Milkweed

After watching the sunset over the Muhlenberg Brigade Huts at Valley Forge National Park, my son and I started back towards the car. I kept stopping to take pictures along the way. Brett slowed to a stop so the dog could take care of some personal business and I waited, continuously looking for things to photograph. Across the path from us, the milkweed was turning to seed and I thought how some of them resembled an animal's ears. At one point, I convinced myself that if I stared hard enough, I could even imagine a face between two of them. I kept staring, finally whispering to Brett to look. I pointed, asking if he could see how those two particular milkweed seed pods kind of looked like ears. He was just starting to see where I was pointing when the "pods" moved, turned to the side, giving us a clear view of its body. It paused for a few seconds, then ran into the brush, disappearing from sight. Brett and I looked at each other to make sure we both saw it. What I thought was my imagination actually turned out to be a live animal. Later I spoke to a park ranger and described what we saw, asking if it was more likely a gray fox or a coyote and she told me it was probably a coyote, as gray foxes aren't common in that habitat. She said they had seen a litter of young coyotes in the park. I am so thankful my son saw it as well or I would always assume my imagination had turned into a hallucination at that moment. I'm also thankful for confirmation from a park ranger who knew all about the park and the wildlife that inhabits it.

I had the opportunity to return to South Carolina for a brief visit over the holiday weekend. Since leaving in 1989 as a newlywed, I rarely get back there. Spending time with friends and relatives was so wonderful. One of my high school best friends said something that completely warmed my heart. She said she had always liked my dad. Sometimes the simplest statements can have the most profound effect on a person. This is someone who knows me. Really knows me.

Most of my friends in Pennsylvania know I grew up in South Carolina but they don't know what high school I went to. They don't know who my homeroom teacher was. They don't know which English teacher taught us the word pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. They don't know what I did after school or what kind of music I liked.

And they didn't know my dad.

Even my kids didn't know my dad. He passed away before they were born. Some people stay in the same community all their lives and won't know this feeling, but there is something very special about being around loved ones who knew you "when".

But even those who knew me as a child / teen / tomboy / animal lover / Cyndi Lauper fan / goofball - don't know me completely. They don't know what I do from day to day, what my home looks like, or what car I drive.

There were lots of questions about my cancer journey. I was asked if I mind questions about it and I said definitely not. I am always happy to talk about my experience. Sometimes I worry I'm talking about it too much and boring people. Those who knew me "when" don't really know me now. So we catch up.

Nobody is ever going to be an expert on who I am. Except for the One who created me. He knows my past, present, future, every thought, every feeling, every intention. And He loves me through all of them.

"O Lord, You have searched me and known me.

You know my sitting down and my rising up;

You understand my thought from afar off.

You comprehend my path and my lying down,

and are acquainted with all my ways.

For there is not a word on my tongue,

but behold, O Lord, You know it altogether." 

Psalm 139:1-4

Sunrise Paddle

I shivered as I lowered my kayak into the water at the lake's edge. It wasn't so much the coolness in the air but the nervous anticipation. This would be my first time going out by myself on the lake and it was still fairly dark. Once situated, I pushed off with my paddle and began to make my way towards the middle of the lake where I thought the view of sunrise would be best. My whole body tensed up every time I bounced over the many ripples coming at me. Not only was it my first time out alone, it was also only my third time in a kayak at all. My husband was on the opposite side of the lake. I knew he could sort of see me, in the dim predawn light - a small, unsteady silhouette of nerves and determination wobbling in his direction. He didn't want a kayak because of persistent back problems that would have made it less of an adventure and more of a torture. But even if he were in his own kayak next to me, every paddle that inched me along had to be up to me. This was something I needed to do on my own.

Cancer. Just saying the word sounded wrong. That's something other people get. Everyone knows something about it and when you share the news of a new diagnosis, whoever is hearing it immediately thinks of someone they know. In fact, when I first heard the news, I immediately thought of a former coworker and friend who had passed away from breast cancer. She wasn't the only person I knew who'd had it, but she was the one who came to mind first. The interesting thing about that is, most of the people I told were reminded of people they knew who survived. Could that be because I was hearing the news from a place of fear and others were hearing it prepared to encourage? Who knows?

No matter how familiar we are with a similar situation, there are some parts of every journey that must be travelled alone. Going into surgery for my double mastectomy, I asked a dear older lady from church to come wait with me until I was taken back. We didn't know each other well but she had been on this journey and she was the one I wanted with me. But even she, as much as she understood, could not go into surgery with me.

People want to help. They try. And sometimes they feel pain and loss at just not knowing how to make you feel better. I remember after each of my chemo treatments feeling so miserable but not knowing how to even describe the feeling. My husband would rub my back and helplessly ask, "what hurts?" I didn't have an answer. It wasn't a feeling that had a description. It wasn't really pain. It wasn't really nausea. I just didn't feel... right. I still can't describe it even though I remember exactly how it felt.

And that's how it is sometimes on our solo journeys. It is so specific to us that sometimes, it just can't be explained. But just because we're on a journey of our own, that doesn't mean we aren't seen and heard - even those things we can't put into words.

"Likewise the Spirit also helps in our weaknesses. For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered." Romans 8:26

Unprepared

I tried to follow him through the stream but I lost my balance and took an impromptu seat in the water. He helped me to my feet, hastily offering me his own pants and boots in an effort to salvage the situation. He's the only hunting guide I'd ever worked with but I'm pretty sure that's above and beyond normal expectations.


