And yet still, I journey on.

Billowing, blowing,
While still pulling me in,
The challenge of the day
Must be met once again.

And so still, I journey on.

This shrouded land holds dangers
Beyond what the eye can see
Even so, there’s hope against hope
That treasures there must also be.

More so still, I journey on.

It is into this land of the mists I tread,
Dreadful though it may be feared,
Bating my breath to stand to this day
Praying that the last one draws near.

But only in the distance. The banging, that hopeful, rescuing sound, was not here in front of her. Not at this door, the one barricading her from freedom. Whoever was out there was far, far away. She could barely hear the banging. She was probably imagining it, along with the sound of her name.

She sat up straight in the blinding darkness. She wasn’t imagining it. Faint though it was, the distant banging and the call of her name was very real. She scooted across the floor toward the door in front of her, wincing against the roped that restrained her movement. If she could just reach it…

The call was getting stronger, the banging sound louder. How many other doors were out there? How many would they try before they gave up? She needed to reach the door. Abigail rolled over onto her stomach, coughing against the dirt and crumbling cement that coated first the floor and now the gag in her mouth. Maybe the gag would prove useful and keep her from suffocating faced own on this awful floor.

She began to slide her body backward, stretching out with her feet angled toward the door. Eventually the ropes binding her wrists in place pulled taut, catching and holding both her hands and her breath. There she waited, hoping against hope that they would not give up before they reached the door she was waiting behind. A glimpse of blue was the only thing she saw when she had been dragged into this awful, pitch black space. Her captors had knocked her cold, and when she came to she knew only darkness, the ropes binding her, the cement floor, and that door.

“ABIGAIL!” There it was — her name, followed by the banging. Much closer this time. Pounding right behind her. She kicked her feet as hard as she could against the door. The muffled vibration seemed to be insignificant at first, but Abigail could not give up. The sound seemed to get through though, and the screaming outside increased.

Banging. On a door. Loudly. Harshly. Persistently.

And finally, the door opened behind her. Abigail turned her head. Her eyes caught that glimpse of blue again — the wonderful sight of freedom.

“Are you married?” “No.” “Good. Don’t do it. It’s a trap.”

I’ve heard it before — several times in fact. From older contacts, bruised and embittered by failed relationships.

But now I’m hearing it more — from younger people, peers, in their 20s and 30s. They are just as broken, and just as bitter.

Where is this coming from? As a “chronic single” I wonder what is happening to us. How are we falling so much faster from belief that even our human connections are inherently faulty, and that lasting bonds are nothing more than bondages that last?

It frightens me to here the young marrieds I know speak so jadedly of their spouses after just a few years — or even months. It saddens me to know of people younger than me who have already been through the ringer of divorce — sometimes more than once. It breeds wariness, and worse, hopelessness.

Are we becoming so broken that the implosion of broken dreams and broken hearts is simply inevitable? God forbid. But why, then, does it seem that unsteady couplings are so quickly put out of their misery rather than doctored and healed?

How quickly we lose hope for the future and sight of the end game.
How quickly we throw in the towel when we’re called on mistakes.
How quickly we shut down the face of our errors instead working the difficult edits.
How quickly we give up. In pain. And convince ourselves it’s all a lie. And try to convince others of the same.

Please God, forbid.