On the PA Turnpike

Pushing homeward on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, a rest stop was in order.  Yes, this is a restroom story.  But when you live on the road, you meet many restrooms, the style and cleanliness thereof being at all points on the scale.  

This one was large, and relatively empty.  Turning the corner into an unused aisle of stalls, I met this:

An extra large stall.  I opened the door out of curiosity.  And saw this:

A regular size and height porcelain throne for Mommy.  And a small one, about a foot off the floor, for And Me.  And an infant/toddler seat that pulled down from the wall, in which to park and restrain the smallest of the little ones.  This seat kept them off the germ laden floor, and also raised above potential splashes from the thrones.

How cute!  And conveniently practical.  Where were these when my arms were full?  Tending needs with a baby in arms and toddler by the hand back in the day was a difficult challenge.

I went my way with a wince of remembrance and a smile for this new development.

Delivery Day, Los Angeles

August 27, 2018

At the Days Inn, Barstow, California. 6AM. The Trucker’s phone alarm tweedle-dee’d any dreams to oblivion. A new day, a long one. We arise and move quietly, aware that in the neighboring rooms it is 3AM Pacific time.

Brief showers, just because we can, a short packing job, then with bags in hand and over shoulder, we face the day. The early morning is cool, with light breezes stirring the palm trees. We tread across the balcony, down stairs, and uphill to the parking lot where the big green Kenworth and others of its ilk are waiting quietly.

A quick turn of the key to waken the beast, and the Trucker leaves his Passenger to organize the bunk and prepare breakfast, after a fashion.

Rolling west on I-15, the Passenger feeds the Trucker his oatmeal/applesauce breakfast. The truck is moving and swaying, the early morning hour is dark. After two mishaps in three tries, the Trucker turns on the interior bulbs to light the spoon’s way from dish to mouth. Gotta keep that shirt presentable, it will travel many miles and meet many dock workers with the Trucker today. Not everyone gets fed their breakfast via spoon at 60 mph on a crowded freeway before sunrise.

The split speed limit – 55mph for trucks, 70 mph for cars – is busy causing its own set of hassles.

The freshly washed and shined truck’s windshield made the whole world look crisp and clean. Route I-15 through Barstow took us past the many truck stops here, every space filled with a truck (hundreds of them), biding their time for the call to head into the city with their loads. Four to six lanes one way, the freeway was lightly traveled, and that mostly trucks, at first.

Very soon, side roads began releasing channels of traffic onto the freeway, flowing smoothly into the main stream, which was rapidly becoming a river. Some changing lanes and adjusting their speed as needed, others maintaining their preferred speed no matter the inconvenient adjustments their actions required of other vehicles. Closer and closer they came, til the freeway was a solid mass of moving vehicles.

Then it was down the Cajon Mountain Pass where, according to the Trucker, the idea that became the Jake brake was born. Though darkness still reigned, and a full moon shone out of the clear sky overhead, dim black shapes gave evidence of the mountains, hills, and canyons through which we passed.

Partway down, the Passenger inquired as to whether the hot brake smell wafting in the open windows originated with the green Kenworth. The Trucker laughed. He had not yet used his brakes enough to heat them up, leaning heavily instead on the Jake. Then there was the lone runaway truck ramp on this pass, but a long line of red taillights between us and it. If needed, one wouldn’t necessarily have had a clear opening to it without decimating many vehicles on the way, or going over the mountainside.

And then there was the weigh station for trucks, seemingly permanently closed. It does seem a nasty location to use for pulling all trucks off the road and then causing them to re-enter traffic.

Down and out of the hills, and across the valley, merging with a similar river of traffic, flowing uphill into the mountains. The Passenger looks forward across the landscape, and the lights of the city spread out below. How beautiful Los Angeles is from here, now!

“No,” the Trucker says with amusement. “That’s not LA, not even close. It’s Victorville. Not an LA suburb; we have yet to reach even the suburbs of that city.  This area is what is called the high desert.” Oh.

Lights. Lights without number, each parting the blackness with an individual marker of its existence. Streams of red lights before us. Streams of white headlights facing us. The city below. The stars above. And the full, bright moon overseeing them all. Only a light haze over the hills, hanging between the stars and the city, altered the contrast between light and dark.

