will

As I steadied myself against a tree, breathing hard and sweating profusely, weakness and fatigue replacing what hope I had of hiking to the top of the mountain; dehydration was making me feel dizzy and sick. With what resolve remained, I prayed.

Prayers for strength. Prayers for provision. Prayers that we could catch up to our children and their friends who took off with the backpacks containing all of the food and water, in no way realizing the danger we would face.

Concerned with hitting the trail head as soon as we could that morning, I was more focused on making sure the backpacks were full than on my immediate need for breakfast. I specifically wore lightweight pants with plenty of pockets, but never got around to filling them with granola bars, allowing the others to take on the task of carrying food. My husband had two water bottles in his fanny pack. I had nothing except my will to do a 12-mile hike up and down a mountain.

At the beginning of the hike I thought about how healing it is to get back to nature--that it would be odd to be terribly upset when life is springing up in abundance all around in its infinite array of beauty. The sound of birds calling out to each other in beautiful melodies; the variation of scents wafting through the trees and over the dirt and rocks; the cool breeze, offering a respite from the heat of a summer's day--all beckoned to me. I was walking into a greater sense of well-being, becoming more joyful with each step my hiking boot clad feet would take.

As expected, the boys (and girl) forged on ahead of us--their laughter and voices fading in the distance, leaving behind my marathon-running husband with the slowest one:  me.

After finishing off one of the water bottles, I began to realize the one granola bar I had hastily eaten in the parking lot would be far from satisfying my need for food. It wasn't that I felt hungry, it was more that my body needed fuel to operate correctly. Beginning stages of dehydration were forcing me to take more rest breaks as I became increasingly more depleted. Not thinking clearly, I overlooked the fact that my husband was offering me the water in his water bottle as well, which would soon be empty.

I was rapidly approaching what we as cyclists years ago in Colorado had referred to as the bonk. A similar condition to that of a runner hitting the wall, the bonk is what happens when a cyclist runs out of energy and can no longer ride. Once this condition is reached, it is not possible to will oneself back on a bicycle. The body shuts down; the mind becomes numb. Ceasing activity, regardless of what that may ultimately mean, takes precedence over all other thoughts and actions. Having experienced the bonk on a ride once, I knew better. As an experienced hiker, I had no excuse.

I started to daydream about lying down beside the trail while my husband went ahead without me.

Not sure whether I was imagining it or not, I began to hear voices which we soon recognized as we came across our group sitting on a huge rock passing around a loaf of bread to dip into a jar of peanut butter, and sharing water bottles, granola bars and a bag of almonds.

Taking a wrong trail had set them back twenty minutes, allowing us to catch up with them.

I would get the food and water I needed to hike to the top of the mountain where I would have a rescue Coke and make my way back down again, somewhat dehydrated and still sore three days later.

The idea of God's will has been in the forefront of my mind ever since.

It was His will that we all survive the hike. It was His will that I get the assistance I needed. But how in the world did the group take the wrong path when the trails were clearly marked? Was it God's will they get lost so we would meet up with them in time? Could my prayers for help only be answered by hampering the goals of others? I would never pray for my sons to become lost on a trail and yet was celebrating that they in fact had.

I tend to think of God as an old guy in an exceedingly large room filled with charts, plans, schedules and whatever else is needed to keep track of each one of His children. Did He decide the boys would be in no danger if they took a detour but since my health was deteriorating rapidly, He could use them to help? Did He somehow shield their eyes from seeing what was clearly marked on the trail signs? If we had not met up with them, we were in danger of hiking at least another hour possibly with no water for either of us, as my husband had stopped drinking his water bottle to give it to me and it was nearly empty. We did meet a man on the trail who was hiking down with camping provisions who may have been able to share with us. Did God have other plans for those provisions?

My plan was to take a strenuous hike up a mountain with my family. I knew it would probably take about nine hours and be difficult, but did not think it would present the challenge I actually faced. Having no expectation for any specific outcome other than to assume I would have no problems, I had to trust God to help me. I had no idea what His answer would be. We live our lives and make our choices to the best of our abilities each day. We put our hope in our intelligence, our health, our preparation, and leave the rest to God. We trust that our plans will somehow equate His plans. We know we are not in charge. We, however, often act as though we are.

