I choose to try. To try until it hurts and there is no try left.

I choose not to care whether I win or lose. I choose to be thankful that I was asked to play, to participate, to be present.

I choose yes when no would be easier and require less of myself to give away.

I choose to live.

I choose to go.

I choose Him because He first chose me.

I choose to be thankful, when all I want to do is scream that life is not fair.

I choose fear even when I know the truth.

I choose sleep, whenever and wherever I can.

I choose music and magic and my imagination, hoping it never leaves me.

I choose hope. There is something so much better coming.

I choose forgiveness because if I let the anger course through my veins, it will reach my heart and I will never be free.

I choose the words spoken from my lips.

I choose sadness, because sometimes the weeping makes me happy.

I choose love, even when I don’t feel it.

I choose silliness.

I choose to talk to strangers because they really aren’t strange.

I choose to be changed.

I choose to believe in Him, His death, His life, so that I can live.

Five Minute Friday


Sitting in the drafty workout room, the hardwood floors offering no cushion and the last rays of sunshine fighting to sneak through the small paned glass that bordered the emotionless room, I sat, small and insignificant, in the circle of people I had pledged to willingly serve beside for ten long months.

My head pounded from the pain of the day spent listening to stories of loss and opening old wounds. My hands, arms and back ached at the slightest movement, weary from tearing away the remains of lives and things broken and battered by angry winds and unrelenting torrential rain.

I felt the tiredness in my feet, wishing I could go to my cot, my only place of solitude, to offer them relief. But I had to listen to the day’s wrap-up. She said it mattered, most days no one cared.

She looked directly at me and handed me a postcard that said Oregon Coast on the front. I never get mail. It must be a mistake, I told her.  postcardShe said it wasn’t as I turned it over to see my name, four small letters, one repeated, written in handsome black ink. My eyes swam over the words, heavily pressed in order to cover a scene of the beautiful west coast. I saw his familiar name, his intimate signature and I felt my breath leave me.

His words, each one written for my eyes. Years later I would feel like they were scripted for my heart. Working my way through his note, I smiled at his attempts at humor and trembled as he fought to get so many words into such a tiny space. So many things he wanted to tell me.

I felt the last rays of sunshine leave my back and cool air replace them. The chattering crowd around me had slowly faded away and somehow I was huddled in my sleeping bag, rereading his words, not believing that he had seen me.

Five Minute Friday