Closer in to the city limits, more side roads empty onto the freeway, traffic shifting from lane to lane. Among these, a city bus, its bright interior lights shining onto the road. Empty, but for a back seat where a young woman dressed a sleepy toddler on her lap. Local time is now 5:45AM. What is her life like, that she and her little one are on a city bus at this hour?

Ahead, a white tractor and trailer, maintaining speed, now straddling the dotted line, now centered in its lane, now swinging back again. The Trucker tenses, watching, and the Passenger worries til safely past.

Finally it is our turn to be a small eddy that swirls out of the river, and washes up on a side street, down to only four lanes, then three, then two, and we have arrived.

GrayBar. In the Pomona section of the greater Los Angeles area. The huge, new looking warehouse where the first third of our load of spooled wire is destined. Our world is suddenly quiet. No one is here. Lights are out. High up the bank, waves of traffic roar on the freeway. Here, the lot is empty and swept clean. All 24 truck parking spaces, generous turn around area, and twelve dock doors, though the building is much longer that what twelve doors require.

The Trucker parks in front of the warehouse, every light lit on truck and trailer. After investing in a thorough wash and shine, why not get the most of it in a pre-dawn photo session?

The Passenger makes a phone call to Eastern Standard Time, and takes a brisk walk or three round the perimeter. Bare feet on the pavement is a comfortable change, not even small stones underfoot. The air is cool. The moon has vanished into the mist.

Beside the curb.  A termite mound, or a pile of dirt?

Blooming hedge along the curb.

Another truck has arrived. Both back to dock doors. The Trucker and I enter the receiving door, into a tiny caged area. A short counter is straight ahead, fronted by two new looking bar stools. On the left is a comfortable arm chair, by which a sizable bell hangs. The words “Alligator Hope 1986” is engraved on the bell, and a sign hangs by it instructing one to ring the bell for service.

The bell is duly rung, and shortly a man on a forklift zips over, and grants permission for us to enter the warehouse proper, so the Trucker can remove the trailer load locks in preparation for unloading. He then requested use of the restroom. Another warehouse worker escorts us to the far end of the warehouse, and for safety regulations, waits to escort us back.

And what restrooms they were! Spacious, and meticulously clean – too clean to use – this Passenger thought.

Then back through the warehouse, dwarfed by tall racks holding all manner of sizes and weights and colors of wire on spools. We learn from our gracious escort, they stock the spools here, and cut wire and re-spool it to fill orders that are shipped out. Even combining different wires on the same spool if so ordered.

In record time, the order on our truck was unloaded and stacked in the tidy warehouse, and bills were signed. Then it was back in the truck, back out onto the freeway to “play in the traffic’ as the Trucker said.

On the Los Angeles Freeway

What happens when the Trucker allows the "x" number of feet ahead needed to stop his rig on the LA freeway, and a little black car ducks by his bumper without warning and appropriates those feet for itself?

Nothing, this time, thanks to an alert Trucker and good brakes.
A little bit of rubber sacrificed from the tires, and a little black car totally oblivious to how close it came to receiving a remodel job at best, annihilation at worst.

Truck driving appears easy? Just sitting down on the job all day? Ride with the trucker a while, and I'll ask you again.

And in the time it took to type this, happened another time....big white GMC this time...

And comments from friends:

Sometimes it may be best the car in front cannot hear the thoughts from behind.... Good going, trucker man!

I totally agree with the above comment. 😂. Some of my thoughts and comments made while riding along with my husband Daryl in the truck in the past years weren’t always the most Christ like. But seriously in the interest of safety I really wish every young person getting a drivers license would be required to ride along with an experienced CDL driver for a week. It would help them understand how to better share the road.

Saturday Night at the Gallup TA

This is when truck driving is not so good.  A rainy Saturday  evening.  Dusk is falling in Gallup, New Mexico.  Lightning streaks the horizon, more heavy rain is on the way.

The Trucker exits Route 40, to the Travel Centers of America truck stop.  This particular one does not have enough room for a truck to pull away from the pumps after fueling, for the few minutes it takes to use the facilities, pay for fuel, purchase a meal, etc.  Drivers have to park in the lot first.

The lot was nearly full this evening.  Every pump had a truck fueling, and trucks coming off the road were lined up behind each pump, back onto the highway.  A potentially dangerous situation.  The Trucker sighed.  No way out of it now, and we needed fuel and restrooms.