We seek God's will, but do any of us on any given day know for certain exactly what that means?

au revoir

The good-bye scene at the airport had as much drama as the kind of chick flick I would pay good money to see whenever I needed a good cry, except I was not watching the life of a fictional character; I was living my own. It was the summer of 1985 and I was leaving Denver.

It had only been two summers earlier when I would travel west in a car driven by a woman I did not know, along with her daughter, Ardith, who had taken a class with my friend. They had agreed to allow me to take up space in the back seat for the 24-hour drive straight-through to Colorado from Michigan State University in East Lansing. Since the remainder of my friends finished school by our commencement date in June, I would live out my final quarter in a graduate dorm populated by international students while earning the one credit I needed to graduate. Though I had eaten dinner regularly with some of the same students, I was surprised when not one but three guys showed up for my send-off: Ron from Rhode Island whose weight fluctuated in accordance with his eating disorder; Dan from Chicago whom my mother approved of rendering him completely undesirable; and Bill from somewhere in the midwest who had no business showing up at all since he had never shown interest, though the sadness of his demeanor was evident that day. Giving each guy a hug and absolutely no promises, I headed out on what I told my parents would be a two-week vacation.

Two years later, I would accept the graduate assistantship offered by Marshall University in West Virginia, which would waive the cost of tuition--a handy benefit for someone with no money--and give me back my comfortable status as student. I would remain a Colorado resident the whole time I was gone, returning for spring break, a summer internship at a magazine, and what turned into emotional entanglement with a man who worked with me in a restaurant at the Brown Palace Hotel--the man who was keeping me from getting on the plane.

As the line ended with me, the last passenger yet to board, the flight attendant gently nudged me forward, tears streaming down my face as I struggled to walk with my Smith-Corona typewriter; my most prized possession. Naturally room had to be made for the typewriter in an overhead compartment which meant a great deal of rearranging and unkind looks I was blithely unaware of while I stood sobbing, catching the eye of a professionally dressed man who looked away suddenly, no doubt hoping I would not be seated next to him.

Our initial conversation went something like this:

Me: (sobbing loudly)
Man: Um. Excuse me . . . miss?
Me: (continuing to sob)
Man: Ah . . . they are now serving drinks.
Me: (uncontrollable crying)
Man: Drinks. You know, alcohol? You . . . (measuring each word patiently) could . . . have a drink.
Me: (quieter sobbing) A drink?

Though I found my way back to Denver after graduate school, the day would come when I had to leave, again. This time when I got on a plane, about seven years later, I would be carrying a baby, instead of a typewriter, feeling somewhat numb from all of the prerequisite tearful good-byes in the days leading to our departure.

A woman we knew from church stopped by our home as we were putting our lives into boxes I would label and add to my numbered list. It hurt to look into the face of this friend as we had shared our lives with each other, and I would even go as far as to tell her to please not look at me, as I had to keep my emotional resolve and go on with my methodical work. I knew she understood--that unspoken promise of friendship neither of us could come to terms with, as the boxes kept demanding my attention; efficiently packing a little more of myself into each one as the sound of the tape dispenser signaled another box was sealed shut.

Unpacking the boxes, I would discover what had made the trip intact, and what had not.

Furniture can be repaired; glassware replaced.

Broken hearts are eventually mended; friendships endure.

Good-bye is too permanent. I prefer the French farewell--au revoir--until we meet again.

holding on and letting go

"I take a problem and chew on it 'til all the flavor's gone, and then stick it in my hair."

--Vivi, Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, 2002

Vivi has this revelation after she tires from fighting against her daughter's choice to write of her dysfunctional childhood. Hiding from the truth threatens to wear them all out. What happened, happened. Everyone did the best they could. But not until they are ready to deal with it will any of them find healing.

I read an article in which the writer paraphrased what she learned about healing from the teaching of Thich Nhat Hanh, a Buddhist monk. It reminds me of the inner healing I have experienced through Christian counseling. I share it as it is resonating with me now.

Do not ignore or suppress negative thoughts or emotions; acknowledge and honor them.

