by the fourth day

It takes time to enter into rest. One does not merely cease from activity, climb into a bed, and awaken refreshed the next morning with a brand new outlook on life. Stepping out of the ebb and flow of one's daily existence and into a different stream takes time--the rhythm of habits and patterns already set to adapt to whatever is expected of us. For one to choose a different response to life's challenges is a sign that new thoughts and ideas are beginning to emerge, or at the very least--one is on vacation.

I had read somewhere that it takes three nights to fully embrace the change of being in another place. Though weekend trips may lure one into thinking it is just the thing to bring a needed reprieve from the busyness of life, the experience is over before it ever truly begins.

This is why night number one of our camping trip to the Outer Banks was too soon for me to simply roll over and go back to sleep when I heard strange sounds in the night.

There is an unwritten code among campers which goes like this: we all respect each other's stuff. We put up tents that cannot possibly protect us from each other and sometimes not even the elements. We often do not lock the doors of our vehicles while we live in our temporary dwellings. It is only appropriate to take something when it becomes obvious after a day or two that no one is coming back for that striped beach towel hanging near the bathroom, the brand-new hatchet left behind on the picnic table, or the abandoned tent stakes half buried in the sand.

The unusual sounds were coming from the direction of our screen house tent that covers the picnic table, housing the three-day coolers which keep ice from melting almost that long; utility containers--one for dishes, and the other for everything from clothespins used for hanging our wet swimsuits on the line along the side of the tent; flashlights, trash bags, matches, dish soap, DEET to dab on sparingly to keep the mosquitoes from biting, and a lot of other things necessary for tent life.

After a long day of travel, we had set up camp in the heat of the day, eager to get to the water's edge to cool off. A day is defined from sunrise to sunset, especially without modern conveniences, like electricity. After dinner and a walk around the campground, we were ready to call it a night. We had not yet entered into rest.

Not having a clock nearby, or even a watch, I had no idea what time it was when I heard the zipper on our tent unzip and strained to see the hazy figure of my husband shining a flashlight in the direction of the screen house. I had not been dreaming. He too had heard the thud and scratching noises. Not seeing anything out of the ordinary, he returned to the tent to go to sleep.

Next came a scraping sound like something was being dragged across the road.

By this time I was wide awake and in need of answers. Exiting the tent I hoped I would not come face to face with another person since who knows what sort of danger that may entail. And, I was suddenly aware I had neglected to put on my shorts. On the other hand, I was not eager to come into contact with a wild animal either because, well, it is a wild animal.

I shine my flashlight on a furry creature about the size of a cat as the light catches little beady eyes glinting back at me just before it runs into the woods across from our site. And though I have not seen one in the 20 years we have camped at Frisco, the raccoon is first on my list of most likely thieves.

On day two it becomes all too clear that the large, red Tupperware bowl containing at least two dozen of my homemade chocolate chip cookies is nowhere to be found, apparently not making it into the vehicle with the rest of the food that had been put away at the end of our first evening.

Because it was only the second day of the vacation, I had not yet entered into rest. So instead of taking a deep breath and moving on with my life, I obsessed as to where my bowl was. My red bowl, perfect for the storage of more cookies I would eventually make. My bowl. Mine.

Walking into the dense woods with branches scratching me, I could see my bowl still taped shut on a ledge at the bottom of the hill. What were the chances. Going down to retrieve it I noticed the bottom scraped as it had undoubtedly been dragged across the pavement. Two bites were taken out of the lip of the bowl and a multitude of scratches told the story of how two tiny varmint hands reached in and out of it, devouring every crumb.

On night number two, a thunderstorm proved that our tent could leak if the rain came in horizontally, which it did. Waking to wet feet wrapped in wet sheets and wet hair on wet pillows could have ended a camping trip for some, but we were thankful for the cooler weather. Our bedding would dry in the sunshine later in the day as we practiced the arts of backgammon, and bartending.