This situation is a bit like what the Passenger experiences during "rush hour" at the grocery store on occasion.  Though the stakes are a bit higher here, Murphy's law says that whichever line you choose will be the slowest.

That seemed to be the case.  Another driver, who had walked by the cab of the truck ahead of us at the pump, signaled for the Trucker's attention, and pantomimed eating.  The Trucker acknowledged his message and groaned.

At my questioning look, he explained.  With the advent of electronic logging devices, or ELD's, drivers are at the mercy of the device.  Which requires them to have a half hour break every so many hours.  Many truckers really cannot afford this, needing to make deadlines and get the job done.  A way around this?  Set the device to start one's half hour break when the truck stops at the fuel pump.  That way, the fueling can happen during the break, and the computer is non the wiser.

Trouble is, when the truck begins to move, even a short hop to a parking lot, the break is automatically over according to the computer.  And it doesn't count if less than 30 minutes.  Which means drivers will remain at the pump to do any number of other tasks, including eating, effectively blocking access to the next driver, for up to a half hour.  

Illegal, yes.  Inconsiderate, definitely.  Aggravating, most assuredly.  But there are no  means in place to enforce the illegality of the practice.  Complain at the fuel desk, call the police, and by the time they take action, the half hour is up and the truck is gone.

When a pump opened up further down, the Trucker looked for an opening, backed up, and maneuvered into it.  Just as he got into position and began to fuel his truck, the offending trucker slapped on his seatbelt and pulled away.  

We all have jobs to do.  Deadlines.  Expectations.  But the fifteen minutes one driver saved himself in this case, was stolen from another.  Not to mention those trucks who were not even able to get into the lot, and took their business elsewhere, further cheating the TA.

And the Trucker!  He also left his truck at the pump after fueling.  Took about three minutes for his personal needs.  And there was no one waiting behind him.

Westward on Route 40 in the downpour.  It does indeed rain on the desert.  Gullies are full, little rivers are washing down hillsides.  The ground cannot hold the blessing of rain, but for a very short while, vegetation can feast on moisture.  The Trucker strains to see into the mist created by the many other rigs on the road.  In the west, skies are lighter.

And so it goes on.

Texoma Livestock Cafe

This is when truck driving is good.  It's a Saturday morning in Oklahoma.  Texoma, to be exact.  Except that the state line between Oklahoma and Texas runs right through the middle of town.

A clear morning, large clumps of white puffy clouds have been flung across the sky.  Land is wide open, flat.  Visibility for miles, unobstructed.  The straight, two lane road takes us through numerous small cattle towns, most with grain elevators, all with railroad track running along the road.  Marching between the two are stately poles, supporting endless miles of power lines.  The only traffic seen, it seems, are cattle and grain trucks.

Nearly level land, semi desert, with hundreds of black and white cattle grazing free surrounds it all.  Everything is bigger in Texas.

But back at the state line, in Oklahoma.  The Trucker eased his rig onto the rutted lot at the Texoma Livestock Yards and Cafe.  

Quiet this morning, the cattle pens and loading chutes were empty, and  just a few trucks were parked here.

On the front door, a funeral notice taped up.  Probably a local man, a regular.  The block building was cool.

A well lit hallway with a community bulletin board and restroom entrances, also led into a dimmer and blessedly quiet cafe.

Very clean it was, with one waitress and one cook on duty.

A few locals sat at the tables, one group appeared to be three generations of men in jeans and billed caps, talking quietly.  Others sat alone, maybe truckers, just waking up for the day.

A small flat screen on one wall was tuned to a FOX News talk show.  The discussion was apparently on a situation where police were called out to a suspected case of child abuse, which was determined to be unfounded, yet left the parents burdened to prove their innocence to retain custody of their children.  Oh, do we have to hear this heartrending story again?  We are among the many who have lived a version of this nightmare, can do nothing about it and cannot get away from it.

The waitress was a young girl, attentive, efficient, soft spoken, with a ready smile.

Our food was before us in short order, and the Trucker was correct.  

Stockyard restaurants do have good food.  And plenty of it.  The most inexpensive breakfast on the menu was mine: one egg, scrambled, hash browns, ham, and toast.  All were cooked just the way it appeals to me.  The only regret was that I didn't chance the bacon.  Frequently it is fatty, limp, and looking as if it had been microwaved.  The bacon the the Trucker's plate was lean and crisp and perfect.

