Pit Of Despair Quotes

...the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long and final scream of despair.

We are sometimes dragged into a pit of unhappiness by someone else’s opinion that we do not look happy.

Every writer I know feels this way about someone else. Writing is such a solitary activity. You have no assurance that what you’re creating has any value, and any indication that you’re behind in the rat race sends you spiraling into the pits of despair. Keep your eyes on your own paper, they say. But that’s hard to do when everyone else’s papers are flapping constantly in your face.

And while one is brought up with luxury and caresses, and is thrown bewildered and despairing into a dark pit, another is lifted from the pit and raised to a throne where a jeweled crown is placed on his head. The world has no shame in doing this; it is prompt to hand out both pleasure and pain and has no need of us an our doings.

Men admire each other when they are at their best, but women enjoy meeting each other in pits of despair.

A song of despair The memory of you emerges from the night around me. The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea. Deserted like the dwarves at dawn. It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one! Cold flower heads are raining over my heart. Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked. In you the wars and the flights accumulated. From you the wings of the song birds rose. You swallowed everything, like distance. Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank! It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss. The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse. Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver, turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank! In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded. Lost discoverer, in you everything sank! You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire, sadness stunned you, in you everything sank! I made the wall of shadow draw back, beyond desire and act, I walked on. Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost, I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you. Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness. and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar. There was the black solitude of the islands, and there, woman of love, your arms took me in. There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle. Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms! How terrible and brief my desire was to you! How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid. Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs, still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds. Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs, oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies. Oh the mad coupling of hope and force in which we merged and despaired. And the tenderness, light as water and as flour. And the word scarcely begun on the lips. This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing, and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank! Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you, what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned! From billow to billow you still called and sang. Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel. You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents. Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well. Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank! It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour which the night fastens to all the timetables. The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore. Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate. Deserted like the wharves at dawn. Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands. Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything. It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!

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True friends never turn you away when all you need is someone to talk to. Ever. It's not the only thing that helps, but it's the only thing that works. Real friends never walk away, letting you slip deeper into the pit of despair.

Pride is born as a mountaintop on a valley, but dies as an abyss in which it is too deep and too dark to see the better.

One word of caution—be careful how much you listen to the advice of others when in a deep pit of despair.

Beyond love, beyond unrequited love, perhaps even beyond any other passion known to humanity, deep, deep in the depths of the turgid, clinging, swamplike pit of despair that lies dormant within every soul, lurks JEALOUSY. Jealousy, that most demeaning and debilitating of emotions. Jealousy, which can double the strength of the love upon which it is based, but whilst doubling it, warp and pervert it, untill it is no longer recognizable as the thing of beauty it once was. Jealous love is no more like true love than Mr Hyde was like Dr Jekyll or a stagnant swamp is like a freshwater lake.

She took his hand and kissed it fervently. "I can never thank you enough for all you have given me. You snatched me from the dark pit of despair, of horror, and you set me here in the sunshine.

Women, they were tricky business. A man had to step carefully lest he find himself in a pit of despair, longing after the one he wants and getting nothing but scorn in return. What was it about her that drove him crazy? He'd never had such a wild and instantaneous reaction to a woman before.

You know, El, you're so much more than the time you were with Bill and the attack. You took something shitty and you made a new future. Most people don't do that. They hang on forever. It's easy to stay in that pit of despair. Or let it be your excuse for not moving on.

I say to people that I’m not an optimist, because that, in a sense, is something that depends on feelings more than the actual reality. We feel optimistic, or we feel pessimistic. Now, hope is different in that it is based not on the ephemerality of feelings but on the firm ground of conviction. I believe with a steadfast faith that there can never be a situation that is utterly, totally hopeless. Hope is deeper and very, very close to unshakable. It’s in the pit of your tummy. It’s not in your head. It’s all here,” he said, pointing to his abdomen. “Despair

Life to be bearable must be lived intensely. Through it a continuous stream of emotion passes. Though that emotion is ever changing as flowing water changes, it at least bears us along on a current that gives the illusion of continuity and permanence. But analyze life, tear its trappings off, lay it bare with thought, with logic, with philosophy, and its emptiness is revealed as a bottomless pit; its nothingness frankly confesses to nothingness, and Despair comes to perch in the soul.

I can just conceive of the pit of despair, the notion of being powerless and the essence of existence through it entirely

Writing this, he had reached the pit of despair and he thought that reading it, she would at least begin to sense his tragedy and her part in it. It was not that she had ever forced her way on him. That had never been necessary. Her way had simply been the air he breathed and when at last he had found other air, he couldn't survive in it. He felt that even if she didn't understand at once, the letter would leave her with an enduring chill and perhaps in time lead her to see herself as she was.

Modern conquerors can kill, but do not seem to be able to create. Artists know how to create but cannot really kill. Murderers are only very exceptionally found among artists. In the long run, therefore, art in our revolutionary societies must die. But then the revolution will have lived its allotted span. Each time that the revolution kills in a man the artist that he might have been, it attenuates itself a little more. If, finally, the conquerors succeed in molding the world according to their laws, it will not prove that quantity is king, but that this world is hell. In this hell, the place of art will coincide with that of vanquished rebellion, a blind and empty hope in the pit of despair.

For some reason, the despair that's welling up in me is transforming into white-hot rage. I feel it working its way up from my toes, winding around my legs, and burrowing into the pit of my stomach. It spears its razor-sharp tendrils through the pieces of my broken heart. It's crippling, and devastating, and unrelenting. I have only one choice to survive this; I turn that rage outward.

At length for my seared and writhing body there was no longer an inch of foothold on the firm floor of the prison. I struggled no more, but the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long, and final scream of despair. I felt that I tottered upon the brink -- I averted my eyes --

I’ve learned that the bad doesn’t necessarily disappear once you’ve become accustomed to the good, but it sure does help drown it out. Still, there are times when the darkness shadows the light, and you fall back into the pit of despair that you’ve only recently climbed out of. For me, that happens when I’m the happiest, when I’m full of so much love, pride, and excitement that the fear of losing everything becomes a weight too heavy to bear, forcing me back into my protective shell.

...you can take comfort that despair is the worst thing he can spring on you. Things can appear to grow worse, but if you conquer despair, no deeper pit remains to trap you.

- and with this observation there suddenly came over my spirit all the keen, collected calmness of despair. For the first time during many hours - or perhaps days - I thought.

I despair at the rise of modern violence. I truly give in to despair at times, that deep, futureless pit of despair which Hopkins called carrion comfort.