Another day would pass before we would see a raccoon in broad daylight looking in our direction, near the woods where I had found my bowl. Encountering the raccoon and weathering the storm had not diminished our vacation; just the opposite. We were led further from the life we knew into the adventures of camping. Walking to get water, washing everything by hand, putting thought into the most routine aspects of living; we were adapting.

By the third afternoon on the beach, our sons and one of their friends (more like another son than a friend) joined our camp, replacing quietness with laughter which could be heard quite a ways down the road. A meal for two transformed into a cookout for six. More cooking, more cleaning, more celebrating.

Crossing the threshold into vacation mode on the fourth morning would serve me well as I decided to get a head-start on breakfast by frying up the bacon, while some of the men went for a run. Though I had used the old Coleman camp stove for years, I did not realize this new stove would get so hot that flames would shoot out, burning some of the bacon while leaving some of it uncooked. And melting a hole through the screen house tent. One of my sons pointed out that it would not have taken much to set the entire tent on fire and I should be glad that I had only created a hole, even though it was growing increasingly larger as the heat expanded it from a couple of inches to almost a foot in diameter. I should be glad--I should be horrified! I was not. I was on vacation.

Taping it back together with the duct tape that is known to fix just about anything, I waited for my husband to ask the obvious question when he returned from the run. Instead he just looked me in the eye--the look that comes from being married to someone for a long time. I returned his gaze with steady assurance, not saying a word. If he was not going to ask, I was not going to tell. I would let him think our son did this. For awhile.

We had fully entered into rest by this point, sitting in the warm sand, as the frequency of the waves measured time. Reading our books under the beach umbrella, we tried not to get sunburned. We would take naps. We would watch pelicans dive for food as clouds drifted by. We would eat fresh fish for dinner and watch the sunset.

On day five we would send our boys home after breakfast at our favorite bakery, then hike up and down the lighthouse, ending the day with a long walk on the beach to the pier that is still somehow standing in its progressive state of disintegration, years after the storm that closed it.

By this point the ratio of my sunburned skin to unburned skin seemed higher and dehydration frightfully near. I fought to regain my balance, but had to admit that I was beat as I lay shivering in our tent trying to come up with a solution to feel better. We had adjusted to sleeping on cots and had become vigilant with food storage and clean-up. We fancied going on with our lives like this for a little while longer, but after taking a good look at the raised red patches on my skin that were starting to burn and itch, I knew another day on the beach could do me in. It was time to go home.

Walking into the shower house after dismantling our campsite on the sixth day, I tried to imprint the memory of this place ever more permanently upon my mind. I had intended to pray each morning, like I do in my daily life, but by the morning of the fourth day everything became a prayer--even the raccoon, the rainstorm, camp stoves that melt tents, and sunburn. The sand burrs we would step on along with the abundance of cacti in the hot sand are constant reminders that it is not easy for us to live outside in these conditions. We have to respect nature for its beauty as well as its danger; the waves that refresh us can just as easily drag us out to sea by an undertow we cannot withstand. We are not meant to live in paradise. Yet.

Opening up the door to the shower I am startled by a dark green tree frog jumping out. As I am about to turn on the water, upgraded to a shower head from the rope we used to pull, my gaze is drawn to a bright green tree frog carefully crawling out of the spray of the water, and I am overwhelmed with a sense of joy. I share my shower with this tiny creature as the ocean breeze blows over the top and under the bottom of the door. The shower, recently renovated with tile, and still big enough for those who consider the adage, "Conserve water.  Shower with your steady," washes away the salt and the sand, restoring me.

On a ferry to the mainland after taking one to Ocracoke, I am targeted by a woman wearing orange-framed glasses and badly smudged bright red lipstick, as though she were in the throes of passionate kissing just before boarding, which I doubt. No longer aware of what day it is or what I even look like, I turn away from her from time to time, as she continues to chat on, causing me to wonder if the look in her eyes is the intensity of genius, madness, or some other special need. The lives of the characters in the novel I have been reading seem more real than she is. I think about reengaging in the life that awaits me at the end of the boat ride, and allow my mind to wander away instead.