And the amounts, well, way too much for this girl's appetite, tasty though it was.  The toast and ham were saved, parked in the bunk's mini fridge, and will become lunch.

A small metal bucket at each table held utensils wrapped in napkins.
 

The top half of the block walls were painted red, the bottom "chair rail" was corrugated metal - looked like roofing tin.  Air ducts hung from the ceiling by metal supporting straps.  Small, Western themed statues sat on the windowsills, and paintings of the same were on every wall.  All was very clean, though not the latest style by any means.

On the way out, a stop at the little room with a cowgirl on the door was in order.  What a surprise!

The Trucker was envious when informed of this luxury.  Apparently the cowboys do not rate such considerations.

The Texoma Livestock Cafe will be a regular stop in the future, when the Trucker is in the area.  We'll be back!

Looking Back, August 2014

A peek into the journal from August, 2014.  Back when I worked at home for the sister-in-law, advertising on ebay.  When all the children were at home.  One had yet to graduate, but all had steady jobs.  Now the house is empty, and I do corn alone.  Not that mama and sister are not available, but my heart needs to process grief alone most days.....

Some things happening here recently….

Three weeks of iffy internet service because of a modem which fails to consistently recognize requests for internet access by the various devices in the house. If I was paid minimum wage for every hour I spent on the phone with the company and troubleshooting (and wishing I could shoot it) it would almost pay the week’s groceries!

Sitting at Trailside on a hot humid day taking advantage of their free wifi and feeling quite out of place, uploading info to eBay as fast as I can while trucks and their drivers come and go around me, so I can get home, cool off, and catch up on work there. This is what working from home looks like???

Processing 225 ears of corn with son (part time) and daughter (part time), from 8AM to 8PM (including doing cleanup solo). Processing 225 ears of corn a week later with daughter, husband, mom, dad, grammy, sister, brother-in-law, and assorted children and finishing by noon. Many hands make light work, if you have elbow room in which to work! Until the bag in the middle of the stack breaks in your sister’s freezer and the corn juice leaks to the bottom and freezes everything in one solid lump and you have to chip it all out and defrost the freezer to clean it, wipe everything down and begin again…and everyone else has already gone home and the children are waaay overdue for naps….aargghhh

The joy of having hubby at home for a week to do all those things I can do but don’t have time to do (mow the yard, listen to his wife, take daughter‘s truck for new tires, listen to his wife, take daughter’s car for repair, listen to his wife, get groceries, listen to his wife, pick up 5 baskets peaches, husk corn, listen to his wife, and rescue daughter below, and does his wife now have him caught up on all the issues that need decisions?), and the undercurrent of concern that he doesn’t have work this week.

Being grateful that God provided a good load for next week, being frustrated that good week’s work runs into (and over) our planned weekend away (one of just two each year!).

An SOS call from son on behalf of daughter (who forgot her phone) whose exhaust fell off her car on the way to Bible Study. Hubby to the rescue with a handful of zip ties to temporarily remedy the problem. So glad he was home! Sometimes rust isn’t cool.

Opening the door in the early AM so the cats can come in for breakfast (feeding them outside brings too many extraneous critters, tame and otherwise, to our door) and nearly stepping on the live bat one brought as a hostess gift. A wakeup call I didn’t particularly need…

Forgetting to send son’s transcript to LBC and therefore missing the deadline and costing him a chance at JumpStart this fall. Thankfully he is forgiving, and anyway his schedule is already whimpering from overload (or is it his mother??).

Straining my brain to think of ways to make practicing letters and numbers appealing to a normal, active five-year-old nephew. Since when does a child have to know and write his letters and numbers before entering kindergarten?? A son said, “I never went to kindergarten and I did OK.” His father replied, “You were in kindergarten for years and didn’t know it! You didn’t go to school, you lived it.” Being so grateful for the privilege of home schooling!

Putting away the breakfast dishes so I can wash the lunch dishes so I can clear the table of supper dishes, so I can set out breakfast. Ever have days like that?

Having a child ask, “What are you doing today?” and thinking, I’ve got to get dressed, do the dishes, start the day’s laundry, clean up the bedroom, check email, water the porch plants, sweep the floor, and by that time it will be time to start lunch, IF there are no interruptions! But thanks for being interested in my day!

Pondering a dear sister-in-Christ’s comment in a conversation about the common mindset today to “Just take out of your life things that don’t make you happy” including even your marriage partner. She said, “I made a commitment.” So simple. So profound. So encouraging!