But then! If you sit there long enough, an enormous emotional shift happens inside you. Your Monitor switches its assessment of your goal from “attainable” to “unattainable,” and it pushes you off an emotional cliff, into a pit of despair. Lost in helplessness, your brain abandons hope and you sit in your car sobbing, because all you want to do now is go home,

I said so little. Days were short. Short days. Short nights. Short years. I said so little. I couldn't keep up. My heart grew weary From joy, Despair, Ardor, Hope. The jaws of Leviathan Were closing upon me. Naked, I lay on the shores Of desert islands. The white whale of the world Hauled me down to its pit. And now I don't know What in all that was real.

I’ve learned that even when life drags you down into the deepest pit of despair, that’s the most important time to keep believing, because you never know when you’re going to sling-shot upwards, straight out of there.

The most wonderful emotion in the world, I think, is the relief following the realization that a horrifying nightmare was just that, all a dream. It thus follows that the pit of the depth of despair must be this: the thwarted expectation of that feeling. The seconds pass patiently and slow like minutes, but no mercy ever comes. The impossible nightmare is actually happening, happening to you.

I hold the hands of people I never touch. I provide comfort to people I never embrace. I watch people walk into brick walls, the same ones over and over again, and I coax them to turn around and try to walk in a different direction. People rarely see me gladly. As a rule, I catch the residue of their despair. I see people who are broken, and people who only think they are broken. I see people who have had their faces rubbed in their failures. I see weak people wanting anesthesia and strong people who wonder what they have done to make such an enemy of fate. I am often the final pit stop people take before they crawl across the finish line that is marked: I give up. Some people beg me to help. Some people dare me to help. Sometimes the beggars and the dare-ers look the same. Absolutely the same. I'm supposed to know how to tell them apart. Some people who visit me need scar tissue to cover their wounds. Some people who visit me need their wounds opened further, explored for signs of infection and contamination. I make those calls, too. Some days I'm invigorated by it all. Some days I'm numbed. Always, I'm humbled by the role of helper. And, occasionally, I'm ambushed. ~ Stephen White "Critical Conditions

In terms of that little monitor in your brain, the solution is to sustain just a little bit of dissatisfaction—not enough to cross into frustration and certainly not so much that you fall off the cliff into the pit of despair, but enough to nourish your curious, “moving-toward” energy.

If you are in a pit of stress or despair, don’t succumb to defeat. Don’t accept that difficult place as your fate. Even though God has allowed you to be there right now, he never intended for you to live there. Our God is bigger then whatever problem you are facing. The only way to see past the problem is to believe that he has not forgotten or abandoned you and that, at the exact time that he has ordained, he will reach down and pick you up.

We go through life seeing reality not as it really is, in its unfathomable depths of complexity and contradiction, but as we hope or fear or expect it to be. Too often, we confuse certainty for truth and the strength of our beliefs for the strength of the evidence. When we collide with the unexpected, with the antipode to our hopes, we are plunged into bewildered despair. We rise from the pit only by love. Perhaps Keats had it slightly wrong — perhaps truth is love and love is truth.

I’ve never cared about religion, aside from as a subject of study in others, but in my blackest pits of despair I always find God and call out for help, because only an omnipotent outside force could possibly move the stone that is pressing me down. And God walks away, single footsteps off into the collective unconscious. He doesn’t care. Why should he? I wouldn’t.

In my struggles with this issue, I finally grasped that facts are greater than how we feel. If we allow our feelings to determine what we think and how we behave, we will never escape the pit of despair and hopelessness that anxiety places us in. However, if we allow our minds to be shaped by facts, we can live a life that is full of hope and peace, despite our circumstances.

Writing is such a solitary activity. You have no assurance that what you’re creating has any value, and any indication that you’re behind in the rat race sends you spiraling into the pits of despair.

Among all the journeys, there is such a wonderful journey that in seconds it takes you from sadness to joy, from the pit to the clouds, from exhaustion to the peak of action, from despair to hope: Music!

Adults are not always so fun. Sometimes I go to parties filled with mature people who know things and act their age and I"m quickly filled with despair. I walk in the door and greet the host and mill about, but in the pit of my stomach I know that leaving home was a mistake. I will not be surprised and delighted. I will not learn something new. I will not even enjoy the sound of my own voice. I will be lulled into a state of excruciating paralysis and self-hatred and other-people hatred.

The most important thing you can do to have a great sex life is to welcome your sexuality as it is, right now—even if it’s not what you wanted or expected it to be. Letting go of old, bogus cultural standards requires a grieving process, going through the little monitor’s pit of despair. To facilitate that letting go, develop the skill of “nonjudging.” When you give yourself permission to be and feel whatever you are and feel, your body can complete the cycle, move through the tunnel, and come out to the light at the end.

Kenneth Tynan once said that the only people who can do Russian drama, outside of the Russians themselves, are the Irish. I presume that's because we are somewhat manic in the mood department. It's no bother to soar from the darkest depths to the mountaintops of delight, with the heart borne by all of that which is alive and singing. It's even less bother to swan-dive into the pits of despair and total hopelessness, with the realization that it's no use being Irish unless you know the world is eventually going to break your heart.

Eph 4:9  The fact that he ascended confirms his victorious descent into the deepest pits of human despair. [In John 3:13: “No one has ascended into heaven but he who descended from heaven, even the son of man.” All mankind originates from above; we are anouthen, from above.

In looking back now, I see how it began in my childhood, altho’ I was not conscious of the necessity until ’67 or ’68 when I broke down first, acutely, and had violent turns of hysteria. As I lay prostrate after the storm with my mind luminous and active and susceptible of the clearest, strongest impressions, I saw so distinctly that it was a fight simply between my body and my will, a battle in which the former was to be triumphant to the end....So, with the rest, you abandon the pit of your stomach, the palms of your hands, the soles of your feet, and refuse to keep them sane when you find in turn one moral impression after another producing despair in the one, terror in the others, anxiety in the third and so on until life becomes one long flight from remote suggestion and complicated eluding of the multifold traps set for your undoing.

He had been the one to save me. He was my sword when evil thoughts came to drag me down into the pits of despair. Flame was my protective shield when doubt and feelings of unworthiness began to take root in my heart, spreading like a cancer, countering any happiness I had found—and I had found it in abundance with Flame.

Writing is such a solitary activity. You have no assurance that what you're creating has any value, and any indication that you're behind in the rat race sends you spiraling into the pits of despair. Keep your eyes on your own paper, they say. But that's hard to do when everyone else's papers are flapping constantly in your face.