Once I was settled in my blind, he left me alone in the woods. As his truck drove away, I shook my head. What a comedy of errors this afternoon had been so far. Our hunting camp was an hour away so when I noticed that I had forgotten my phone, there was no going back. Then I realized I had also forgotten my flashlight. Thankfully my husband gave me his spare. Then I dropped my Thermacell at some point on the trail and had to look for it in the woods.

I took a deep breath and leaned back as the mud beneath my chair began to give way. As I slowly sank, tilting to the side, I realized I forgot one more thing. My hunting license. Only 3-4 hours to wait until he returns for me.

My husband and I planned our 30th anniversary trip sixteen months in advance. We went to The Great American Outdoor Show, knowing exactly what we were looking for. We had our list of questions and a deposit ready to hand over to some lucky outfitter. We left that day with an official reservation and a year and a half of anticipation ahead of us.

Less than a week later, I sat in a dark room wearing a paper gown and hearing words I never prepared for... "I think it's cancer."

I wasn't prepared for those words. I wasn't prepared for the rush of questions that followed the initial stunned silence. I didn't ask them. How do you verbalize those questions? How do you even form words? I forget...

I wasn't prepared to spend all my time thinking about cancer. I wanted to spend the next year and a half thinking about my bear hunt!

I just started a new job a month ago. I wasn't prepared to take time off for doctor appointments and chemo treatments. I wasn't prepared to call in sick. I haven't had time to prove myself yet!

Shhhh… be still...  Deep breath... Is this meant to prepare me for something?

When my stony path took that unexpected turn, I noticed a few things:

1. Worry is a waste of time. Worrying comes naturally to me. I can spend hours - days worrying if I really set my mind to it. One thing I noticed recently - worry doesn't prevent bad things from happening. In fact, sometimes the worry can be worse than the actual thing you're worried about. For a while before my diagnosis, I would occasionally have this unsettled feeling that something bad was going to happen. After the news of my diagnosis set in, I felt an odd sense of relief. Like - oh, this is the bad thing. Okay now I can do something about it.

2. Community can be comforting. One thing I wanted to do right away was talk to other people who have been on this journey. It's comforting to talk to someone who knows exactly what you mean when you describe a weird side effect or complicated procedure. It's nice to talk to someone who isn't going to get tired of you always talking about cancer. I was blessed with a pen pal of sorts - my friend's aunt who I've never met in person but was going through the exact same treatment regimen with the exact same diagnosis at the exact same time. We texted each other frequently, comparing notes, encouraging each other, and just being there for each other. Neither of us knew more than the other about how to be a cancer patient. We just navigated it together. I'm thankful for her.

3. Kindness can come from unexpected places. It's uncomfortable going out in public when your head is bald and a bandana does little to disguise it. It's easy to think people are staring at you or feeling sorry for you. I don't like feeling like that. But one time a woman approached me and said "I just felt like God wanted me to tell you He sees you and He loves you." Then she prayed for me right there on the sidewalk. Another time, as my husband and I were having dinner at a restaurant, another family paid for our dinner on their way out. We didn't know until they were gone! So even if some are staring, there's a good chance they are also caring.

I wasn't prepared for this journey. But I'm on it and I'm not alone.

"For I am the Lord your God, who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, do not fear; I will help you." Isaiah 41:13

Butterfly

Identity

There was a lovely butterfly with brightly colored wings
who flew above the flower tops, and other pretty things.

He knew that he was beautiful and that he was adored,
as he was a reflection of his majestic Lord.

One day he overheard a thought that traveled through his head
that maybe he was not so grand as everybody said.

He folded up his lovely wings, decided not to fly,
crawled beneath a maple leaf and there began to cry.

The shadows became comfortable and felt a lot like home.
he crawled around beneath the leaves where wings should never roam.

Soon he heard a voice above - another butterfly -
My friend, why are you hiding here, and what has made you cry?"

He peeked his head out and replied: "I don't know what to do.
It's easier to hide down here than fly up there with you."

The sympathetic butterfly saw he'd traveled far
and said "it looks to me like you've forgotten who you are.

Your wings were made for soaring high - remember what is real.
You'll always be a butterfly, no matter how you feel.

Come out and spread your wings again and let all creatures see
the grand reflection that you are of God's great majesty."

Feeling better from these words and knowing they were true,
he shook off all the dirt and leaves, spread his wings, and flew.

Hibernation

I held a thorny branch to the side to let my daughter pass and pointed to the rock ridge ahead. "We're going to sit right up there." I whispered. Stopping after a few feet, I showed her the ground where the bear had been. You could still see evidence of the kill - a little blood and some scratch marks where we believe another bear had come to investigate afterwards. I hesitated a bit before continuing on. The place we planned to sit for small game was on top of an outcropping of rocks. I knew there was not enough room below them for a bear den but the writer in me was convinced there was, and that we might just wake it from hibernation. 

It's the middle of winter and I'm sick of it. "It" being basically everything. I'm cold. I'm tired. I'm completely depleted. I want to hibernate from the cold and from the heaviness of life.

I'm tired of having one-sided conversations where I am the listener, patiently listening to version after version of the same old stories while someone else tries to work through some emotional crisis. I'm tired of being strong for those people and encountering a closed door when I'm ready to share my own struggles or fears.