This seems radically different from the most available advice I hear quite frequently. We are encouraged to not say anything at all if we do not have anything nice to say. But if we stop talking for that very reason, we are expected to answer for it--which, by the way, is impossible if one seeks to be honest. Acknowledgement means precisely that. Not overly dramatizing or dwelling upon. Simply stating what it is that is keeping us from moving beyond it.

Honoring an emotion that is causing pain is a twist in the socially acceptable playbook. Won't saying it is ok to be angry, depressed, sad, or whatever it is we are feeling, somehow rip apart the seams of what is considered to be normal behavior?

Identify the specifics of what is causing the upset.

This is where I have generally made an appointment with someone to talk things over, but talking to God works, too. If I say it aloud or write it down, it helps even more.

Identifying specific emotions is a bit trickier since sadness and depression are very closely related, as are the vast range of angry emotions. What is annoying, like the continual dripping of a broken sink, is different from that which makes one's heart beat faster, face get redder, and cause one to either need to go running or reach for a Guinness. It is often easier to stop the pain with these surefire methods than allow the emotions to lie there, exposed. We want to cover them up as soon as we can. They hurt.

Identify imagery these emotions create.

As a writer and an artist, I identify strongly with this concept. Recently I said in a group I feel like I'm in a free fall off a cliff, even though I am certain God will eventually catch me. No one responded. Perhaps I should have said that I feel lost on a country road in the dark, recalling a dream I once had. Or maybe a more recent dream of rolling a vehicle on an icy road and being trapped, unable to free myself . . . slowing freezing . . . to death. Not everyone is a writer or an artist, of which I am often made painfully aware.

It is easier to see me experiencing whatever it is I am feeling than to take myself out of the scene and see the emotion as an object, as this exercise suggests. What would my depressing thoughts look like? A tray of burnt biscuits? A beautiful cottage with a collapsed roof? A pile of ripped up books?

I picture a large ball and chain--cold and heavy, weighing me down every step I take--toward a lake, as I am unable to stop myself, even though I am aware that I will not be able to swim.

Breathe.

Always a good idea and not an easy thing to do--especially if one is in a free fall . . . or drowning. Just saying.

Picture yourself holding the image of these emotions lovingly, close to the heart with compassion, like one would hold a newborn baby.

Holding this ugly, painful emotion with love threatens to shake me to my core. I want to get rid of the thing, not turn it into a pet! And yet, admitting its existence and facing it is what will allow the healing to begin--as painful as it may be to get to this point.

As Christians, we are constantly told to take our pain to the foot of the cross and give it all to Jesus. We imagine the burden being taken and carried by Someone far better able to handle its weight. Perhaps if we fully uncovered what we've dragged to the cross, we will know what it is that is being taken from us for future reference.

Say to the image you will hold it with compassion until it is ready to go.

This is my favorite part, as self-defeating as it may sound to those eager to let it go, move on, and just keep smiling. Grieving the loss of unmet hopes and dreams, unrealized potential, unexpected turns on the road of life, takes time. A lot of time. Saying something is God's plan, whether or not it is true, rings hollow in the ears of those experiencing deep pain. It may be better to sit in a space that only compassion can fill and allow the tears to fall. We were never told we would not suffer. We were only told we would not have to suffer alone.

I will hold on to my current pain with compassion until it is ready to go.

I trust that day is not far off.

100

100 is a significant number. The first of the triple digits--maybe that's it.

100 pennies seems like a lot when you're a kid. Until you figure out it is only one dollar.

100 minutes is a good length for a movie. If more needs to be said or done--produce a sequel.

100 pages makes for a short book, unless it is on math and then it would be unbearably long.

100 is the age we think we want to reach, though quality should outweigh quantity on this one.

100 miles is not that far for a day's drive.

100 seconds sounds like a long time for a kid to be quiet; it is only just over a minute and a half.

100 words have already made up this blog post and I have barely gotten started.

100 dollars used to seem like a lot of money until I had a family and joined Costco.

100 days is a celebration in school for young children. Each child brings 100 items.

100th day of 2015 was April 10th. Spring break for some; snow make-up day for others.

100 buttons can easily fit into a shoebox.

100 bottles of beer on the wall.

100 books read by some arbitrary time period was the kind of goal I used to set.