Never, ever apologize if you haven't done anything wrong. Keep your sorrys and your excuse mes and your please forgive mes, above all keep your please, please forgive mes for the one moment in life when you'll really need them, need those words. And you will be in dire need of entreaties like these, oh you will be praying for those words, blessing yourself for not having wasted them on something spurious and unworthy. You will someday be kneeling, kneeling down in front of a pair of accusing eyes, threatening feet, feet that might kick you or feet that might do something worse. At times what we should dread most are feet that will run away, that will run away and leave us everlastingly alone. Loneliness is what should terrify you most, more than a slap or a kick or hunger even. And that's when those words, please, please forgive me, will be all that separates you from the pit and swamp of the deepest despair. So don't squander them on matters of no consequence. The world is cursed because people do not apologize for theirs sins or crimes or merely their cowardice, but it's even more cursed because people apologize much too much-- they use their regrets as a way of not really probing what the have done, as permission to persevere in their blindness, absolving themselves without having atoned or understood.

XII. If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk Above its mates, the head was chopped, the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk All hope of greenness? Tis a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents. XIII. As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, Stood stupified, however he came there: Thrust out past service from the devil's stud! XIV. Alive? he might be dead for aught I knew, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain. And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. XV. I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart, As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards, the soldier's art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights. XVI. Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm to mine to fix me to the place, The way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace! Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. XVII. Giles then, the soul of honour - there he stands Frank as ten years ago when knighted first, What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. Good - but the scene shifts - faugh! what hangman hands Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst! XVIII. Better this present than a past like that: Back therefore to my darkening path again! No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. Will the night send a howlet or a bat? I asked: when something on the dismal flat Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. XIX. A sudden little river crossed my path As unexpected as a serpent comes. No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath For the fiend's glowing hoof - to see the wrath Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. XX. So petty yet so spiteful! All along, Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit Of mute despair, a suicidal throng: The river which had done them all the wrong, Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. XXI. Which, while I forded - good saints, how I feared To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, Each step, of feel the spear I thrust to seek For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! - It may have been a water-rat I speared, But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek. XXII. Glad was I when I reached the other bank. Now for a better country. Vain presage! Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage, Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage - XXIII. The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque, What penned them there, with all the plain to choose? No footprint leading to that horrid mews, None out of it. Mad brewage set to work Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.

Failure. Never before has a thing gotten such a bad rap as failure. And why wouldn't it? It's failure. In a video game, failure means to fucking die, to drop into a pit of lava while the princess remains unsaved (oh, sexist video games, when will the lady plumber save the prince instead of the other way around?). You fail a class and it's like -- *poop noise* -- you failed, you're held back, time is wasted, money is lost, you suck, you stupid person. Hell with that. Failure is brilliant. Failure is how we learn. Every great success and every kick-ass creator is the product of a hundred failures, a thousand, some epic-big, some micro-tiny. We learn the right moves by taking the wrong turns. Failure should not drag you into the pits of personal despair but rather leave you empowered. Failure is an instructional manual written in scar tissue.

For Bulgakov, however, the greatest underlying source of unease, amounting at times to despair, was something less tangible though very real to him, since it occurs as an ever-present refrain throughout these stories. This was the sense of being a lone soldier of reason and enlightenment pitted against the vast, dark, ocean-like mass of peasant ignorance and superstition... [in] the fearsome, pre-literate, mediaeval world of the peasantry

If, when you say whiskey, you mean the devil’s brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean the evil drink that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacles of righteous, gracious living into the bottomless pit of degredation and despair, shame and helplessness and hopelessness, then certainly I am against it with all my power.

How am I supposed to cope with all of this, he despaired. Reason dictates I should kill myself. But I want to live. Despite everything, I want to live! And that requires all the wits I have, but they aren’t enough, because the same reasoning is pitting me against myself. It negates my existence. So where does that leave me? It’s because I understand, he thought unhappily, that I despair. If only I could misunderstand. But that’s something I’m no longer able to do. And the only thing I have left in life is the list of all my losses.

Algren’s book opens with one of the best historical descriptions of American white trash ever written.* He traces the Linkhorn ancestry back to the first wave of bonded servants to arrive on these shores. These were the dregs of society from all over the British Isles—misfits, criminals, debtors, social bankrupts of every type and description—all of them willing to sign oppressive work contracts with future employers in exchange for ocean passage to the New World. Once here, they endured a form of slavery for a year or two—during which they were fed and sheltered by the boss—and when their time of bondage ended, they were turned loose to make their own way. In theory and in the context of history the setup was mutually advantageous. Any man desperate enough to sell himself into bondage in the first place had pretty well shot his wad in the old country, so a chance for a foothold on a new continent was not to be taken lightly. After a period of hard labor and wretchedness he would then be free to seize whatever he might in a land of seemingly infinite natural wealth. Thousands of bonded servants came over, but by the time they earned their freedom the coastal strip was already settled. The unclaimed land was west, across the Alleghenies. So they drifted into the new states—Kentucky and Tennessee; their sons drifted on to Missouri, Arkansas and Oklahoma. Drifting became a habit; with dead roots in the Old World and none in the New, the Linkhorns were not of a mind to dig in and cultivate things. Bondage too became a habit, but it was only the temporary kind. They were not pioneers, but sleazy rearguard camp followers of the original westward movement. By the time the Linkhorns arrived anywhere the land was already taken—so they worked for a while and moved on. Their world was a violent, boozing limbo between the pits of despair and the Big Rock Candy Mountain. They kept drifting west, chasing jobs, rumors, homestead grabs or the luck of some front-running kin. They lived off the surface of the land, like army worms, stripping it of whatever they could before moving on. It was a day-to-day existence, and there was always more land to the west. Some stayed behind and their lineal descendants are still there—in the Carolinas, Kentucky, West Virginia and Tennessee. There were dropouts along the way: hillbillies, Okies, Arkies—they’re all the same people. Texas is a living monument to the breed. So is southern California. Algren called them “fierce craving boys” with “a feeling of having been cheated.” Freebooters, armed and drunk—a legion of gamblers, brawlers and whorehoppers. Blowing into town in a junk Model-A with bald tires, no muffler and one headlight … looking for quick work, with no questions asked and preferably no tax deductions. Just get the cash, fill up at a cut-rate gas station and hit the road, with a pint on the seat and Eddy Arnold on the radio moaning good back-country tunes about home sweet home, that Bluegrass sweetheart still waitin, and roses on Mama’s grave. Algren left the Linkhorns in Texas, but anyone who drives the Western highways knows they didn’t stay there either. They kept moving until one day in the late 1930s they stood on the spine of a scrub-oak California hill and looked down on the Pacific Ocean—the end of the road.