I'm tired of knowing that some of the people who are supposed to care about me and support me will not be available when I really need something - even if it's just a sympathetic ear or shoulder to cry on.

I'm tired of what I've come to call "combat conversations" where every word I try to speak is interrupted or ignored and I wind up feeling physically exhausted and out of breath for the effort. Then to have to answer the inane question when my frustrated silence is finally noticed: "why are you so quiet?"

I'm tired of being everyone's "yes" girl. I'm tired of taking on tasks that others don't "feel like" doing, only to be told NO when I finally express a need for help.

 I'm tired of being pushed around, ignored, taken advantage of, used, and cast aside.

and I'm sick and tired of that (*^&^$^%$ woodpecker interrupting my thoughts!!!!

 I'm tired of people. I'm tired of being cold. That's all.

Darkness

I turned off my alarm at 5:15 and considered canceling my morning walk with my friend. I was tired. I was unmotivated. It was cold outside. But I didn't want to let her down.  We were unaware of what this day would bring as we walked along. I complained a lot about the cold as we navigated the still-dark and quiet neighborhood streets. We were unaware of what had already taken place  just a few blocks over. After a half hour, we parted ways, wishing each other a good day—completely unprepared for what was to come.

There were two reasons my husband and I moved to Pennsylvania. The first and most important to us was that we wanted to raise our children close to family. We dreamed of big holiday parties and fun outings and picnics—the things large families do. Big dreams are always nice but not to be confused with reality. Things don't always go the way you hope they will.

But that's a story for another day.

The second reason was that there was a shooting in the apartment complex next to ours. In our minds, we were leaving a 'dangerous' area and going to a 'safe' one.

But evil can find it's way into any community.

Several years ago a young girl was brutally murdered two blocks away from us. That had a profound effect on me.

A few months ago a neighbor was shot in the leg right behind our garage. It's scary to think these things can happen so close to your home.

And this week, as I whined about waking up early and whined about the weather, and talked about trivial things with a friend, an unthinkable crime—a domestic dispute-turned-mass-murder—was already in progress just down the road. Hearing the story made me fearful. Later, when the victims' names were released, I felt sick. Two were students at my daughter's school. They rode her bus with her every day. They were kind to her. She considered them friends. One was killed. The other survived.

Waterfalls

We stopped in the middle of the wooden bridge and leaned on the railing, taking in the breathtaking sight. The slight mist in the air wrapped around us, inviting us into the moment, as we watched the water cascading before us. It was beautiful, majestic, persistent and powerful. The water dropped heavily and noisily into a churning, foamy pool below. At the bottom of that waterfall, it was complete chaos. And that kind of chaos is where this story begins...

It was Friday evening. I arrived home from a stressful week at work with nothing on my mind but escaping into some TV crime drama with witty banter and a problem that is solved within an hour. That is not the evening that followed.

Around noon that day we'd had our oil tank filled, and sometime between then and our arrival in the evening, the tank's legs had given out and it tipped over, shearing off the valve and pouring every drop onto the floor. Our basement floor had a drain in it and the majority of the oil began arriving at the wastewater treatment plant well before we knew any of this was happening.

$900 of oil. Gone. And we hadn't even paid for it yet.

That tank might as well have fallen directly on me from the weight I felt. And the darkness. I felt dizzy and sick - at first simply because of the waste of $900. I had no idea how long this dark tunnel was going to be.

I learned a lot of lessons within the first few days of this.

1. People you consider friends may refuse your request for help when disaster strikes, if helping is inconvenient for them.

2. People you think are allies may turn on you when you most need them to be understanding.

3. People you think are your enemies may surprise you by not trying to capitalize on your disaster.

4. And people you don't even know may just surprise you in ways you could never imagine.

I'll only tell one of those stories.

I was at work when I got a call from the chief of police. Already feeling defeated and terrified about what was happening and all its unknowns, I listened with dread to what he had to say. I knew my spill had affected -and angered - one neighbor, so my mind raced ahead of his words, assuming something else had gone wrong; someone else had complained. He introduced himself and said he was proud to serve as chief of police in our community. He said as the chief of police, the concerns of the people in his community become his concerns. My heart was sinking with every word. I was sure this was leading somewhere very bad. Someone he cared about was angry.  He went on to say that he'd heard about our oil spill and that he and some of his "friends in the community" were concerned about our family. Did they think our kids weren't safe? I only heard every few words for a moment while I felt a waterfall hitting me relentlessly, depriving me of oxygen. Until he said something I'll never forget: "we would like to help you - and send you some oil when your tank is ready."

I was suddenly drowning under waves of various powerful emotions: relief that I wasn't in some kind of trouble; astonishment that someone who knew nothing about us wanted to help; gratitude for the unexpected show of concern for our well-being; and an unfamiliar sense of belonging and acceptance in our community.

There were other good things that have happened - and are still happening - in this story. But I hold on to that moment as confirmation that there really are good people in this world.

And they are not always where you expect to find them.

Bloomers. An Ugly Duckling Story

My husband pointed above our heads as we walked outside. Somehow, when I wasn't noticing, our pink dogwood tree had filled our front yard with the cheerful promise of spring. It seemed that, just yesterday, it was nothing but empty, brown branches. Being busy with everyday life and walking with my head down in a gloomy fog, I had failed to notice that winter had departed and the cure for my cabin fever had arrived at last. As a matter of fact, many other beautiful colors had been sneaking into the local landscape as well. If I had not looked around at reality, I might still be walking with my head down, sulking in winter misery, while spring passed by.

