the storyline

The smooth, white object, once the inner part of a shell, is handed to me signifying my turn to talk. I had struggled all day during the silent retreat trying to sort out what I would say at the end when we gathered to share. I was not at all sure whether I would be able to hold myself together. In the end, I fail to restrain my emotions. I succeed, however, in sharing my heart.

A friend told me recently not to take it personally, but my emotional component serves as a signal--a harsh, glaring beacon--to those in leadership, warning them to avoid expending their precious time and energy in dealing with it.

What this speaks to me, albeit not her intention, is that I am not worthy of love and should expect nothing more than to be abandoned because of my woundedness. Though I have fought hard to not be THAT woman, apparently I have failed. It is not possible for me to be an effective leader as long as I am . . . me.

It would take me awhile to realize that my friend may have considered the emotional condition I was in during our conversation and from there had extrapolated the frame of mind in which I would most likely serve in my leadership roles. Though I do not compartmentalize my life, acting differently in each scenario, I try to reserve my intensity for the handful of friends who know me well, and not those with whom I share leadership responsibilities.

A woman at the retreat told me it is not our emotions we hold onto, but the storyline that goes along with them. At last, an explanation that makes all the sense in the world to me.

Emotions are fleeting. They come and go all the time. Developing a social awareness of appropriate behavior comes as we tailor our emotional make-up to the environments in which we find ourselves. This on-going evaluation of how much of ourselves we can share with others guides us. I have learned, often the hard way, it is not safe for me to open my heart to just anyone--only a few.

The storyline, however, accompanying the emotions--that is a whole different thing.

The journalist in me wants to know who, what, when, where, why, and how. I want the facts checked with original sources. I look for corroborated details and reliable witnesses. Direct quotes, motives, time and place; I want to know exactly what happened and why--not the condensed, sanitized version of the story I am supposed to accept as truth, the be all and end all to the story.

Fact-finding missions can lead to deep emotions when truths are revealed. Move on, I am told, the future awaits. But as others are not as curious as I am, their need to investigate ends a long time before mine does, leaving me with no one to talk to but the elephant in the room.

History has a way of repeating itself. Reflecting on how we would like to conduct ourselves differently may mean we actually consider what happened, why it happened, and if there is something we could each do to make it not happen again. But this requires a deeper look into the emotional well, and frightens many a hardy soul as he or she must face whether there is water in the well to draw from or if it went dry a long time ago.

Complexities arise when one decides what the narrative is as it is transformed through the telling and retelling, solidifying a new reality within the minds of those in its hearing. The story takes its place among the folklore and myth created by those who name themselves storytellers. They become the sources for information and over time their version is the only acceptable one.

Meanwhile back with my elephant friend, I attempt to gather more information. But by this point it is too late. The story has already been written. It may as well have been put in print or carved in stone. I have questions I can no longer ask. Emotions I am no longer allowed to feel. Confusion as to how I ever ended up holding onto something others have let go of; questions as to what it will take for me to do the same.

Leading wholeheartedly is what I am after--a worthy goal as each shard of my shattered heart is fit back into place, soldered together like a stained-glass window, with a supernatural adhesive that promotes forgiveness and healing. It is a transformation that begins when I surrender my incessant need to edit the storyline, and allow the Author who can see the end from the beginning to write the story.

As for my time with the elephant in the room--that too has had its upside. Elephants have exceptionally accurate memories and are highly intelligent creatures. Perhaps I have been in good company after all.

taking inventory

Sometimes I forget who I am.

Not because of early onset Alzheimer's or some form of denial, but more precisely--who I am supposed to be in each particular context at any given time.

On the stage of life, I play many roles.

I am a Presbyterian.
In my church I am a newcomer by the standards of those whose relatives settled here long ago.
As a soprano in the choir I strain to sing high enough, mindful to wear a skirt with a hem low enough.

Finding a place at the table of the Lord within a faith community is not for the faint of heart.

I serve on the board of directors for my church's daycare center.
I am a church lady without any financial training overseeing the operation of this non-profit.
I am often a silent witness.

I choose to be thought a fool than to speak up and remove all doubt, as the saying goes.

I am a ruling elder, the Stated Clerk of Session, and leader of the worship and arts team.
I am one of the youngest members, born in the North, raised as a Catholic. I am a woman.
I weigh what I say and do carefully, not taking my ordination lightly. I want to please God.

What I thought leadership would look and feel like is somewhat different than how it really is.

I am a regular vendor at a farmers' market and on the vendor advisory council.
I am not sure if the farmers know that I grew up on a farm; I am a crafter--the bed bunny lady.
We are all small business owners coming to the market to sell our wares.

We barter; we support one another. We only know each other according to what we sell.

I am one of 24 women on staff at a Baptist church preschool.
I am not drawn toward anything laminated or at what sometimes passes as the arts for children.
I am not a teacher who writes, but a writer who teaches; an artist with a day job.