If you feel called upon to alleviate suffering in the world, that is a very noble thing to do, but remember not to focus exclusively on the outer; otherwise, you will encounter frustration and despair. Without a profound change in human consciousness, the world’s suffering is a bottomless pit. So don’t let your compassion become one-sided. Empathy with someone else’s pain or lack and a desire to help need to be balanced with a deeper realization of the eternal nature of all life and the ultimate illusion of all pain. Then let your peace flow into whatever you do and you will be working on the levels of effect and cause simultaneously.

If, when you say whiskey, you mean the devil’s brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean the evil drink that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacles of righteous, gracious living into the bottomless pit of degredation and despair, shame and helplessness and hopelessness, then certainly I am against it with all my power. But if, when you say whiskey, you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the stuff that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer; if you mean the stimulating drink that puts the spring in the old gentleman’s step on a frosty morning; if you mean the drink that enables a man to magnify his joy, and his happiness and to forget, if only for a little while, life’s great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrows, if you mean that drink, the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars, which are used to provide tender care for our little children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitiful aged and infirm, to build highways, hospitals, and schools, then certainly I am in favor of it.

Good. You’re awake.” Annwyl gulped and prayed the gods were just playing a cruel joke on her. She raised herself on her elbows when that deep, dark voice spoke again, “Careful. You don’t want to tear open those stitches.” With utter and almost heart-stopping dread, Annwyl looked over her shoulder and then couldn’t turn away. There he was. An enormous black dragon, his wings pressed tight against his body. The light emanating from the pit fire causing his shiny black scales to glisten. His huge horned head rested in the center of one of his claws. He looked so casual. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he smirked at her, his black eyes searing her from across the gulf between them. A magnificent creature. But a creature nonetheless. A monster. “Dragons can speak, then?” Brilliant, Annwyl. But she really didn’t know what else to say. “Aye.” Scales brushed against stone and she bit the inside of her mouth to stop herself from cringing. “My name is Fearghus.” Annwyl frowned. “Fearghus?” She thought for a moment. Then dread settled over her bones, dragging her down to the pits of despair. “Fearghus . . . the Destroyer?” “That’s what they call me.” “But you haven’t been seen in years. I thought you were a myth.” Right now, she silently prayed he was a myth. “Do I look like a myth?” Annwyl stared at the enormous beast, marveling at the length and breadth of him. Black scales covered the entire length of his body, two black horns atop his mighty head. And a mane of silky black hair swept across his forehead, down his back, nearly touching the dirt floor. She cleared her throat. “No. You look real enough to my eyes.” “Good.” “I’ve heard stories about you. You smote whole villages.” “On occasion.” She turned away from that steady gaze as she wondered how the gods could be so cruel. Instead of letting her die in battle as a true warrior, they instead let her end up as dinner for a beast. “And you are Annwyl of Garbhán Isle. Annwyl of the Dark Plains. And, last I heard, Annwyl the Bloody.” Annwyl did cringe at that. She hated that particular title. “You take the heads of men and bathe in their blood.” “I do not!” She looked back at the dragon. “You take a man’s head, there’s blood. Spurting blood. But I do not bathe in anything but water.” “If you say so.

The humiliation of the ummah was not merely a political catastrophe, but touched a Muslim’s very soul. This new weakness was a sign that something had gone gravely awry in Islamic history. The Quran had promised that a society which surrendered to God’s revealed will could not fail. Muslim history had proved this. Time and again, when disaster had struck, the most devout Muslims had turned to religion, made it speak to their new circumstances, and the ummah had not only revived but had usually gone on to greater achievements. How could Islamdom be falling more and more under the domination of the secular, Godless West? From this point, a growing number of Muslims would wrestle with these questions, and their attempts to put Muslim history back on the straight path would sometimes appear desperate and even despairing. The suicide bomber—an almost unparalleled phenomenon in Islamic history—shows that some Muslims are convinced that they are pitted against hopeless odds.

In these years we did the tried-and-true masculine things. We watched ball games on the TV, fished for catfish and bluegill in stripper pits in the Greene-Sullivan State Forest, shot guns, stood out in the garage, as is customary, and generally bullshitted. But what was most amazing, other than my father’s apparent transformation, was that Dad, seemingly exhausted by years and years of near-silence, began to speak openly about the burden of masculinity. He told me the expectations he’d carried, as a father, as a son, as a man, had sabotaged his relationships and prevented him from expressing himself, or really enjoying intimacy, emotionally or intellectually, his entire life. Shocked at the depth of frustration and despair my dad had suffered, I listened and realized, for the first time, that the masculinity I’d sought, the masculinity I’d been denied, had always been an impossibility. Deep down, I realized that masculinity, as I knew it, as it was presented to me, was a lie.

If you feel called upon to alleviate suffering in the world, that is a very noble thing to do, but remember not to focus exclusively on the outer; otherwise, you will encounter frustration and despair. Without a profound change in human consciousness, the world’s suffering is a bottomless pit. So don’t let your compassion become one-sided. Empathy with someone else’s pain or lack and a desire to help need to be balanced with a deeper realization of the eternal nature of all life and the ultimate illusion of all pain. Then let your peace flow into whatever you do and you will be working on the levels of effect and cause simultaneously. This also applies if you are supporting a movement designed to stop deeply unconscious humans from destroying themselves, each other, and the planet, or from continuing to inflict dreadful suffering on other sentient beings. Remember: Just as you cannot fight the darkness, so you cannot fight unconsciousness. If you try to do so, the polar opposites will become strengthened and more deeply entrenched. You will become identified with one of the polarities, you will create an “enemy,” and so be drawn into unconsciousness yourself. Raise awareness by disseminating information, or at the most, practice passive resistance. But make sure that you carry no resistance within, no hatred, no negativity.

