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.

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.