For reasons I won't get into, I pulled out my yearbooks the other evening and looked at my photos. And then I started to cry. Of course, I did attend high school in the 80's...

This was supposed to make me feel better about myself. I was planning to post those pics on Facebook, with the caption "in high school I always thought I was ugly, but that girl is not ugly." I did not get the reassurance I was looking for. As a matter of fact, one of the pictures was partially obscured by a big "X" over it and a mean word. Who would do that in someone's yearbook? Of course, there is a distinct possibility that it was me.

Yeah, I wasn't one of the "beautiful people." I had zero confidence in myself. I had terrible hair that did not respond well to all the perms, feathering, and teasing required for 80's popularity. I didn't stand up straight because I was too tall and too thin. I had actually been called Olive Oyl more than a few times, which was horribly inaccurate because she had straight hair.

I hid behind my friends. They probably never knew that I secretly thought they were better than me. Prettier. More popular. More fun to be around.

I had bullies.

Looking at those pictures took me back in a powerful way. I was flooded with the same feelings of inadequacy and longing that I had then, even though I am different now. Different on the outside, thankfully, but also different on the inside. I'm more comfortable with who I am. I don't hide anymore.

To be honest, once in a while I still feel the need to compare myself to the beautiful people. After the yearbook fiasco, I confided in someone who knew me then. Someone ten years younger than me, who did not know what ugly duckling I was talking about. Someone who assured me that, during those awkward years of feeling like I didn't measure up, she was looking up to me, thinking I was "the coolest, most beautiful teenager."

She is so much smarter than me. :-)

If I Were God

Trees were down everywhere. Some were uprooted completely, their massive roots leaving gaping holes in the earth. Some were snapped in two from the unbridled fury of winds the night before. The trees that were spared had been stripped of their leaves and some of their branches. The trails I had become accustomed to were littered with new obstacles. The air was silent - no squirrels or birds chittering from above, no rustling of leaves from small rodents on the ground. It was the eerie aftermath of Hurricane Sandy. Though destructive and powerful, the storm was not fueled by anger or vengeance. It did not have a vendetta against these trails and the wildlife that lives there. Nature has no malice or evil intent. Not like humans.

I've been asking some tough questions about God lately, most of them beginning with why? Why does He let evil prevail? Why doesn't He protect His children from harm? Why doesn't He seem to answer prayer? Why is He silent? Why does He stand by while people mock Him? And the biggest one: Does He really care?

Those questions continue to go unanswered, but in asking them, I have come to the conclusion that my issue is not necessarily disappointment with God, but disappointment with people. Think about it...

The reason I became frustrated with church was because of people.

The evildoers and mockers - people.

The unanswered prayers? If I'm honest, many of them come back to people. Lord, change their heart.

If I were God, I would probably do things differently. If someone mocked me, I would strike them down with lightening. If someone threatened the people I love, I would turn their evil upon themselves. My responses to evil would be very theatrical, like the superheroes in movies who get the audience cheering and laughing when they take down the villains. Wouldn't anybody do that?

If I were God, I would not have infinite patience to wait and let things run their course, knowing the end from the beginning and seeing the good in the face of the bad and knowing how my power not only can defeat evil but has defeated it. But then maybe I would, because I would be God and only God can do that.

Only God can still care about us when we don't deserve it. Only God gives us infinite chances to find Him and the redemption only He can give. Only God can love the unlovable.

Mere humans aren't that pure. We all fail. We all disappoint. So maybe I walk into church and someone makes me feel unwelcome. That is not a reflection of me or my value. It is a reflection of their human inadequacies.

Maybe someone says or does something cruel to me in anger. That is not a reflection of my worth, but of their own struggle for control, or even self-control.

Maybe my struggles contribute to someone else's disappointment in me.

We are all on a journey. We all have struggles and we all have sins. I need to learn to let other people be who they are, to not take things personally, to continue being who I am no matter what storms are raging around me. And I need to remember that God cares enough to be patient with me.

Muddy Banks

Sean climbed onto the bank to explore while I waited in the raft. The moment he stood up, his feet slipped out from under him and he landed on the muddy bank, sliding back down into the water. I watched him struggle to get his footing until he was able to pull himself back onto land. Keeping a watchful eye on him as he explored, I drifted close to shore in the raft, listening to the rippling of the water and the rest of the family playing downstream. It was just a day at the creek with the family. Just a day of catching crayfish and splashing and exploring. Just a day of making memories...

Quite often when I think of my family, I feel like it's us against the world. My oldest just reached his seventeenth birthday and I am starting to realize these days are numbered. Soon he will be an adult and will set out to make new memories with his own family. Of course, I'll want to share in those memories also - how fun it will be to take a multi-generational camping trip and tell stories to my grandchildren about when their daddy was little and used to call chicken nuggets "nummy guggies"...

I'm getting ahead of myself...

When I was growing up we had Christmas Eve at my Aunt Patricia's house every year. It was a fun time. My mom was one of six kids and all who were able would attend with their families. I would play with my cousins, my mom and aunts would sit around the dining room table playing board games or card games or word games - and get quite boisterous - while the men would stand in the kitchen or sit in the living room chatting about whatever men talk about.  I remember little details: mini cherry cheesecakes, punch with sherbet in it, my uncle Billy pretending not to like kids but not really fooling us some of us...