Variations on a tired, old theme Here’s another example of addict manipulation that plagues parents. The phone rings. It’s the addict. He says he has a job. You’re thrilled. But you’re also apprehensive. Because you know he hasn’t simply called to tell you good news. That kind of thing just doesn’t happen. Then comes the zinger you knew would be coming. The request. He says everybody at this company wears business suits and ties, none of which he has. He says if you can’t wire him $1800 right away, he won’t be able to take the job. The implications are clear. Suddenly, you’ve become the deciding factor as to whether or not the addict will be able to take the job. Have a future. Have a life. You’ve got that old, familiar sick feeling in the pit of your stomach. This is not the child you gladly would have financed in any way possible to get him started in life. This is the child who has been strung out on drugs for years and has shown absolutely no interest in such things as having a conventional job. He has also, if you remember correctly, come to you quite a few times with variations on this same tired, old story. One variation called for a car so he could get to work. (Why is it that addicts are always being offered jobs in the middle of nowhere that can’t be reached by public transportation?) Another variation called for the money to purchase a round-trip airline ticket to interview for a job three thousand miles away. Being presented with what amounts to a no-choice request, the question is: Are you going to contribute in what you know is probably another scam, or are you going to say sorry and hang up? To step out of the role of banker/victim/rescuer, you have to quit the job of banker/victim/rescuer. You have to change the coda. You have to forget all the stipulations there are to being a parent. You have to harden your heart and tell yourself parenthood no longer applies to you—not while your child is addicted. Not an easy thing to do. P.S. You know in your heart there is no job starting on Monday. But even if there is, it’s hardly your responsibility if the addict goes well dressed, badly dressed, or undressed. Facing the unfaceable: The situation may never change In summary, you had a child and that child became an addict. Your love for the child didn’t vanish. But you’ve had to wean yourself away from the person your child has become through his or her drugs and/ or alcohol abuse. Your journey with the addicted child has led you through various stages of pain, grief, and despair and into new phases of strength, acceptance, and healing. There’s a good chance that you might not be as healthy-minded as you are today had it not been for the tribulations with the addict. But you’ll never know. The one thing you do know is that you wouldn’t volunteer to go through it again, even with all the awareness you’ve gained. You would never have sacrificed your child just so that you could become a better, stronger person. But this is the way it has turned out. You’re doing okay with it, almost twenty-four hours a day. It’s just the odd few minutes that are hard to get through, like the ones in the middle of the night when you awaken to find that the grief hasn’t really gone away—it’s just under smart, new management. Or when you’re walking along a street or in a mall and you see someone who reminds you of your addicted child, but isn’t a substance abuser, and you feel that void in your heart. You ache for what might have been with your child, the happy life, the fulfilled career. And you ache for the events that never took place—the high school graduation, the engagement party, the wedding, the grandkids. These are the celebrations of life that you’ll probably never get to enjoy. Although you never know. DON’T LET    YOUR KIDS  KILL  YOU  A Guide for Parents of Drug and Alcohol Addicted Children PART 2

Sometimes I go to parties filled with mature people who know things and act their age and I’m quickly filled with despair. I walk in the door and greet the host and mill about, but in the pit of my stomach I know that leaving home was a huge mistake. I will not be surprised and delighted. I will not learn something new. I will not even enjoy the sound of my own voice. I will be lulled into a state of excruciating paralysis and self-hatred and other-people hatred. Let’s be honest, some days, sensible middle-aged urban liberal adult professionals are the most tedious people in the world. I know that I should feel grateful that these people, my peers, are enlightened, that they listen to NPR and read The Atlantic, that they join book clubs and send their kids to the progressive preschool and the Italian immersion magnet. I should feel cheered by the fact that I know human beings who hold national grants to improve government policy on something or other, or who work with troubled teenagers. These people are informed and intelligent. These are the people I should want to know. But I am an ingrate.

Something changed between us that day. I’d seen Debra at her worst, and I’ve found that is often what binds women together. Men admire each other when they are at their best, but women enjoy meeting each other in pits of despair.

even when life drags you down into the deepest pit of despair, that’s the most important time to keep believing, because you never know when you’re going to sling-shot upwards, straight out of there.

Death is an important interest, especially to an ageing person. A categorical question is being put to him, and he is under an obligation to answer it. To this end, he ought to have a myth about death, for reason shows him nothing but the dark pit into which he is descending. Myth, however, can conjure up other images for him, helpful and enriching pictures of life in the land of the dead. If he believes in them or greets them with some measure of credence, he is being just as right or just as wrong as someone who does not believe in them. But while the man who despairs marches towards nothingness, the one who has placed his faith in the archetype follows the tracks of life and lives right into his death. Both, to be sure, remain in uncertainty, but the one lives against his instincts, the other with them.

No one tells you what it’s like, being a mom. I want to be able to sing a rhyme and teach my kids exactly how to be, but it didn’t work for me. I did everything I was supposed to, followed all the rules, I never stopped, even after. And I’m so sad. I’m so sad. All the time. And I don’t know how not to be sad. I kept having babies, thinking I wouldn’t feel alone. That I would have my own circle, that I would be the center of it. But there’s no circle. It’s a chain. And you’re right _ I’m the link holding everything together. And it’s all just weight. It’s weight, and it never lets up and no one else ever holds it. No one else even notices it. I don’t understand how I can be there every moment of every single day and somehow not exist at the same time.Most days, I think I’m not even a person - not to them, not to myself. I look at my girls and this pit, this yawning pit of despair opens in me. Because they’re so sweet. And they’re so new. And they’re going to go through everything I did. They’re going to do everything I’m teaching them and telling them to do to be happy, and I’m not happy. And I don’t know how to be happy. I haven’t been happy since…I want the rules to matter. I want the rules to help.

One night Tayven managed to engineer a visit to Ashalan without Helayna’s presence and seduced him. It was not a challenge. Ashalan; tired and hopeless, was sodden with romantic and melancholic thoughts. He spoke of an ancient legend, in which a Cossic king had taken as a lover a boy of a conquered Mewtish emperor, which had caused all manner of unpleasantness. Tayven was impatient with this. He’d lost all his romantic inclinations. He realized that he must help Ashalan recapture the man he’d once been. The rebels might not be able to win their war, but they could survive in the wilderness undetected, perhaps forever. For that, they needed strong leaders. Helayna was an inspiration to them, but they had a spiritual link to Ashalan. To the Cossics, he was the life of their land. If he withered and failed, so did they, and Tayven realized it was not in his personal interests for this to happen. He became Ashalan’s inspiration, and used every ancient legend he could think of, and several that he made up, to help drag Ashalan out of his pit of despair. He saw the blood come back into Ashalan’s eyes. His body became straighter, his limp less pronounced.

All I know is that I didn’t want to risk sending myself into a fiery pit of despair for the rest of eternity because I wasn’t strong enough to stick it out, to keep on living until my time came.

Grieving was a long process, and it never really went away. She had learned to live with hers, and so would Ronja, but it would take time. The misery came and went in waves, and sometimes it crashed over the griever like a tsunami, obliterating the progress that might have been achieved and sending her back into the pits of despair.

I fell into climbing, so to speak, a willy-nilly response to a crushing bout of depression that began in my mid-thirties. The disorder reduced my chronic low self-regard to a bottomless pit of despair and misery. I recoiled from myself and my life, and came very close to suicide. Then, salvation. On a family vacation in Colorado, I discovered the rigors and rewards of mountain climbing, and gradually came to see the sport as my avenue of escape. I found that a punishing workout regimen held back the darkness for hours each day. Blessed surcease. I also gained hard muscle and vastly improved my endurance, two novel sources of pride.

