At Cape Lookout

I'll tell you a story, but I warn you it doesn't reflect very well on me. It was one of those internal storms that came and went before I really did anything about it outwardly, which I guess was good, because in retrospect it became obvious that my internal reactions were silly. But it's still kind of embarrassing when I think about it. However—this is the type of thing it is good for me to remember. (And also, this place sounds like it needs to be in the title of a Hardy Boys book. Caper at Cape Lookout!)

We were driving around on the Oregon Coast looking for things to do. We stopped at Cape Lookout State Park, which is a beautiful stretch of forest right along the edge of the bay where we were staying. There are hiking trails and overlooks, and it's the sort of amazing scenery that goes against everything I'm used to. In my mind, forests are only in "the mountains," and there they are full of conifers, or possibly aspens, and some underbrush, but not much else. So these Oregon forests, sweeping fernily down as they do right to the cliff- and ocean-edges, seem like they defy nature! I LOVE them.

Okay, so far so good, but the trouble was that I had not brought my hiking shoes on this little outing. And the reason for THAT was that a month or so earlier, I had fallen off the most pathetic little step to the garage while lifting Teddy up—or rather, I had stepped where there was no step, and somehow bent my foot all the way forward so I landed on top of it, and that had torn some ligaments. It hurt so much those first few days that whenever I was alone I would start crying—not solely because it hurt, but because I was just so scared that I would never get better—and all the while, I KNEW I was being unreasonable but I just couldn't stop myself! (That becomes a theme in this story, I'm afraid.)

Anyway, of course, by the time we went on our trip to Oregon I WAS substantially better, but we'd hiked quite a bit in the preceding days, and now my foot was still too swollen to fit very well into anything except flip-flops.

But, we were here and this looked like a cool hike and we wanted to at least see where the trail went, so even though I was nervous about re-injuring my foot, we thought we could just go along for a little ways and then turn back.

It started out great. And there were SUCH amazing views! The trail wound right along the edge of the cliff, and every time there was a gap in the trees you could look out and see the blue ocean and bright tan beaches below. It was beautiful!

When the trail wound inland, there were all the little mossy hollows and tree-root-hideouts that make Oregon forests so lovely.

But I was slow. And getting slower. And soon I was limping and my foot was hurting and everyone had gone ahead of me except little Goldie. Sam had been holding Teddy's hand and called back to me about what a great little hiker Teddy was, and I felt so embarrassed to be slower and less tough than a BABY that I didn't have the heart to say how tired and sore I was feeling. But in my heart, I had all these feelings of impending doom, that I was going to stumble and break my foot or let Goldie fall off a cliff because I wasn't quick enough to snatch her back.

And of course it was apparent to all passers-by that I was pregnant—and somehow I just hated it that people were going to think I was slow and limping because of that—instead of because I had a hurt foot. Which is so weird. Why would it matter whether any random strangers thought (had they even been GIVING me any thought, which of course no one was) that I was slow and pathetically pregnant (which to be honest, I WAS) rather than slow and pathetically hurt? I don't know. But it mattered to me right then.

Whether I'm hurt or pregnant, it's better for me to be treated normally and not like some delicate, breakable porcelain doll. Really, I do prefer it, and I take it as a compliment if someone assumes I can handle hard things! I WANT to think that I can! If someone mentions my "delicate condition" I will laugh! (I think this has something to do with it too.) But I don't know if you've felt like this. Sometimes just the fact of other people expecting you to be tough and up-for-anything can feel daunting.  Like because it's expected of you, you can't admit it when you're struggling. I know that's prideful. Obviously everyone struggles. There are some things I would ask for help with in an instant! But here in Oregon, I wanted so much not to be physically weak! And at the same time I perversely just wanted someone to fuss over me and take care of me. And here I was hiking along with Goldie, feeling like the weakest person ever—torn between wanting to just sit down and cry, and being determined to keep going until I died right there on the trail, just to show everyone!

And I felt so grumpy! Just grumpier and grumpier and more and more sorry for myself. I was so mad at everyone: at all the other hikers who walked by and pitied me; at whoever made this trail with such a long, long downhill which I sure I would never make it up again; at my family for leaving me behind; at Sam for choosing this hike and not turning back like we'd been planning to, and for not CARING whether I was alive or dead behind him; and of course at myself for being so unreasonable (which I of course knew I WAS being, but even though I kept speaking very sternly to myself, my thoughts just kept circling back to how hurt and tired I was and how no one cared, and then I'd find tears leaking out of my eyes and down my cheeks again and feel embarrassed as well as mad!). The funny thing was that it all was so BEAUTIFUL. One of my favorite hikes I've ever been on! And I knew that! I was marveling at the scenery and saying to myself every few seconds how glad I was that I got to be here and see this. But at the same time and totally irrationally I was full of this black cloud of fear and misery and pain.