My niece and I have talked many times recently about those Christmas Eves and discussed our mutual wish that we could bring everyone back together and just do it again. One little visit to the place of our fondest memories - the center of a large, fun-loving family.

A few weeks ago I traveled to South Carolina to be with my relatives for a different kind of reunion. We were there to mourn the tragic loss of my cousin Vickie. It was a sad time and not at all the kind of family reunion my niece and I had talked about.

I realized while I was there that I had not seen most of this family since my dad passed away 16 years ago. Part of my visit was a complete immersion in memories and a sense of belonging that I had forgotten about. The other part of the visit was an odd outsider feeling, as though I was a spectator in someone else's life. Same experience as my last South Carolina trip, I suppose, but stronger. Even though I can't return to them, it was nice to be reminded of those special memories that were made as I was growing up. Those memories that were "just another day" back when they were being made...

Spring Fashion

The path was a little wider than I like, floored with gravel and populated by runners, bikers, dog-walkers, and hand-holding lovebirds. Still, it was a glorious day and a treat to be able to surround myself with lush trees and a brilliant array of spring flowers that lined the path. At a particular bridge, I stopped to admire the rugged beauty of the stream that fed the Delaware River below. The rocks and soothing sounds of flowing water drew me in and I climbed down the bank to play. Now that spring had arrived and put on its colorful attire, I felt my mood lifting - the darkness dissipating in the sunshine.

I'm a self-proclaimed jeans-and-t-shirt girl. Dressing up, to me, is taking my hair out of the ponytail and putting on earrings. For some reason, a few weeks ago, I had it in my head that I wanted a summer dress, even though I was pretty sure I'd never wear it. I set out on my mission - alone, which is never advised for a person like me. Thanks to the invention of cell phones and photo-messaging, I was able to seek counsel on a few dresses I liked, right from the dressing room. I came home with two dresses that day.

I actually wore one of them later that week - to work, of all places, and felt really good all day. That is saying a lot considering the frame of mind I've been in lately.

I'm still battling some kind of depression. Feelings of worthlessness, paranoia, helplessness... I have an idea where it's coming from, but it's too personal to share. Some things just have to stay on the inside.

Yesterday morning I decided to adopt the mantra of some of my ddip friends, "fake it till you make it". I am so tired of sulking and pouting and bringing down everyone around me. My first step was to send a super-cheerful text to a friend - something she was not used to from me. I wasn't feeling it, but I was determined to act it out anyway. Then I got some exercise, cleaned the basement, and dressed up nice for work.

When I started acting happy, I actually started to fool myself a little. I was starting to feel happy after a while. Today started out a little more positive and I wanted to keep it going. My friend from yesterday commented that it was the second day in a row that I was chipper. This was a wake-up call to me. I had been so mopey that a good mood seemed out of the ordinary. For me - the person my boss describes as someone who "brings sunshine to work."

What happened to me?

So, it worked this time, and it makes me wonder. Can you just "put on" a positive attitude like you can put on a dress? Or like the spring puts on it's vibrant colors?

Silence

The trees did little to block the outside world and offer the quiet I desperately needed. Even when there was no one passing by on the nearby trails, I could still hear the whoosh of the cars and the steady hum of whatever machinery was responsible for construction in the park that day. I stood on the bridge, leaning over the rail to peer into the shallow water below. I willed the trickling sound of the water to drown out the world but it did not comply. I was every bit as alone as I felt, wishing for silence and feeling empty in every way.

I have been working on it for a while but somewhere along the way I slipped back into my people-pleasing mentality. Being so afraid of disappointing people, I have stopped speaking up and saying what I want - clearly and confidently.

Instead, I sit and wait and, when people don't say what I want them to, I silently begin to resent them. I give in to feelings of worthlessness and self-doubt and close myself off.

The question has come to me frequently in the last few weeks. Are you okay?

No. I'm not.

I want you to know what I want, care what I want, and tell me what I want to hear. I want it to be believable, which will be a challenge because I am dealing with trust issues too. I don't believe anything.

Pathetic right? I wouldn't want to talk to me either. How do I get my confidence back?

I'm going to take it back. That's what I'm going to do. I became confident before by setting goals and working toward them. I got confidence from proving to myself that I can do more than I think I can do. I didn't get confidence from people flattering me or reading my mind or seeking me out. I was too busy conquering fears and goals to need that.

Chameleon or Newt

I walked with the girls through the woods on the cool, damp, early-spring day. I shook my head, thinking there was not a chance we'd ever see any wildlife with all their giggling and talking. One girl proved me wrong by spotting a bright orange newt on the brown, fallen leaves. On such an overcast day with no greenery or summer colors, the orange seemed oddly out of place. This animal was not hiding or blending in with its environment like a chameleon, but daring to stand out and be itself, regardless of the consequence of being discovered. Had I thought of it at the time, I might have used this as an object lesson for those Brownies - a lesson on being yourself.

Time and time again in my life, I have found myself so eager to fit in and be part of something that I let some of who I truly am fall by the wayside - even at my age. That has never served me well. It has often left me sitting on the sidelines, wondering what I did wrong, when I've been left out of something. Maybe I really wasn't fooling anyone. Maybe, even though I tried so hard, I was the only one being fooled by the effort.

It is an empowering feeling to realize that you are happy being yourself and that you don't need to fit into someone else's category. Even if you march to the beat of a different drum, there are those out there who will accept you right where you are. And if you wait long enough, you may even discover there are others in the world who hear the same beat.