Kin mourn my passing, all love is dust The pit is cut from the raw, stones piled to the side Slabs are set upon the banks, the seamed grey wall rises Possessions laid out to flank my place of rest All from the village are drawn, beating hides Keening their grief with streaks in ash Clawed down their cheeks, wounds on their flesh The memory of my life is surrendered In fans of earth from wooden shovels And were I ghostly here at the edge of the living Witness to brothers and sisters unveiled by loss Haunters of despair upon this rich sward Where ancestors stand sentinel, wrapped in skins I might settle motionless, eyes closed to dark's rush And embrace the spiral pull into indifference Contemplating at the last, what it is to be pleased Yet my flesh is warm, the blood neither still in my veins Nor cold, my breathing joining this wind That carries these false cries, I am banished Alone among the crowd and no more to be seen The stirrings of my life face their turned backs The shudders of their will, and all love is dust Where I now walk, to the pleasure of none Cut raw, the stones piled, the grey wall rising Banished Kellun Adara

The lantern held aloft; brief flashes of our surroundings were all we were privy to. The masses of bones were brown now, jaws collapsed mid-scream and crammed into boxes three at a time. Wooden coffins crumbled effortlessly to time, exposing ancient, dusty remains, some crushed by metal plate armour. They nested bugs and creatures that need never know the light of day, that probed in the darkest reaches of the world, far away from human sights and sensibilities. The loose stone floor was looser than ever, the path narrower, threatening to roll ankles and cast curious wanderers into a pit of forgotten despair. Everything felt tighter around me as if the walls of skulls were closing in, but also supernaturally colder. ~ Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline, The Ripper Lives, Into the Black (4/10)

Writing is such a solitary activity. You have no assurance that what you're creating has any value, and any indication that you're behind in the rat race sends you spiraling into the pits of despair. Keep your eyes on your own paper, they say. But it's hard to do when everyone else's papers are flapping constantly in your face.

In the deepest shadows of despair, where akathisia whispers its darkest tales, we discover not the end but the beginning of our most profound resilience. Although isolated and battered by storms, it is here, in this pit of suffering, that we discover an unwavering strength to overcome the seemingly impossible. Even amidst the relentless disruption of our nightmares, hope survives, a beacon calling us to rise. We are the evidence that even in the face of Akathisia's cruel grip, the human spirit remains indomitable, forever pushing forward towards renewal and growth.

In the deepest shadows of despair, where Akathisia whispers its darkest tales, we discover not the end but the beginning of our most profound resilience. Although isolated and battered by storms, it is here, in this pit of suffering, that we discover an unwavering strength to overcome the seemingly impossible. Even amidst the relentless disruption of our nightmares, hope survives, a beacon calling us to rise. We are the evidence that even in the face of Akathisia cruel grip, the human spirit remains indomitable, forever pushing forward towards renewal and growth.

Her momma finds her stray hair still left in the bathroom sink. Where she combed out her ratty do for what seemed like forever. Staring at herself in the mirror and pulling and teasing and shaping all that her stingy god would give her and nothing ever more. She’d contemplate her face there. Her flat wide nose and dark eyes and the combinations. She’d test her looks to see how she looked when she kissed. She'd extend her tongue as far out of her mouth as she could to check out how long it was and if she had anything extra special to offer. And what she'd have to do to serve it up. Momma grabs a kleenex and cleans around the deep rust stains in the sink. Does she throw away the old dry hairs crumbled in her hand under the tissue or keep such sad memories. Does she store them in a drawer or is she just being silly. Should she cherish this precious angel manna or try and just fucking get over it. Not give into it. Could she even possibly throw them away into the garbage without bawling uncontrollably. Can she possibly change the urge over from utter despair. When she sees her child getting brutally raped and hammered into, her baby's baby fingers digging into the rocks and dirt she can pass by daily. A dilapidated pit that crumbles in the middle of all their continuing lives and remains standing out of sheer old bull-headed promise and well organized planning. The forefathers of this neighborhood didn't count on the incredibly heavy weight of the public’s filthy laziness. My poor baby. My poor baby. She has to seek help. This nameless faceless mother. She can’t deal with this all alone. She can’t quit these imaginings from her old yellowed eyes and ears and off her cleaning washing working fingertips and the very constant edges of her smaller brain. The sickness that slipped thick repetitive blobs of useless male sperm and thin streams of rust washed metal stripping toxins bleeding down her daughter’s black throat may or may not be only one in a great number of difficult dreams and attempts but she just can’t find a polite perspective anymore. She can’t live like this any longer. She should have offered her child more than a dirty smudged mirror in a peeling and running bathroom when she got home from a dirty hot school every damn day. Where were the cops? And the doctors who were supposed to save her? And the fucking psychiatrists who could have done some trepanning into that evil dog's motherfucking bursting crack head before he was let out on the streets with his glass dick and his screaming pussy hunting cock. Dogs don't need help. They need to be put down.

Thinking of you is as reflexive as blinking, although the thought is no longer a drone strike. I’m no longer standing in a field, bracing myself, looking up at the sky in terror. This isn’t a war zone. This is just how it works now: I feel my feelings of despair, get out of bed, and participate in the world anyway. I finally understand the meaning of acceptance on the grief chart. It’s not that the bereaved ever accepts the death of the loved one—I will never accept your death—it’s that you come to accept that these really are your shitty, irreversible circumstances. One day, it just becomes clear: this is the way it is now. The delusions, denial, hysterics, depression, torment—it eventually starts to melt into this pit of mush that lives in your stomach and just sort of weighs you down. It’s not even necessarily fueled by emotion any more. It’s just the way your body works now. Like the day you accept that your stomach will never again look the way it did before you grew a child in it. You’re never gonna like it, but you’ll eventually get to a point where you go to the fucking store and buy pants that are the next size up because you have to wear pants. Acceptance.

Scrolls and sketches, paper and vellum in tidy stacks rested where she had left them. All her research and writing waited by the fireplace. The impulse to burn it all was gone. That had been last night’s pit of despair, a tarry darkness so deep that she had not even had the energy to feed the papers to the flames. Cold daylight revealed that as a foolish vanity, the childish tantrum of “look what you made me do!” What had Rapskal and the other keepers done to her? Nothing except make her look at the truth of her life. Setting fire to her work would not have proved anything except that she wished to make them feel bad. Her mouth trembled for a moment and then set in a very strange smile. Ah, that temptation lingered; make them all hurt as she did! But they wouldn’t. They wouldn’t understand what she had destroyed. Besides, it was not worth the effort to go knock on a door and borrow coals from one of the keepers. No. Leave them there. Let them find this monument to what she had been, a woman made of paper and ink and pretense.