That said, some days I am just plain angry at how cheaply this world holds marriage and the commitment it requires. I and the Man I belong to worked hard for what we have! And are still working. Where do they get off thinking they can casually trash it? Anyway, what is the point of marriage, or even any kind of friendship with another person if I can be put aside at any time for ceasing to make that person happy? Is it all about them? Or me? What kind of security is that, knowing whenever “happy” changes or ends (and it will), I can be pushed aside for the next model?

Ok, ‘nuff ranting. Murphy’s law says the phone tech guy will show up right about now because I’m not out of my sweats yet. Of course, if I was perfectly put together and prepared for the day (ha - when do either of them happen??) then he won’t show til Monday!

Newell Truckstop, Newton Kansas

5:30pm Eastern Time, 6:30pm Central.  93 degrees.  Quite a change from 12 hours ago!

A fuel and shower stop at Newel.  While the Trucker tended the fuel, his Passenger packed the shower bag.  A shoulder tote for her, and a denim laundry bag and hanging shirt for him.

The parked truck was left running and locked, as it would heat up quickly in the sun, and after a shower that has to last for two days, we didn't want to break a sweat waiting for the AC to cool things down again.

The showers in this place were named!  This is new for the Passenger.  We were assigned the

The Trucker is waiting for the day he is assigned

The Kenworth shower!

The shower rooms were not stocked with amenities such as floor mats, hand towels, a hairdryer.  But what they "lacked," was more than made up for by the generous size of the room.  No squeezing past each other, no waiting for space at the counter, etc.  And we carry needed toiletries anyway.  The shower head had a unique fountain shooting off to the side, in addition to the regular spray of water, which by the way, was of such pressure that the showeree had to keep moving so as to not lose any skin.

And there was a bench by the sink for the Trucker to sit upon while waiting for his Passenger's last minute  adjustments.

Per instructions, the shower room key and the towels were carried back out to the service desk, a receipt was obtained, and we were on our way.  Less than an hour for all.  

Down the road and down the road we go, just like the brown bunny in the Little Golden Book of old.  Route 50 in Kansas, looking into the setting sun.

Joe's Diner, a Blast from the Past

Lunch on this rainy, chilly  today was at Joe's Diner near Hannibel, Missouri, just off US Route 36 in Palmyra.  A smallish place.  Paved lot, fuel pumps, store, and diner.

Today was the second time the Trucker took me here.  Quite a nice place, really, although the air conditioning rendered the atmosphere decidedly frigid.  A few hard bitten truckers were about, one middle aged and quiet in t-shirt and jeans, another rail thin, tattooed and pony tailed, carrying a gallon thermos for the waitress to fill with ice and water.  

The booth behind us was occupied by a young man in jeans, cap, and a few days of beard.  A small boy of about three years was cuddled up under his arm.  They were sharing a game on the young man's phone.  How refreshing to see the two together, rather than what happens so often, an adult on the phone, leaving the child to amuse himself.  Giggles bubbled out of the boy, and a waitress passing by with a broom stopped to talk.  Apparently they were regulars.  The man's hand was devoid of a ring; was the child his son, or maybe brother?

Another couple came in, greeted the waitress with a hug, and the three sat down for a chat.

The diner's decor was totally given over to Elvis, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, pink cadillacs, Casablanca, and the Three Stooges. 

Also period advertisements for Pepsi-Cola, Dr. Pepper, cigarettes were scattered throughout.  And these:

  

 and more.  Most of every wall was covered.

A corner was devoted to plaques of verse:

Keep your words sweet, you may have to eat them.

Money talks - mine says goodbye.

And my favorite:

Our waitress was quiet and efficient, with pink hair and rather weary eyes.  The Trucker settled for a plain cheeseburger and fries.  I opted for the grilled cheese with ham, and fries.  Generally I look for a little ham with my grilled cheese, but this was a little grilled cheese with ham.  Delicious, but I could have made two sandwiches out of that ham.  

The daily special was codfish, baked beans, and mac & cheese.  The Trucker had a suspicion that the fries shared their oil with the codfish, but as the Passenger didn't seem to notice during the meal, he kept quiet til after.

Back out in the rainy mist, the Trucker plucked a long nail from the lot, just in front of the fuel pumps.  Some future customer will be spared a blown tire, delay, and repair bill because of that deed.

