counting pages

It seems like the only thing I've done this week and last is count pages. I counted three or four pages in approximately seven sets as I worked through a series of short assignments a coworker asked me to proofread on Friday to be returned Monday. Then I counted the six pages that I was sent Monday afternoon to have returned to him by Monday evening. I counted to six after two pages, after three, and after four.

I count the ten pages of Scripture I'm supposed to read every day. I re-count them almost every time I flip a page. I count the pages I didn't read on days I don't read and I count how far behind I am in my overall schedule.

I count the pages of the one hundred-twenty-five-page manuscript I'm editing. I count to the end of the chapter, and to the end of the section. I count my quotas, the quotas I've missed and met. I count the days til the deadline. And I keep counting the pages. I keep subtracting the number printed in the top corner from the number 125.

I counted the pages of the annual report I was asked to proof on Wednesday. I flip ahead often to see how long each subsection is.

I've been counting the pages of the guidlines/overview/introduction documents I was sent by an organisation I just started volunteering with. I counted the articles and counted down; then I count the pages and count down. The final article has been particularly tough slogging and I still have three pages left of nine, something I said I'd have read by this past Monday.


Sigh. I love the work but it's tiring and I'm tired. I don't know what kind of week this is but it's knee-deep and it's weighty. Three times already this week I have found myself mumbling, "it's too much... it's too much," while I wipe tears away. I feel like I don't want this life. I feel like a mess and I struggle with how to handle overwhelming pain.*


I want relief. (But I also want to trust the Guy who can tame Leviathan.)