I am not like everyone else. Most girls like to go to the mall and have their nails done and wear high heels and collect designer handbags. That's not me. I'd rather go in the woods and get my hands dirty and wear hiking boots and collect heart-shaped rocks and nature memories.

There is no need for me to be a chameleon. I'd rather be a newt.

Precious Cargo

The Warrior Dash was not my best mud run. I skipped two obstacles because of my paralyzing fear of heights, got disoriented, and ended up alone for the majority of the distance, separated from a caravan of friends who were there on the course - somewhere. Finally reunited with one of these friends, I attempted to climb an obstacle - a cargo net. It wasn't terribly high, but to me, it was terrifying. I relied heavily on KC's words of encouragement to get over it, fighting the urge to backtrack and go around. I managed to conquer the obstacle, but not the fear...

The first time I tried to climb the cargo net at the gym, I only got halfway up. I hugged the ropes the entire time and moved very slowly. When I got back on the ground I was shaking uncontrollably. I felt silly celebrating my victory because it seemed like a small one and I wasn't sure if M&M, who was holding it steady for me, truly understood the intensity of my fear.

The first time I reached the top, I paused, afraid to go back down but at the same time very eager to get to the ground. It was an amazing feeling to know I had done it, but, just because I overcame the fear that day, it did not mean I had conquered it. It's been six weeks since I first decided to climb that net, and I kept climbing before every class.

In week three, I was almost to the top, which had started to get easier for me. I caught sight of Drill across the room on the second floor/balcony area of the gym. I froze. I clung to the rope for dear life. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't climb up - or down. It was a new perspective for me of how high I was climbing. On the net it made me realize how far I had to fall - I was eye level with the second floor!

Once I had my feet back on the ground, it made me realize how far I had come. Scary as it was, I tried again the next class, clinging to the rope with my arms, my legs, and my will.

In week four, I noticed the bruises on the back of my arms. Bruises from bracing myself on the ropes with my arms while gripping tightly with my hands. Nice big, fat, fear-shaped bruises that looked like someone had been shaking me senseless. Bruises from not trusting myself, not trusting my strength, and not trusting my abilities. I kept climbing.

Monday, my husband was there for visitor's week and I wanted to show him what I could do. I proudly did my slow-and-steady, full-body climb to the top and careful, clingy descent to the ground. Then he decided to climb.

He scaled that rope like it was nothing, reached the top, then took it farther than I would ever dare. He leaned over the top, reached his hands down the other side, and flipped forward! M&M and I gasped as we watched him lose his grip and fall all the way to the mat. We looked at each other in shock for a brief second until that man of mine jumped up and exclaimed, "that was AWESOME!"

Wednesday I begged my husband not to do that stunt again. Then I climbed, faster than I ever had before. He and I were both impressed. There was less clinging and hugging the ropes and more hands and feet climbing. It became clear that his fall was actually good for me. If I fell, the mat would catch me. If I fell, I could get back up again. Unintentionally, my husband took away the last of my fear of that net.

I know that because today, there was not a second of clinging or a second of hesitation. My hands and feet did all the work, both climbing up and climbing down. In six weeks, I faced my fear of heights, stared it down, and emerged victorious!

The Icy Outskirts

We used to keep our bedroom window open at night to hear the rushing water of the creek behind our cabin. Such a relaxing sound. There were no neighbors or traffic to disturb the peace and tranquility of that mountain home. In the winter, the windows were closed and the creek would start to freeze over. The shallow pools along the edges developed a thick slab of ice - enough to walk around on - and the moving water had to fight to get through small channels to keep moving. The closer the water came to the edge, the slower it became, and sometimes swirled around in the same area until it, too, froze in place, postponing its journey until the spring thaw.

Yesterday was our Manna Run at DDIP. The cold air was tough on my lungs and I had a coughing fit when we arrived at Manna on Main Street. Because of this I wasn't able to help pass the food down the chain. Drill noticed me hanging back and shouted "Stoney, why are you on the outskirts?"

We've been having a really good session so far, with challenging workouts and motivated people. Nobody knows exactly what the magic formula is that makes this one stand out so much but others have noticed it as well.

In my case, I feel like I have shaken off a heavy weight. My head is clearer and I feel more focused. I'm not out to prove anything this time around, just to get stronger. And I think, for me, the change has something to do with influence.

I won't go into detail but I think I can pinpoint where I took a wrong turn and let the influence of others draw me to the icy sidelines and slow me down. It was a gradual process, the swirling in circles until I dropped out mid-session to get my head on straight.

I had drifted to the outskirts and got caught up in a cycle of people-pleasing that distracted me from my focus. When will I ever learn? Even at my best, I do not have what it takes to make the whole world happy. 

Since the holidays, I feel like I have more confidence and a firmer grasp on who really plays active roles in my life and who draws me to the cold outskirts.

It feels like this is going to be a good year. A year of being who I am without apology. A year of challenging myself to new heights - such as the cargo net I mentioned in my last post. In case you were wondering, I have climbed all the way to the top several times now. And it's only January.