Down the road the big green Kenworth rolls toward Kansas, where the sun shines again and the temperature rises ten degrees in an hour.

The House and the Road

The House and the Road By Josephine Preston Peabody THE LITTLE Road says, Go, The little House says, Stay: And O, it’s bonny here at home, But I must go away.   The little Road, like me,         5 Would seek and turn and know; And forth I must, to learn the things The little Road would show!   And go I must, my dears, And journey while I may,         10 Though heart be sore for the little House That had no word but Stay.   Maybe, no other way Your child could ever know Why a little House would have you stay,         15 When a little Road says, Go.

The Trucker sent me this some months back.  How well we know the conflict between home and the road.  The Trucker is on the road to live, but he lives to come home.

The Swallows

With the abundance of rain, overabundance for many in the area, plant life is lush, green, and on overdrive.

Once again, it is past time to climb on el Toro and go at the lawn.  Tuesday afternoon, and mowing should have happened the preceding Saturday.  But for weekend guests and rain, it would have.  

I removed the bagger - not even gonna try this time - and did a slow trim along the fence that borders two sides of the property.  Daddy always said that good fences make good neighbors, so this one stays, even though there are no four footed specimens to corral anymore.  Not that I mind, especially now that my weed whacker and I have such fun trimming along it.

Then, slow passes back and forth, from the bottom of the property up toward the house.  The clouds thickened.  Wet grass splattered across the lawn in waves.  Breezes increased.  

And across the tops of tasseled corn, from every direction...barn swallows.

I had noticed a few the last time I mowed.  Seen them gathering along the power lines, especially in evening hours.  Now they came, gracefully swooping and diving around me.  Sometimes so close as to collide with the mower...almost, but never quite.

Rain drops began striking my face.  Again.  I had so hoped to get this done before another drenching!  But still the swallows swirled, silently.  Beaks open, but no sound.  So beautiful they were, with perfect timing.

Hmmm...I did know how to upload videos....some

thing else to learn....again...

Braking, I idled the mower, and began filming.  But as I did so, many swallows disappeared away over the waves of corn.  A few remained.  The roar of el Toro was all that could be heard.

Rain increased its tempo, beating a steady rhythm of wetness.  Closing the camera, I released the brake and el Toro started forward once again.  Immediately, the swallows returned, looping and swooping, impervious to the rain.

Then the answer came.  They associated the sound of the mower with the cloud of insects rising up in search of safety ahead of the blades.  And so they came with radar fine-tuned by the Creator, without fear, swooping down, silently devouring the feast set before them.

I love learning  new things.  Even things that have been obvious for a very long time, waiting for me to notice. 

Shutting off the blade, shifting to high gear, and trundling off the the garage,  I called apologies to the swallows.  We'd be back tomorrow, el Toro and I.  And to the insect population, a reprieve.  For now.

A Lament

Psalm3 (NIV)

A psalm of David. When he fled from his son Absalom.

1 Lord, how many are my foes!
    How many rise up against me!
2 Many are saying of me,
    “God will not deliver him.”[b]

3 But you, Lord, are a shield around me,
    my glory, the One who lifts my head high.
4 I call out to the Lord,
    and he answers me from his holy mountain.

5 I lie down and sleep;
    I wake again, because the Lord sustains me.
6 I will not fear though tens of thousands
    assail me on every side.

7 Arise, Lord!
    Deliver me, my God!
Strike all my enemies on the jaw;
    break the teeth of the wicked.

8 From the Lord comes deliverance.
    May your blessing be on your people.

Psalm 142 (NIV)

A maskil[b] of David. When he was in the cave. A prayer.

1 I cry aloud to the Lord;
    I lift up my voice to the Lord for mercy.
2 I pour out before him my complaint;
    before him I tell my trouble.

3 When my spirit grows faint within me,
    it is you who watch over my way.
In the path where I walk
    people have hidden a snare for me.
4 Look and see, there is no one at my right hand;
    no one is concerned for me.
I have no refuge;
    no one cares for my life.

5 I cry to you, Lord;
    I say, “You are my refuge,
    my portion in the land of the living.”

6 Listen to my cry,
    for I am in desperate need;
rescue me from those who pursue me,
    for they are too strong for me.
7 Set me free from my prison,
    that I may praise your name.
Then the righteous will gather about me
    because of your goodness to me.