recently found out that he’s only two years older than me!”

“Eighteen?” I reply in surprise. “I thought he was thirty. But then again, I’m not a very good judge when it comes to someone’s age.”

Sierra’s mouth hangs open and she appears hurt. “I think ‘someone’ needs glasses!”

“’Someone’ needs to keep herself focused on why she’s here!” I reply.

“Oh, yes, you’re right.”

Pastor David calls our attention back to the stage by asking, “Are there any guitar players in the audience?” More people than I would have imagined raise their hands. “Okay, now, raise your other hand if you have ever used a capo while playing.” A full half of them indicate that they have. “Raise your third hand if you have ever – especially when first starting out – placed your fingers on the wrong side of the capo… to the left of it. And don’t be shy,” he says with a smile.

Everyone laughs at his “third hand” joke, and only a few admit that they have, in fact, done the very thing.

“Don’t worry,” Pastor David says. “I have, too. Now, would anyone else like to volunteer their guitar?” He doesn’t wait for an answer as he quickly continues, “Thank you Josh. I’ll use yours.”

“Say what?!” is all Josh is able to respond before the pastor’s assistant, Anthony, takes his gorgeous, red electric guitar despite his attempts at protest.

“I’ll return it later if all goes well!” After taking the guitar from Anthony, Pastor David Richardson returns to his seat. He says ominously, “Ooh… Nice guitar, Josh…” causing Josh to shift in his seat. “It would be a shame if this disappeared!”

The whole room erupts with laughter.

Colton Harrison pats a nervous Josh on the back while Pastor David positions himself with the guitar. What he begins to sing, I did not expect.

“To the left to the left. You can’t place your fingers on the neck to the left, of the capo, that’s just wrong, it’ll sound the same, all day long. It’ll sound like a mess, not fine, could you move your hand, yeah, to the other side? If, you wanna join a band, you gotta move your hand, yeah that’ll sound fab.”

The crowd roars as he sings this: a parody of Beyoncé’s Irreplaceable. We can’t seem to contain ourselves. More than half of the audience gives him a standing ovation, and it goes on for a while.

Pastor David uses a hand to quiet down the audience, then says, “I shared my songwriting talent with you…” He pauses for just a moment to flash us a silly smile, then continues, “…just to say that if you make chords behind the capo, which is this space right here, then each chord you play will sound the same. They will stay the same and you can’t really make music that way.It’ll soon get old just making the same sound repeatedly for the length of the song, and that reminds me of life. Some of us just go through the motions and not where God wants to take us. One of the reasons we may be stuck in that place is because we’re afraid…”

“It’s quiet in here now!” Sierra says.

“It’s because the guy’s speaking the truth!” Devon replies.

“One example is if you feel like God’s calling you to be a pastor,” Mr. Richardson says, “but you don’t think you’re a good public speaker. That’s like making chords on the wrong side of the capo in the sense that you’re not moving up to where He wants you to. Life would be richer and more fulfilling for us if we stepped up to what God has planned for us, instead of holding back for whatever reasons you may have. If you’re not growing in Christ, then you’re making chords on the wrong side of the capo.”

♥ • ❤ • ♥

“Pastor David, may I speak to you for a moment if you’re not too busy?”

“Sure Abigail,” he replies. “Is everything okay? You don’t seem yourself today.”

“Well, I’ve been having some strange, recurrent nightmares. I feel kind of uncomfortable sharing it, but I didn’t know who else to talk to about it.”

“I’m honored that you trust me, and I’m here to help,” he says reassuringly.

“Thanks. Well, uh, in my nightmares… I’m a little boy in foster care who moves from family to family frequently. I’ve only had the dream four times I think, and I’m being abused in every single one.”

“Do you think they mean something?” Mr. Richardson asks, his brows furrowed. “Has this ever happened to you before? Having strange, recurrent nightmares, I mean.”

“I really don’t know what to think,” I answer with a shrug. “And no, never.”

“If you don’t mind, could you tell me about one of them?”

“Well,” I begin hesitantly, “the most recent one is what I consider to be the worst of them. They seem to get worst every time. I had the most recent of those nightmares this morning, right before I woke up. In it I was asleep on a loft bed, but the dream really started when my foster father woke me up by, uh, hitting me repeatedly with a belt for accidentally wetting the bed… Then later he said breakfast was ready and I could come get it, but he tricked me so I would leave the corner and move toward him. That’s when he turned quickly and hit me across the face with the belt.”

“Wow… That must have been terrifying.”

I nod, then go on to share the rest of that dream and all that I can remember of the others.

“Wow,” he repeats, looking very puzzled. “I’m going to come straight out and ask you this: Have you ever been abused?”

I shake my head. “No, sir, I haven’t.”

“Okay, that’s good. Well Abigail, my best advice for you right now is to pray about it. Talk to God about it and ask him to reveal to you why you’re having these dreams. In fact, let me pray with you right now.”