...any indication that you're behind in the rat race sends you spiraling into the pits of despair. Keep your eyes on your own paper, they say. But that's hard to do when everyone else's papers are flapping constantly in your face.

You can kill yourself or you can take a walk. You can kill yourself or you can play a game of cards with your demented grandmother. You can kill yourself or you can listen to your favorite song for the millionth time. You can kill yourself or you can day dream about your dream partner. You can fall into a pit of despair over the never ending failure and stupidity of the human species, or you can make a cup of coffee and spell the ash tray. The choice is yours, now if you'll excuse me, put the knife in the sink so I can do the dishes!

The cowboy suit hung behind the bedroom door in its plastic covering. With great care Neville lifted it down and laid it upon the bed. Carefully parting the plastic, he pressed his nose to the fabric of the suit, savouring the bittersweet smell of the dry cleaner’s craft. Gently he put his thumbs to the pearl buttons and removed the jacket from the hanger. He sighed deeply, and with the reverence a priest accords to his ornamentum, he slipped into the jacket. The material was crisp and pure, the sleeves crackled slightly as he eased his arms into them, and the starched cuffs clamped about his wrists like loving manacles. Without further hesitation the part—time barman climbed into the trousers, clipped on the gunbelt, and tilted the hat on to his head at a rakish angle. Pinning the glittering badge of office carefully to his breast he stepped to the pitted glass of the wardrobe mirror to view the total effect. It was, to say the least, stunning. The dazzling white of the suit made the naturally anaemic Neville appear almost suntanned. The stetson, covering his bald patch and accentuating his dark sideburns, made his face seem ruggedly handsome, the bulge of the gunbelt gave an added contour to his narrow hips, and the cut of the trousers brought certain parts of his anatomy into an unexpected and quite astonishing prominence. ‘Mighty fine,’ said Neville, easing his thumbs beneath the belt buckle and adopting a stance not unknown to the late and legendary ‘Duke’ himself. But there was something missing, some final touch. He looked down, and caught sight of his carpet-slippers; of course, the cowboy boots. A sudden sick feeling began to take hold of his stomach. He did not remember having seen any boots when the suit arrived. In fact, there were none. Neville let out a despairing groan and slumped on to his bed, a broken man. The image in the mirror crumpled away and with it Neville’s dreams; a cowboy in carpet-slippers? A tear entered Neville’s good eye and crept down his cheek. ==========

He lifted me out of the pit of despair, out of the mud and the mire. He set my feet on solid ground. —Psalm 40:2

winds of temptation rise against you, if you strike against the reefs of temptation, look at the star, call on Mary. If you are tossed by the waves of pride, of ambition, or of envy, look at the star, call on Mary. If anger, greed or impurity throw themselves violently against the barque of your soul, look at Mary. If you are troubled by the memory of your sins, confounded at the ugliness of your conscience, fearful at the thought of judgement, and you start sinking in the bottomless pit of sadness or in the abyss of despair, think of Mary. In danger, in affliction, in doubts, think of Mary, call on Mary. Don’t let Mary be apart from your tongue, don’t withdraw her from your heart; and to obtain her intercession, do not depart from the example of her virtue. You will not go wrong if you follow her, and not lose heart if you pray to her; you will not be lost if you think of her. If she takes you by the hand you will not fall; if she protects you, you will never have cause to fear; you will not grow weary if she guides you; you will reach port safely if she aids you.[195] Let us invoke her name especially in the Hail

He was almost there, ready to hang up his wings, to leave behind everyone who mattered to him. To descend into a pit of wallowing despair, somewhere no one could watch his self-destructive decline. Almost. But there was something there, the smallest remnant of what he once had been, screaming at him from the deepest recesses of his mind. Pushing him, standing up to the fear, to the memories of what he’d been through. It was distant, buried under the confusion and aimlessness that had dominated him. But it was just strong enough to stop him from quitting. He had lost what he was, what he had been. He didn’t know if he could ever get it back, but that fading light still flickered, and he realized it would deny him an easy exit. It would drive him forward…though whether to redemption or death he didn’t know.

Paulo noticed the creature’s swift and frantic breathing and the drop of red staining the ground beneath, but above all he saw the bird’s uppermost eye, wide open and fixed on his. That single eye reflected panic and despair on a scale he had never before witnessed. It was both tiny and enormous, and with every passing moment it seemed to expand, encompassing the trees, the landscape, the sky. That look stilled the wind and darkened the day and, at a glance, transformed a moment of ecstasy into a bottomless pit of guilt." From "The Algorithm of Power", Part 3: The Paulo Fontana Story

That was what people like Ariana Nasbro didn’t quite get. The fragility of it all. The ripples one horror can unleash. How any carelessness can plummet you down that pit of despair. How it can all be irreparable. Yet

My dreams are restless, the past rising up to haunt me or delight me by turn. The dark dreams take me back to that place, that hole I was in, the pit of despair. I left that place behind, never to return, but even though my conscious will refuses to go back there, at night it returns to remind me of whence I came. I will not go back …

But things change. No matter how hard we fight it, nothing stays as it is. All things, as you may have noticed, must change, and even end. At some point, even the greatest misery begins to fade. Life, or what passes for life, plods on in its own unending weary footsteps, and somehow we plod along with it, if we stay lucky. Eventually, other little thoughts began to trickle into the Pit of Despair where I lay and, it must be said, where I wallowed. It was this very act of wallowing, of starting to enjoy my suffering a little too much, that finally brought me back to something resembling awareness. I became aware that I had started my own repeating loop, in perfect harmony to Deborah’s hard words. It was a simple melody, a sprightly version of the well-known old tune “Pity Me.” And when I was at last alert to the fact that I was doing that, I became self-conscious and, from there, conscious.

Either way, he was always staring into a bottomless pit, or into a whirlpool that forever sucked him inexorably inward to its vortex.

Weddings do women no good at all. They’re a viper’s pit of waste and despair. And nearly every aspect of them reverberates badly against the very people who love them the most: us. Our love for a wedding is a bad love. It does us no good..... It’s the best day of your life.’ Well. The snags here are obvious. Of course it’s not the best day of your life. A day that was really the best day of your life wouldn’t involve Uncle Wrong, Aunt Drip, and someone from your office you had to invite,... Surely, women, we would happily exchange one ‘special’ day for a life filled with more modest pleasures? Or perhaps we should just junk the whole idea of getting married in the first place. I’m generally against anything where you’re supposed to change your name. When else do you get named something else? On joining a nunnery, or becoming a porn star. As an ostensibly joyful celebration of love, that’s bad company. to be in.