We come to the water to enter into rest, becoming like rocks having their rough edges smoothed off over time, slowly being shaped into who we are intended to be.

appointed time

Walking slowly through the backyard, the grass seems to be a brighter hue as the warm earth, softened by rain, gives way ever so slightly to my sandaled feet. I carry the sunflowers, given to me by a woman who sells them, to the compost pile as their yellow petals are now shriveled, threatening to come undone all over the living room floor. It is in this nondescript act that I suddenly feel as though God is near.

I don't wake you up at 3 a.m. anymore.

That is the message I hear in my heart. Even though there was a long stretch of time in which I would awaken at 3 a.m. to avail myself to this divinely appointed meeting time, I just now realize that this is no longer happening.

I cannot remember the last time I woke up at 3 a.m.

Contemplating this, I wonder if God is giving up on me. Maybe after all of those attempts to get my attention and put faces and names in my mind so I would pray for them, I did not do as much as I could have. But prayer is relaxing. It helps one to go to sleep. When one is awakened to pray, it cannot last long before one tired woman is transported back to dreamland.

Another thought formulates, before I take myself too far afield.

What if God does not need to interrupt my sleep by inviting me to meet with him at 3 a.m. because I am more able now to meet with him at other times during my waking hours?

As I awaken and sit in front of the window with my coffee, listening to the sweet Irish voices on my online devotional speak to me of Scriptures and offer invitations to talk to Jesus as if he were sitting right beside me, my heart opens. I read, pray, and allow whatever I find in the way of inspirational words and art to represent my day in my posts. I try to listen for what my spirit needs to hear in order to learn more about love.

When I run my dog on a path through woods at the park, I think about the canopy of leaves overhead catching my prayers that I am offering as they hang high above like shiny little prayer flags, waving joyfully in the sun. Around me the birds sing out their prayers, harmonizing with one another; the locusts chirp theirs in unison.

The parts of my life requiring counsel and prayer have been resolving slowly, like brown sugar melting into butter before it cooks down to become frosting for brownies. My life is reintegrating, gathering together the broken fragments and fitting itself back together in a whole and healthy way. Though the scale betrays me, I feel lighter in spirit. Lighter than I have in quite awhile.

What if this is what I was referring to in a recent blog in which I vowed to hold my current pain with compassion until it was ready to go? What if on this warm summer day when I have had nothing on my calendar except to enjoy a leisurely afternoon of reading, now writing, and resting, that whatever has been weighing me down has chosen this day to fly away?

Higher and higher, it starts out as heavy flapping wings of some sort of flying creature straining to gain altitude, transforming mysteriously into thinner and lighter butterfly wings silently flitting from tree to tree until with a brief flourish of color, it disappears altogether.

I stand in awesome wonder.

to seek

When the challenges of a previous year are still plaguing one six months into the following year, drastic measures must be taken!

Sensitivity is absolutely necessary for writing and creativity; not so much for dealing with change. So for me to walk into a room filled with approximately 16 people I did not know, at a church in which I have never attended in a neighboring town, for a book study led by someone I used to go to church with, and then force myself to interact as though this behavior was nothing out of the ordinary for me, was in essence, an act of total desperation.

But God met me there. And the group graciously gave me a place among them to dwell while I continued to work things out. Five weeks into the study I wrote this prayer:


Prayer of Lament

By Mary Ellen Shores

I seek to do your will, O Lord; how can this be your will?

With open hands, I reach for you; to be in your presence is my delight. 

When it is too dark for my eyes to see, your Spirit illuminates my path.

Sovereign will, ultimate will, that which makes everything come to pass.

It was not beyond your control to intervene. Why did you remain silent?

You could have written a different script, giving each one another role to play.

Perceptive will, revealed will, written on the hearts of your children.