100 recipes would not come close to the number I have. And yet, I always make my favorites.

100 sheets of paper goes amazingly fast. Recycling is good.

100 grains of sand does not come close to the amount that ends up in my sleeping bag at the beach.

100 Tears is the name of what appears to be a B-rated horror movie. I don't think I'll see it.

100 x 100 = 10, 000.  

100 chocolate chips is really not that many.

100 pairs of already run in running shoes--I shudder to think about what that would smell like.

100 beans in a pot. Sounds like dinner or the name of a children's book.

100 pieces of candy. Yum. Especially if they are homemade or chocolate.

100 calories is not as many as one would think. One slice of cheese, half an avocado, one orange.

100 pounds is what I weighed around the age of 14 I think.

100 students could be the average size of graduating classes from my high school. Mine was 153.

100 Acre Wood is where Winnie-the-Pooh lives.

100 head of cattle would make for a large farm.

100 cats would be a dream come true for a crazy cat lady.

100 miles per hour is too fast to drive. I don't care how high the numbers on the speedometer go.

100 is a convenient number for lists of songs, books, and movies. Top 100 has its own importance.

100 reasons to . . . may be too many. Perhaps 10 would be enough.

100 stitches will only allow me to sew about two letters on a pillow containing someone's name.

100 people is a good number to invite for a birthday party if one wants to celebrate big.

100 stamps are expensive.

100 shades of white does not come close to the number available. This matters to someone.

100 decisions to make before I even leave the house on any given day.

100 random acts of kindness. Sounds like a para-church organization I should start.

100 hymns for a thousand tongues to sing.

100 musicians make up what is considered a full-sized orchestra.

100 bees are the start of a honeybee population. I love honey. I hate to get stung.

100 children have I hugged and babies have I kissed during my tenure as a preschool teacher.

100 times I could go to the beach and never tire of it.

100 steps would only take me part of the way up the Hatteras Lighthouse. It has 268 to the top.

100 fireflies light up a warm summer night.

100 stars are beautiful to behold when one is sitting in a portable chair with nothing better to do.

100 trees are a great place to walk the dog though he may try to pee on all of them.

100 ways to express love in words and in deeds is just the beginning. It is infinite.

100 lines were too many to write for this post so I wrote 50 instead.

100 blog posts I have now published. Words from my heart to yours. Thank you for reading.

standing against

Recent happenings in my life bring back memories of a time when I had to stand up for fairness in the face of accusation and intimidation--the kind of life lessons that build character.

Our then "Christian" landlady rented a small house to us shortly after we had arrived in town. My husband was doing everything he could to secure employment while I tried to turn a run-down rental property into a home, livable for the two of us and our small child.

The worst part of the scenario is the lack of rights we as tenants apparently had. The landlady could show up whenever she pleased without calling ahead. She could interrupt our lives in whatever ways she saw fit.

After one particularly trying day as a parent of a two-year-old, I received a knock on the door preceded by my otherwise peaceful dog growling. It was my landlady coming by to tell me that work would be done on the tub, re-grouting I think, and that we would not be taking a shower for at least a day, maybe two. We had no recourse other than to go without bathing for awhile.

When our next door neighbor, another tenant of the same landlady was about to move, we were able to move next door into the larger rental house. This house also had many issues, but the landlady seemed more amenable to my husband doing home improvement including ripping up the carpet to reveal the flooring beneath thus eliminating the odor of cat urine. We were able to live more comfortably with an attic to store much of what we were not currently using. And we had a separate room for baby number two.

But there were other problems with this house that would have to be fixed at the landlady's convenience and not our own.

I will never forget the time I came home from a meeting at night to discover the toilet in the front yard. Entering the house I went immediately to where the men were renovating the only bathroom to inquire as to when the bathroom would become utilizable again. They assured me it would not be until at least the next day or so. Good thing the bush near the house was large enough to provide some privacy the next morning.

Unsure of where our lives would take us, we opted to rent month-to-month once our year's lease was up, not understanding that it was the lease that legally prevented our landlady from getting rid of us. But she was a Christian, we protested to ourselves. Our neighbor would tell us that she was a Christian on Sundays but the rest of the time she was all business.