I don't even know how long this went on. Probably not nearly as long as it seemed. Finally there was a lookout point where you could see straight down some massive sheer cliffs into a little cove. The rest of the family was waiting for me there, all blithely happy and unaware.

It was terrifying, but so beautiful, to look down those cliffs! Everyone was marveling at it, including me, and in the midst of such a great place it felt weird to suddenly start in telling everyone how mad I was and getting them to feel sorry for me and the pain I was in. I knew the right thing to do would be to cheer up and just let go of my mad feelings; let them melt away and never be brought up at all. I'd been trying to manage that this whole time and now I should just DO it!

But I couldn't do it. Abe had already gone on ahead again, so I said some mad, grumpy thing to Sam about how I was heading back on my poor broken foot and everyone else could go on forever if that's what they wanted so much, and off I limped, martyrishly dragging Teddy along as he yelled "I want to hold Daddy's hand! No! I want Daddy's hand!" I felt so ashamed of myself, and so sad and hurt and discouraged and tired, and so despairing that I would ever become a better person—the type who finds the bright side in every situation and thinks about everyone else instead of herself.

It seemed even farther and steeper going back, and all the tree roots and the steep angles of the trail left my foot (and my belly!) aching and throbbing. I kept thinking that I just couldn't keep going. But there didn't seem any alternative either. I was crying and sniffling. And then…I heard someone else crying and sniffling! This is actually so funny when I imagine watching it from the outside. These two poor little forlorn souls, in this most beautiful and UNhorrible of situations! I came around a bend in the trail and there was my little Daisy. She was hiking along by herself, crying, and for a second I felt annoyed with her along with everyone else in the world, but when she looked up at me with her tear-filled eyes and said, "My foot hurts! I have a blister!" my heart melted and I felt so much compassion for her. She was ME! Poor little me in a tiny form. And at that same moment that I felt a wave of love for her, I felt unaccountably reassured that Heavenly Father loved me, too.

But in those split seconds, even though I wanted to—I also instinctively knew that I shouldn't just sit down with her and cry, or we'd NEVER make it back! I knew there was still a long way to go. So I took a deep breath and wiped my eyes and said as cheerfully as I could, "Daisy, I'm so glad I found you. My feet hurt too! And I'm so tired! And I've been crying just like you! But there's no other way back except for us just to keep going. And you know what helps most when you're feeling like it's too hard? Being grateful and being brave. And now we can do that together!"

And suddenly, amazingly, I felt like we could! We started talking about when Teddy was born and it was so hard, and how I felt the strength of all these presences near, helping me. And we talked about how when you think about good things, the bad things feel so much smaller. We love wildflowers, so we hunted for those and tried to notice how many different ones we could find. We talked about how beautiful it was out on the beach; how huge and unbroken the ocean looked out beyond the edges of the bay.

I don't remember exactly what else we discussed, but it must have been inspiring, because soon we were both smiling and talking and moving along at a faster pace, where a few minutes earlier I would have thought I had no more strength at all to give. Daisy looked down at her blood-stained foot a few times and started to get a little sniffly again, but each time, she raised her eyes back up, took my arm determinedly and kept going. And I kept going with her. And then somehow at last we were coming up the last hill of the trail and we could see the car, and we hugged each other and laughed with relief.

All the time we were hiking, I kept pondering and marveling at what had happened. I of course had been praying for help the whole time; praying that I could be braver and better. But the ability and power to do so only came once I found myself trying to love and help someone else who needed it. In some ways I had higher expectations of how brave Daisy could or should be than I did for myself…but mixed with more compassion as well. Or somehow, the clarity with which I could see what she needed in order to keep going—optimism, courage, gratitude—mixed with the knowledge that she needed to see ME modeling those things—increased my ability to do what I already should have been doing, but now without all the complications of anger and annoyance with my own weakness. I kept thinking, "Is this always how Heavenly Father does His work and sends his love?" And then…"Is this the whole lesson of parenthood, in miniature form?" I know it sounds so small and like I was overdramatizing the whole thing—which I admittedly was—but it was like a miracle to me, this change in my abilities and my vision and my capacity. I knew it was an answer to my prayers. As I thought about it, I was so grateful, I didn't even have to TRY to be grateful anymore. I felt like the hardness of it all was worth it, for the beauty and the insight that kept coming.

Once I was back in the car resting my swollen foot and getting a drink of water, I felt sheepish but also like I'd been through miles and miles of some exhausting journey no one else knew about. I was proud of Daisy. I was even cautiously proud of myself—at least, of where I had eventually ended up! I kept these things and pondered them in my heart for a long time.

(And my foot, as I should have known it would be, was fine again after a couple days, and I was SO glad not to have missed such a beautiful hike, which in retrospect seemed like it must not have been so terribly long or difficult after all!)