You gave us your directions, along with the freedom not to follow them.

Wickedness cannot be justified, even within your sovereign will, can it?

Perfect will, too great for my imperfection, is supposed to be enough.

Endless speculation about the way things may have been wearies the soul.

You are Almighty. I am not. What are my closed fists holding onto?

Forgiving requires an act of my will; words spoken in private to clear the slate.

Reconciliation catches in my throat, rendering me incapable of logic or truth.

How can I make peace with people like them, like me, like all of us? 

If you will open my hands and hold them up; I will yet praise you.

Let peace flow into my overwrought mind; heal my broken heart. Again.

Fill my spirit to overflowing so that I may arise and serve you with joy.

Undeterred by my new unrecognizable self, I would choose to travel to yet another town to sit in one of a half dozen rocking chairs in a room lined with bookshelves around a coffee table, where a small stack of cards with questions on them would define the day for the five of us--me, still trying to get my act together, and four women whom I had never met.

How has doubt been present in your spiritual life? was the question written on one of the cards.

Scripture passages chosen focused on the account of Thomas who doubted that Jesus had truly risen from the dead. He does not say he CANNOT believe until he has proof, he says he WILL NOT believe. I consider how many times I may have put God to the test.

Reading the 20th chapter of John I settle in for one of my favorite stories in the Bible: Mary Magdalene going to the tomb and getting to be the first to see Jesus after the resurrection. I know the story well. And like a movie scene watched over and over for the sheer enjoyment of a beautiful unfolding drama, I always pause at the part in which Jesus speaks her name in a way that she knows it is him--the one who set her free from oppression, the one who respected her as a woman, the one who chose to be her friend. She would have seemed so far from the kind of person who could glorify God with her life. Perhaps that is why she is my favorite.

"Woman, why are you weeping?" is the question asked of Mary, first by the angels who see her looking into the empty tomb and then by Jesus before he reveals to her his identity.

Woman, why are you weeping? became my question, not written on a card but on my heart.

I walk the labyrinth in a light rain left alone with my thoughts as I make the journey through the maze demarcated by its rocky walls. The pine straw scattered on the walkway over the soft earth cushion each step as the heavy drops of rain make polka dot patterns on the rocks.

Walking through a garden abundant with plant life, filled also with artwork to enhance the visual pleasure, I pause briefly before heading down toward the lake. Though it had been hot, the cloud cover provides relief as a cool breeze blows through the trees. Past the colorful prayer flags and up toward the vegetable garden, a porch swing becomes a place of refuge for me. Raindrops splashing rhythmically on the water create gentle ripples comforting me as the swing, hung between two large trees, rock me back and forth until I feel safe. Held.

Lunch consists of raspberries, blueberries, tomatoes, snap peas, hummus, avocados, my homemade apple pie and coffee. Fresh food prepared lovingly nourish my body; conversation revives my soul.

Five women who have lived long enough to experience many variations of faith and doubt--still able to laugh; intellectual women who are challenged to find ways to extend love beyond denominational boundaries out into a world with enormous needs, glorifying God in the process. Leaders--all.

Wanting to create art as I continued to seek God, I wove wire through buttons, winding the wire into a loop of time. A heart signifies the love that makes everything work together for good. Pink paper is the sky at daybreak, with a wisp of cloud coming down representing the Spirit who gives me inspiration; a band of flowers representing the earth and a piece across the middle anchoring the celestial rotation--the fabric of daily living. "The artificial notion of time" is what I would name it later.

By the end of the day, two of the women had to go, leaving the woman directing the group, one other woman and I to handle the issue of doubt, with care and compassion. I needed to answer for myself why Mary was still weeping.

Mary had a choice. She could remain in her grief as she gazed upon an empty tomb or she could turn to recognize Jesus who encouraged her to go on with life in a new way. She had been healed. She was still loved. There was no longer any reason for her to weep.    

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. [Psalm 30:5]

I await the dawn.