When we received the eviction notice, not only did we need to find another place to live, but she was known for never returning anyone's damage deposit if she could prove damage was done to her property. In the midst of a hasty inspection, she decided that a rip in the dining room wallpaper and the screen windows coming loose in the bedroom were enough to warrant withholding the deposit. She also accused us of holding onto her air conditioning unit, thieves that we were.

Our neighbor said not to fight her, that she was evil.

My pastor friend who had given us the air conditioning unit to use while we lived there said to let it go.

I would do the only thing I know to do. Fight.

So thus began a flurry of certified letters set in motion by a landlady determined to never return our damage deposit.

In the meanwhile, I consulted with a tenants' rights organization who counseled me about possible legal action. Taking the matter to small claim's court would be far more costly than the amount of the deposit. I could only take the principle of the thing so far.

We would be evicted. We would find a more comfortable rental house with a far better landlord.

But I would make one last visit to my previous dwelling before turning in the key, bringing my camera to take pictures of the so-called damage with the hope that someone would defend me. What I found when I reached the house left me stunned--the house was filled with people in the midst of renovation! The wallpaper was completely torn off. The kitchen counter tops were gone. Walls were being stripped and painted. The entire house was being re-done!

Another intimidating certified letter was sent from the landlady as she continued to threaten to withhold the deposit. My certified letter back to her would recount my recent visit to the house with a promise to send the photos to whomever was necessary to recoup the deposit owed us.

Shortly thereafter, I would receive a check in the mail for the full amount of the damage deposit.

another crazy dream

Sometimes a dream will stubbornly cling to my subconscious mind, randomly inserting itself into my thoughts until I take the time to write about it. What follows is my recent adventure into dreamland.

I'm driving past my church, on my way home, and glance over to the left to see the large, old cemetery in the back. I drive across the narrow bridge, go into a spin and end up flipping the vehicle, skidding to a stop on its side.

Before we go any further, let me point out that I am not afraid to drive nor am I contemplating death as the cemetery may suggest. I drive up and down that particular road quite often these days and have never had any problems with it.

I have only been in one car accident which happened on the first Friday of this past October when I was crossing from the parking lot of the church which houses the preschool where I work into the parking lot of the credit union directly across a busy street. The driver of the other vehicle was in a hurry leaving the credit union drive-way, as he would later say, and did not notice me as I had the right of way. Making his hasty left-hand turn into my minivan seemed like a scene in slow motion. We were not injured; the minivan was totaled.

I would have to make a statement later, when the driver decided we were both at fault, and I would have to reiterate that I had only burst into tears because it was a new experience that kind of shook me up and I only said I was sorry because I was sorry it had happened--not that I was liable for the damages. Because I was not--as I continue to hold out hope that any day now a check for the deductible will show up in my mailbox . . . but, I digress.

Back to the dream.

What is strange is that as I am in a vehicle on its side, I am not confined in my seat although I know I was wearing a seatbelt. I am completely free and crawling around with much more room than would have existed in my vehicle. I am uninjured as far as I can tell. Apparently there had been a patch of ice and it is winter. Since it is a country road, it is also dark. I cannot find my phone to call for help. The interior of the vehicle, which I cannot even see, seems more like an ice cave than the inside of a car. I run my hands up and down the sides looking for a door, a window, anything I can identify, but come up blank. Everything seems to be solid ice. In the pitch black darkness, I am alone.

I sit in the dark cold knowing no one can hear me or even see me. I have no way of knowing whether I am still on the road, in the ditch or in a field. I wonder if this is going to be how I die. I have absolutely no idea what to do.

Before going totally numb, I see flashing lights and hear the sound of men's voices. Even though I am in desperate need of rescue, a part of me cannot help but wonder why it seems I am always rescued by men. Maybe it has something to do with my Christian beliefs and the person of Jesus.  

I wonder if they are going to need to cut through something to get me out and so I back up, away from what I think is the side of the vehicle. I then notice a window being rolled down FROM THE OUTSIDE.  

It has been a long time since I have had a car with old-fashioned, roll-down windows, but to my knowledge a vehicle has never been designed with the handles on the outside of the doors.

