Darkness consumes my vision. There is no light down here, deep in my pit—my pit of sorrow, turmoil, and despair. My hands are scraped and bleeding from trying to scale the rock walls of my prison. But the rain has made them slick. And the rocks jutting from the walls are jagged; they cut through my skin like butter.

The rain mocks me. It fills my pit with water—dark water that rises above my ankles, my calves, my knees.

“Help me!” I scream. Somebody is sobbing. No doubt in another pit, in another place, for another person. It is not me. I am not that weak, that vulnerable. I don’t cry. I don’t weep.

The water is to my waist. The rain beats down in my face.

It is hopeless. The sobbing grows louder.

The water is to my chest.

“Help me, please!’

The rain beats harder. The water is too high. It swirls around my nose. Standing on my tiptoes, I gasp for air. I fumble around in the darkness with outreached hands, seeking anything to grasp onto, anything by which I can pull myself up. I find nothing.

The sobbing is my own. Oh God, I admit it. I admit it. The sobbing is my own.

I am gagging on burning liquid searing my nose and throat. Coughing, I inhale more water. I thrash about in my rain-filled pit. The water is over my head and I cannot swim.

I’m going to die and there is none to help me. No one who hears me. No one who cares enough to come to my rescue.

I stop fighting against my pit filled with liquid sorrow. There is no hope, so why do I care if I enter into the abyss? There is no healing balm for my broken soul.

I close my eyes and I float. Higher and higher I rise, until, instead of sinking, I am floating on the surface of my sorrow. And then, I am pulled higher still and slung over shoulders that I recognize but cannot place. I blink as my savior climbs a rope ladder flung down for this purpose. And though I sway form side to side, I hold no fear of falling from his hold.

The rays of sun are shining in my face, rushing heat to my shivering body. Strong hands hold me close, and I snuggle, safe and without fear, on my rescuer’s lap.

And though I am soaked through, the shirt that I cling to is dry. And though my skin has bumps from the chill previously racking my body, the arms that embrace me are smooth and warm.

Then, gently, so gently that I weep tears of which I am no longer ashamed, he pulls me to my feet. Loving hands remove my cold, wet clothes, article by article, with such tenderness that I do not flinch away. I stare at the ground where my bare toes sink into lush green grass.

A soft cloth of fluffy cotton envelopes my body as he rubs me dry. It ruffles through my hair, which he braids down my back.

And though I have yet to glance up—for I cannot bear to look anywhere but at my feet—from the corner of my eye, I see him shrug off the white robe from his body, leaving him only in a white shirt and white cotton drawstring pants.

When he wraps it around my shoulders and pulls my hands through its wide sleeves, I shiver. But I am no longer cold.

He rubs his fingers along the jagged cuts in my palms. Everywhere he touches my skin mends and heals. No scars remain.

With a step back, he hooks a tender finger under my chin and lifts my face.

I raise my eyes to curls of brown hair, bronze skin that glows with inward fire, and sweet green eyes that I instantly recognize.

I step forward into the embrace of the Lover of my Soul.

I cover his face with my kisses.

I am safe.

(Fiction based off of my testimony and Apostle Jone’s sermon My Help in the Midnight Crisis)