I walk into an unknown room. It's quiet. Eerie even. As my feet touch the white, cold tile floor, chills run down my spine. There's a table before me. A long metal table, I bet it's cold too. I'm uncomfortable. My heart is racing, and not in a good kind of way. I want to run. Want to run back into comfort, into what's always been. But I can't. I won't. I've been there before. It ends the same every time. Hurt. Broken. Empty. Lonely. Angry. Bitter. I'm done. There's got to be another way. I suppose that desire, that yearning for something more has lead me here. Standing alone, vulnerable, terrified. As I approach the table, I wonder . . . will this hurt more than the pain I already walk in outside of this room? The doubts of, can I really be "fixed," feed the urge to run. As I take another step closer, I notice a window. I vaguely can see faces. Who are they? Why are they here? Do they get to watch? I can't breath. What if they see ________? Will they laugh? Judge? The inner turmoil is unbearable. Stay. Run. Stay. Run. Nothing changes if I continue to follow my old footsteps. I know this. Yet that path looks easy. Easy? Easy and empty I remind myself. Nothing about doing the right thing is easy. I take another step. Tears run down my cheek. I'm scared. I take another step. As I approach the table. There are no straps. Nothing that will hold me in. What? I have the choice to enter the room. To get on the table. And now, to stay. Doubts. Questions. What if I am not strong enough? What if it hurts too much? Will I choose to stay? I climb on. I was right, it's cold. I want to run. To hop off and never look back. But I don't. I start sobbing. Why is this such a wrestle? I close my eyes. And in between what sobs I can, I breath and whisper . . . "Hurry Jesus. Hurry and meet me here."