Hay Loft

It felt like a privilege to be up in the loft, watching Daddy work, so I did my best to stay out of his way. He was tidying up, using the pitchfork to gather and stack loose hay, probably to make room for new bales coming in from the pastures. I took a step back as he changed directions. He sharply said my name and I stepped back again, thinking I was still in the way, but that wasn't it at all. I gasped as my foot went through the opening where the ladder is, and down I went. My leg caught briefly on one of the rungs of the ladder and I saw Daddy reaching down for me, fear in his eyes, before gravity compelled me the rest of the way down. Nothing was broken, but there were bruises - lots of them. That may have been the day my fear of heights was born. I was eight years old.

A lot of people have a fear of heights, so I've been okay with mine. Until now.

In college, I was in ROTC. We learned rappelling - bounding off a building with a rope. The first time we were to try it, off the mezzanine in the gym, I was kind of excited. The guys made it look so fun. But what looks fun from the ground looks quite different from the top. I was all snug in my Swiss seat, and the instructor was handing me the rope. Everyone was doing their thing, high on adrenaline, having fun, but I was too busy watching my life flash before my eyes.

All I had to do (all I had to do!) was stand on the ledge with my heels over the edge, lean back into an L shape with my feet against the building. (I have stopped typing to wipe the sweat off my hands twice already, just telling the story), then bound down. I knew the steps. I knew I was safe. But knowledge is no match for raw terror. So I got off that wall my own way. I cried, blubbered, begged, and made a fool of myself until the let me walk back down the stairs.

We went away for a weekend of training at Fort Indiantown Gap, where this challenge presented itself again. There were two towers. One was 60 feet high. My husband took it in two bounds. (He was also able to rappel forward, spread-eagle, like a skydiver, which I watched him do off the school building as part of an ROTC demo for incoming students. I don't think he has the slightest fear of heights.)

The other tower was 30 feet high. I was determined to do it this time, and the instructor was able to coax me backwards off the ledge. I cannot explain how much fun it was to bound down the wall. Once I cleared the edge, it was exhilarating! Still high on that experience, I did it once again before the fear came back.

It is hard to understand why I still have a paralyzing fear of heights after such a victory, but remembering how that victory felt is motivating me to take action.

In the gym where we have boot camp, there is a vertical cargo net hanging next to the foam pits. It looks pretty high but I won't try to guess how high. I want to climb to the top. Today I tried it for the first time and got halfway up before giving up. Next time I'll try to wait longer before I look down.

I can do this!

Rainbows and Resolutions

We discovered that our tent was in the lowest part of the campground after the first night. We moved everything out of our tent and attempted to dry it off with our beach towels in the bright morning sun. This set the stage for the remainder of our honeymoon, in which each day followed suit with a night-time rainstorm and beautiful days spent drying everything out again. We had an air mattress to sleep on, so at least we could keep ourselves dry. It was not the honeymoon we would have signed up for.  Many people might have considered it ruined, or bickered about who's idea this was. Many would probably have even cut it short. But we made fun memories that week. We made the most of the sunshine with deep sea fishing and sunning on the beach. When we talk about that little vacation, even memories of those rainy nights make us smile, because it was all part of a grand adventure.

After the last few months, this Christmas season was very much like the rainbow after a heavy rainstorm. I would say this has been the most enjoyable Christmas ever. It was very relaxing and drama-free. We isolated ourselves, just our immediate family, and did not succumb to the pressures of the expectations of others. It felt like we were on vacation. Instead of getting all stressed out trying to please people we only see at holidays, we focused on spending quality time with those who love us all year long. It may be controversial, but I think this is how it should be.

I'm not much for New Year's Resolutions. In the past I have enjoyed telling people that my resolution was to quit smoking. The idea was that someone would say "but you don't smoke", so I could reply, "exactly, so this resolution is sure to be a success!" Nobody really caught on, though, and that conversation never actually happened the way I imagined it would.

This year I have a good one. I'm not calling it a resolution, though - more of an objective. My objective for this year is to stop looking for validation and approval from others. I think this is where I went wrong over the last year. I have given people too much power over me in that way, and now I'm taking it back.

My hubby said it best, without saying a word, when he gave me one of my Christmas gifts - a 13.1 magnet for my car. With that gesture, he gave me all the validation and approval I needed. He told me he was proud of me, and made me feel proud of myself. I don't need validation from anyone else. I already have it from those who love me all year long. I love my family. They are where my heart is. <3

Peace

We walked outside and looked up at the giant expanse of stars. Their abundance and clarity took my breath away. It is amazing what you can see without light. In town where we live now (the "city" as I call it, though it really isn't), we would never see so many stars with the intrusion of street lights and other light pollution. But when we lived in the cabin in the mountains, set apart from the rat race, we could see this on any clear night. On this occasion, my husband was pointing out things he had been learning in his "Observing the Summer Sky" class. He really enjoys sharing what he has learned, especially if it's science or nature. Sometimes, today I long for a place to go where I can have such a clear view of that vast, peaceful, breathtaking, sparkling, night sky. It's still there, I just need to step away from the distractions to find it.

When I had the panic attack, I felt like I was pinned down to my chair. We were in a prayer meeting (we have those where I work). Everyone had just bowed their heads to pray and it hit me hard. I had an overwhelming urge to flee. I felt like I couldn't breathe. I kept opening my eyes to try to push away the images that were flooding my mind. Images of a crime I never witnessed, but heard too much about. I don't know what was said in the prayer meeting because I was too busy fighting - really fighting. Tears were rolling down my cheeks even though my eyes were squeezed shut as tightly as I could squeeze them. It was terrifying.