As the window opens and the light shines into my dark, ice-cave surroundings, I see a man's face--a man I cannot identify. He smiles, but does not speak. His eyes are his most noticeable feature. The only way I can describe them is that they are not brown, blue or green, but all color combined and yet devoid of color. Clear. Shiny. Filled with inexpressible joy that he has found me. Warmth radiates from his smile. I am completely safe.  

I wake up.

pool considerations

When my husband decides to go to the pool, he often chooses to run there whenever he can since he is always training for his next marathon. He will swim in the clothes he just ran in and will not care if he has so much as a towel, although he will require a book if we are to be there any length of time. For me, there are far more considerations.

As the Memorial Day weekend quickly approached, signaling the beginning of pool season, I started to prepare myself mentally for our involvement as pool members. Before we obtained membership years ago, I was invited by a friend whose boys are the same ages as mine and who would love to go to the pool to get some sun, a seemingly innocent activity that goes wrong for me every time.

I remain confounded as to why anyone should wonder about my reluctance to spend a great deal of time in the sun. Do they not notice the copious amounts of sunscreen I need to apply and reapply and then apply again? Do they ever see me making any progress toward the attainment of tanned skin? Do I look happy frying there like a chicken ready to be served with mashed potatoes and beans? No.

So pool membership helped me out because I then had more control over placement and timing. In other words, I could find a lounge chair UNDER the awning which provides needed shade and could plan to go to the pool and swim after the sun has started its descent behind the large trees that shade the pool in the late afternoon/early evening hours. This is a great plan, as long as there is a lounge chair under the awning available and I can persuade my husband to go at that time. Or I can go by myself, which works especially well for a lazy summer's afternoon nap.

Before I ever set foot on the deck of the pool there is the necessary consideration of a swimsuit, and let me be perfectly blunt--this is always problematic! From my earliest recollections, I would wear modest swimsuits in an attempt to not draw attention to my fair skin that was already blinding everyone near me by creating a reflection as the sunlight hit it, before it freckled and turned red.

I knew I would find last year's swimsuit folded behind the chair next to my bed, on top of my towel/bag combination, the swimsuit I wear to work out in that is in no way flattering, and the yoga mat I take out on occasion to stretch, hoping my middle-aged body will someday remember the exercises of my youth without the residual pain. Looking at the tag of the swimsuit I was horrified to realize it is a smaller size than I currently wear, as the complications of the previous year had led to some weight gain I am working hard to eliminate. It is bad enough it is an old lady swimdress to begin with, but now it is too small?

Twenty minutes later I had managed to get into it as I stood staring at myself in the mirror. I need to embrace this woman staring back at me, I decided. She has been through a lot and she deserves to be loved. It is not her fault her skin is pale and there is an ample amount of it. Even if she were thinner and younger, and foolishly chose a more revealing swimsuit, she has had children and the stretchmarks to prove it. She has scars; physical and otherwise. 

Checklist: natural sunscreen for sensitive skin, SPF 30; prescription sunglasses in case I want to trade out my regular glasses; The Sun magazine which is great to read anywhere; a headband, driver's license, phone. I would slip my Carole King Tapestry album in when I started the car to sing, "I feel the earth move under my feet" loudly on the way there. I know every word to every song since I have been listening to it since I was in 7th grade, but instead of making me feel old, I feel empowered.

As I drive into the pool parking lot I realize a lot of people have decided to come out for opening day. I knew this would be the case. I have a portable chair in my car in case there are no seats under the awning. I will find a place in the shade even if I have to create my own. I have no children to corral and my husband is running over. It is just me. Me, in my terribly tight old lady swimdress. Me, with my fair complexion that is going to be the same skin tone by the end of August that it is right now. Me, with my interesting magazine that is going to help me block out raunchy music and people who came to the pool only to socialize. I can do this thing.

The lounge chair is waiting for me, right where I want it to be. The music is better than usual. A soft breeze is blowing. The water will never be colder than Lake Michigan. The article in the magazine is fascinating. I am ok. Life is good.

A friend I haven't seen in awhile comes over to where I am sitting. Though I am certain she in no way meant to offend me, the first words out of her mouth are, "Your face is really red; you look sunburned."