My Promise lives within each of you for you are the hope of all who seek light from within the darkness. No matter the misery of those who have given themselves over to evil, the fate of each man in his own hands: divergence from the path of Righteousness comes in many forms but the price of my eternal Peace is paid in compassion and humility. It is upon your Faith that wickedness will be vanquished, and suffering expelled eternally into the depths of the Pit so that all who seek it may dwell eternally in my House. Despair not of what is to come for your place is forever at my table.

But when he came upon the sacred place, I ventured forth from the cave, raising my tau”—a shepherd’s stick, with a curved iron handle—“and I felt a righteous power descend upon me. I struck the ground, and a bottomless chasm opened under their feet. Many were swallowed whole.” It inevitably reminded Rashid of the parting of the Red Sea. “From that pit vomited a swarm of demons, led by the Lord of Flies. I did strike him with my staff, but the demon was able to wrest it away. We fought all through the night, though despair was my greatest enemy.

March 10 Protection from the Storms God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.—Psalm 46:1 I’m a Texan. When we think of storms, tornado is the word. March through May is the peak time for tornados in our state. We get hit about 110 times a year. Texans know where to take refuge from tornados. We have periodic drills in our schools and sometimes in our churches. I have gone to our church basement several times because we have had many warnings. What kind of storms do you take refuge from? You may be on the coast and dread hurricane season. You may be from California and have not only fires, but mud slides. Wherever you live, I know that you encounter storms in your life. Where do you take refuge from the storms of life? Do you plunge into the pit of despair, or do you seek the protection of the one who controls the storms? God’s Word is so precious. The older I get, the more I relish verses like the one for today. He is my refuge. No matter what the reason for our storms and our heartaches, we are promised that God will be our strength in times of trouble. Go to His storm cellar. Dear Father, thank You for the promises from Your Word: “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand” (Isaiah 41:10).

Women, they were tricky business. A man had to step carefully lest he find himself in a pit of despair, longing after the one he wants and getting nothing but scorn in return.

Friends of yours? Nice of them to make it to our claiming ceremony.” The deep voice behind her made Liv whirl around. He was directly behind her, looming over her and nodding at Sophie and Kat as though they were at a wedding or something. Well it is a wedding, isn’t it? Or the next best thing to it, chimed in the little voice. Liv was beginning to wish she had an ice pick so she could dig it out once and for all. Then she realized that was a crazy thought—and yet, she was in a crazy situation. How else was she supposed to react? “I’m her attorney, you asshole,” Kat lied with abandon before Liv could say anything. “And there’s not going to be any ceremony,” Sophia added, speaking up even though she was usually a total wallflower around strange men. She turned to Kat. “Is there, Kat?” “I’m afraid there is.” The big Kindred warrior had a neutral expression on his face but there was a warning rumble in his deep voice. “She’s my bride. I’m claiming her today.” “Excuse me? Claiming her? Like she was a lost piece of luggage at the airport or something?” Kat demanded. “She’s not lost anymore,” the big warrior said with certainty. “Now that I’ve found her she’s mine.” “Liv doesn’t belong to you or anybody else,” Sophia hissed, glaring up at him and keeping her arms protectively around Liv. “She’s my sister—you can’t step in and take her away, just like that!” “Actually, I’m afraid he can.” The new voice caused all of three of them to swivel their heads. Another Kindred warrior with blond, spiky hair and ice blue eyes was speaking. “You made a legally binding agreement when you enrolled in the draft,” he told Liv. “Not to mention just now when the officers picked you up and you signed the contract of claiming.” “I what?” Liv demanded. “What are you talking about? I didn’t sign anything. Did I?” The blond Kindred held out his hand and one of the Kindred officers put a thick sheaf of papers in it. “Does this look familiar?” he asked, holding it out to her. Liv felt her heart sink. “But I thought I was just signing to verify my uh, identity. See, they showed me this picture—” “Let me see that.” Kat snatched the papers away and began scanning through them rapidly. Liv and Sophia watched her hopefully but Liv could feel the hope in her chest turning to despair as Kat’s pretty face grew more and more blank. At last she looked up. “Well?” Liv felt like someone had deposited a fist sized ball of ice in the pit of her stomach. “Liv, honey—” Kat began and Sophia began to sob. “I can’t believe this,” she gasped, tears pouring down her face. “Can’t believe that they can just drag you out of your house without even giving you time to change clothes and force you to go with some strange man. This is horrible!” Liv felt numb. “No, Sophie, this is reality.

For everything you hate, you have to like two things, or you’re gonna slide into the pit of despair, girl.

My despair was a pit dug by my own failures, not a remediable medical condition.

She did feel everything she’d said. The despair. Who wouldn’t, if they were paying attention? But you didn’t feel it all the time. You walled it up with purpose. With friendship. With vows and work. And you reminded yourself that it was not just you who felt this way, that there were others out there with their own pits and walls and vows and love and work, and you tried to let that make you kind.

I waited patiently for the LORD to help me, and he turned to me and heard my cry. 2 He lifted me out of the pit of despair, out of the mud and the mire. He set my feet on solid ground and steadied me as I walked along. 3 He has given me a new song to sing, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see what he has done and be amazed. They will put their trust in the LORD.

So I gave up in despair, questioning the value of all my hard work in this world.” (Ecclesiastes 2:20)

Modern life still contains dozens of potential tiny pits of mind-numbing despair which must be made more chocolatey …

The professor said nothing. He strode forward boldly and flashed his light into the yawning black pit. Broad, worn steps stretched away before them. After a brief hesitation they started down. The flight of stairs began to curve to the left almost immediately, and it turned into a spiral that wound around and around endlessly. The farther down they went, the colder it got, but there was something more than cold here—there was an evil, brooding stillness that weighed on their hearts, filling them with despair.

We are privy to several conversations between God and Job. Job is honest about his disappointment and despair surrounding his circumstances. He speaks frankly about his feelings toward God and the people in his life. And God speaks directly in return. The thread throughout their dialogue is God reminding Job of who He is and who Job is in relation to God. Job’s pain persisted and he sat in his pit of suffering and sorrow, holding more questions than answers. But remembering who God was and who He was in Job’s middle place helped him remain confident of the hopeful end when he claimed, “For I know that my Redeemer lives, and at the last he will stand upon the earth” (Job 19:25 ESV). In Job’s confusion and devastation, he stands upon the secure truth that Christ will stand upon the earth, defeating darkness. In the middle of his suffering with no solution, Job celebrates his Savior. Authentic celebration is possible not when we fully comprehend our circumstances but when we rightly know God and recognize His authority.