Almost a week ago I had a similar, yet opposite experience. I was visiting a church that one of my boot camp friends goes to and they were singing songs. (Fun fact: all music is a capella at that church. No instruments.) I didn't know the songs but something in the words hit me. Something about God's Son dying. It was the realization that, through all my anger and grief over that little girl being killed in our neighborhood, God not only knew how I felt, but how her mother felt. He knew exactly what it felt like to lose a child. I couldn't say to God, "but You don't understand!" And I wasn't alone.

I felt like all that weight was lifted off of me and I felt like I could just melt into a heap in my chair. I didn't want to run, but I was fighting tears. I really didn't want anyone to see me and think I was crying because I didn't like their singing. It was a healing moment for me. I felt like I was able to let it go and move forward.

Christmas is just over a week away and my prayer is that Skylar's mother is surrounded by love and peace and all the happy memories she has of her little girl, who's spending this Christmas in heaven.

Grasshopper

I walked out to the end of the dock with the "battleship" I had made by hammering nails into scrap pieces of wood. In my other hand was a poor, unsuspecting grasshopper, struggling to free himself from my grasp. I knelt on the dock and reached down to place the battleship on the water, then set the grasshopper on top to captain his new ship. It took a few tries to convince my little friend to stay on board - it could have been exhaustion that finally won him over. After all, an insect is no match for an eleven-year-old tomboy on a mission. I laid on my stomach on the dock and gave the ship a gentle push, then rested my chin on my hands while I watched it drift away. I would have supplied the captain with oars had I thought he'd appreciate the gift, but I knew better. His path was now up to the wind and chance.

This year has been full of very high highs and very low lows. I've experienced the exhilaration of setting and reaching big goals. I've faced, though not necessarily conquered fears. I've been horrified by a neighborhood tragedy that introduced me to my first bout of real depression, and my first real panic attack. I've had friends who endured, friends who only passed through, and friends who were never real to begin with. The best times always had to do with my family and my friends - the real ones.

The worst times always came down to my search for control in an out-of-control world. People say it all the time. Life is messy. For some reason, when I hear that, the version of "messy" that comes to my mind is more like a kitchen after a baking spree. A mess that is obviously going to result in something wonderful that is already starting to smell delicious. A mess that a little time and elbow grease will clean up good as new. In reality, life's messiness is not nearly as fun. There may be disappointment, heartache, pain, and devastating loss. It does not smell delicious. It usually stinks.

I've struggled with my faith a lot over the last year. I've been angry at God, angry at people, and often angry at myself. While I'm told - and I know deep down - that God is in control and that He knows where all of this is going, I have been constantly battling the nagging question, can He really be trusted?

He is consistently holding on to me while I've been struggling and fighting against Him every step of the way. I'm sure that, in His own way, he's whispering to me, "be still little Grasshopper, I've got you."

Branches in the Path

I followed Pikachu and Ash Ketchum around the neighborhood, marveling at the havoc that had been created by the unseasonal snowstorm. Never before had the little costumed kiddos been able to hold their trick or treat bag in one hand and a snowball in the other. Neighbors had gathered the fallen branches into piles along the curb so the children would have clear paths for walking, but there were still puddles of melted snow to contend with. It was not the path we were used to and we had to slow down a bit and take our time. Some paths are like that. You might know the way but for a brief time, you need to slow down and protect yourself.

I was not at all excited about taking the kids out for Halloween this year. All I could think about what how little we know our neighbors. My mind kept returning to the tragedy of the little girl who was murdered just two blocks from our house a few months ago. The killer was her neighbor. But, for the sake of my children's happiness, I took them out and watched them very carefully, just as I always have.

After a while I started to feel a little better about our neighborhood. The kids were seeing lots of friends from school. Very kind grown-ups were handing out candy and looking very amused by the various costumes. Some adults even answered the door in costume themselves. That evening was an exercise in facing my fears, which is something I need to work on. I have many of them.

Other than that night, I've been pretty quiet lately. I have not been myself and quite a few people have noticed. I have little interest in the things that usually interest me. I read through a list of symptoms of depression and many of the symptoms fit. I can't pinpoint a reason, or a trigger, or a cure. If it were someone else, I would give them sound wisdom to "find your happy" or "cheer up" or "count your blessings" or "snap out of it."

I suppose this is where I learn why I would be wrong.

I made a snide little joke to myself the other day - I found a way to get peace and quiet, just be depressed and your friends will scatter.  I think when someone is going through a tough time, people are going to have one of three possible reactions. Say nothing. Say the wrong thing. Say just enough and be patient.

I can tell you without hesitation that my response would be one of the first two. I avoid uncomfortable situations like the plague. I don't trust myself to talk and when I do think I have something wise to say, it's usually wrong.

In my case, I have found that it hurts to hear how I'm disappointing someone - they won't use those words but in an effort to help me snap out of it they will chastise me on how my situation is affecting others or that they expect more from me.

Oddly I have not felt abandoned by those who have been quiet. And the ones who said "just enough" were the ones who said. "I'm here if you need to talk," but asked nothing of me. I wish I could just jot all this down for future reference and let this life lesson be over, but I suspect it will take a little more time until I'm feeling like myself again.

I also suspect that the tragedy of Skylar Kaufmann has affected me more than I ever realized. It shook my sense of security and brought all my worst fears to the surface. And maybe the approaching Halloween season - thinking of children out mingling with neighbors - was the storm that littered Stoney's Path with debris.