Babies smile at me and fall asleep in my arms. They know who I am.

I am part of the art community.
Spirituality takes on infinite expressions; judgment not permitted--Guinness welcomed.
Inspiration and creativity come before marketing and self-promotion. We all long to be known.

We seek to touch the hearts and minds of those who want to understand what we have to share.

I am a daughter, sister, aunt, neighbor, citizen, and friend.
Lover of dogs, camper, hiker, coffee drinker, someone who keeps asking questions and seeking truth.
I am an observer of life, a collector of quotes, an admirer of music and art. I love books.

Dream with me. Together we can celebrate life. This is my business slogan.

I am a mother of sons who excel without excuse or the need for others to get competitive.
A mother who has spoiled her boys with the kind of food that makes them not want school lunch.
A mother who will keep believing all is well right up to the point in which it is not.

Motherhood has made me less selfish, and more fierce.

I am the wife of a chemistry teacher who revived his teaching at a traditionally black high school.
I married him when he was in food service which he still does on weekends for a catering company.
Eating healthy with him has added years to my life. He runs marathons; I am a runner of 5Ks.

We manage our household together. What we lack in resources, we make up for in faith.

I am a writer.
It is all I have ever wanted to be.
To express myself in writing is how I translate life, which is why I am taking inventory now.

I choose to serve God with my mind--a choice given me long after I put away the hope for a career.

I am a beloved child of God.
I try not to create division, rather erring on the side of love. I just say no to politics.
I look for ways to reach across beliefs that divide us to discover that which we all hold dear.

I can only be who I am, without shame, playing out all of these roles before an audience of One.

on the precipice

In the midst of unpacking from our recent camping trip to the beach, I notice sticking out from the pile of mail on the counter, a small, padded manila envelope addressed to me.

Though it had been awhile, I recognize the handwriting as unmistakably that of my estranged sister-in-law. I read what seems to be a new return address, still in California, and figure I may as well open it and get it over with--my prevailing thought: What does she want this time?

Pulling the tab at the back of the envelope reveals a gift box from a museum along with a folded sheet of notebook paper. Inside the box is an exquisite green jade bead necklace.

In the one page letter, she tells me she had a few days off from work giving her the opportunity to sort through belongings as well as the emotions they provoked apparently, as friends and family were brought to mind. She makes mention of the necklace, explaining that it was purchased by her mother's sister during a trip she made to China. She remembers my fondness for it; I do not.

She then says she regrets the exchanges we had during her mother's illness and death, and apologizes for hurting me.

One sentence. And I am hurtled back through time and space.

The year is 2004 and we, as in, my husband and our three sons ages 11, 8, and 5, struggle to make ends meet. The matriarch of my husband's family is in her final days, weeks, months. All we know is that difficult decisions seem to be continually before us. We are aware that navigating through this time is something new, different, and painful. We are not always able to do or say the right things. We react instead of respond. We have no idea what we are doing most of the time.

I take on the role of translator as the only adult involved not biologically related. As his family is in crisis, this is my way of offering assistance, not because my family of origin is any less dysfunctional, but because I do not have the history and emotional triggers that keep setting off the members of this family. But try as I may, I am ineffective and have no recourse other than to withdraw.

This is problematic for me because I see my marriage to my husband as giving me a place; a voice in his family. I realize over time, however, it does not always work that way.

On a particularly trying day I cry out to God for wisdom, as I rock in my chair seeking comfort for the pain. I have reached the point in which I want to hurt my sister-in-law as badly as she has hurt me. I try to think of something I can do that is as shocking as some of the decisions she has made. As misguided as my prayer is, I sit, listening for the still, small voice to help me formulate a plan.

Rejoice that the money is not yours, the voice says to my heart.

WHAT?!

The money is not hers either, the voice continues.

The money is mine--always has been and always will be, says the Lord.

And in that moment, I find the strength within me to do the most shocking thing I could do: forgive. I let go of it. All of it. I would begin to trust that in time the estate would be settled fairly and the inheritance would be issued in accordance with the legally binding documents. In time we would receive our share--far more than we were even expecting.

Numerous attempts at communication with my sister-in-law are made: letters, emails, phone calls. All fail.

Five years go by. A brief attempt to let bygones be bygones emerges. It too fails.

One day I come to terms with the fact that perhaps what my sister-in-law said to me years earlier is true: I am not her family. So I stop trying. Altogether. I then reason if I do not exist in her life, then neither do my children, though she would try to remain in contact with them as she could. She still had her brother, though they rarely communicated, since he did not want to act independently from his wife.

Estrangement is not an easy road to walk. Forgiveness is possible with divine intervention. An expression of regret and an apology for the hurt caused is a major step in the right direction.

And yet . . . .

I stand carefully on this precipice, preferring to remain quietly on the solid ground of my truest self and not risk free-falling off another emotional cliff. I am not entirely sure what to do.

It has been ten years.

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?