Bruised, Yet Resurrected

There are some moments in our lives that are unforgettable because they are so good. There are others that are unforgettable because they bring us to our knees. Thankfully, my life is sprinkled with both and a whole lot of ordinariness sandwiched in between the two.motherhood

Recently, I was given the privilege to reflect and write about a really powerful film, Full of GraceAlthough it had been nearly a year since I attended the premiere of the film, it wasn’t a night I had forgotten. It was one of those unforgettable moments that brought me to my knees and prepared me for a message I needed to hear.

To read the review of how this movie impacted my life, go to Catholic World Report.

Purchase or download the film here.

Wrestling with Redemptive Darkness

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For months on end it seems as if so much of my time has been spent wrestling with darkness. The darkness to which I refer isn’t the blackness brought about by the drab, cloudy winter days whose number seem to outweigh those when the sun makes an appearance. Rather the shadows of gloom I battle are delivered daily, courtesy of my child’s inability to fulfill the demands of the cookie-cutter world in which we live. The events of this seemingly unending experience of night are like a constant hum of crackling static emitting from a radio not quite tuned into a station. Some days they rise to a blaring crescendo as if someone turned up the volume on the radio as far as it can go, ripped off the handle and walked away with it. The vexing noise is deafening and agitating and I cannot make it stop.

On this journey of life as the mom of a kid diagnosed with ADHD, an Anxiety Disorder and Sensory Processing Disorder, I am beginning to see a pattern emerge. It seems that when I let my guard down momentarily, because things appear to be better for a time, the return of nightfall is all the more dramatic. I would liken it to the experience of that dreaded annual event in autumn called Daylight Savings, when an hour of light is forcibly severed from our day. It is unwelcome, harsh and causes everything to seem off-kilter for a time.

Freshman year seemed to be going swimmingly well. A new school in a new town with a new schedule to learn could seem daunting to even the most adaptable of souls. But she embraced it, as the trendy phrase describes, “like a boss”. With no more school uniform to constrain her sense of style, she excelled at assembling outfits worthy of their own pin on Pinterest each day. She bounded out to the bus stop looking ever the part of cute adolescent girl, complete with headphones in her ears attached to her new iPhone. After school, I delighted in any shreds of details from her day she would divulge. These quick minutes she allowed me to steal were filled with the names of new friends made, stories of teachers whose creativity raised learning to a whole new level of fun never experienced before and so many possibilities that made the future of high school seem exciting. Just when I didn’t think it could get any better, word came from the new school’s powers-that-be in the form of an official letter. It informed me that my kiddo was voted September “Student of the Month” by the Math Department and we were invited to a ceremony at the school to celebrate this monumental achievement. While I have always known that she is exceptional and amazing, she is a kid who has struggled mightily to show others this side of her, but without a whole lot of success, at least on the playing field of academia. This honor rendered me speechless. The way I felt reminded me of the buzz in the air on the last day of school when the bell rang and summer break was beginning-the future is bright and anything is possible.

Novelty is the friend of persons with ADHD. It is captivating and motivating and brings out their ability to hyperfocus and perform at their best level of effort, that is for as long as it stays novel. Somewhere around October, the novelty of high school wore off for my daughter. Packing a one-two punch was the news that her beloved Papa (grandfather) had fallen for a second time in less than two years. Although it wasn’t a near death experience like his previous traumatic brain injury, nonetheless it was a devastating fracture that was going to require hospitalization and rehab for months. The disruption to the new life she was creating hit her at an emotional level and at a practical level. She took time off school to be at the hospital for the surgery to repair his broken pelvis and she fought with levels of anxiety that threatened to paralyze her. As if our lives were mimicking the shortening October days, nightfall returned and the darkness filled the space that just weeks before had been gleaming and light-filled.

From the earliest of my days, I learned that darkness was bad and to be feared. My childhood home, 1013 E. Prairie Avenue, was a small tri-level with the family room located on the lowest level. It was there where my brothers and I would whittle away hours playing with toys, napping on hot summer days and of course, watching tv. Our “rec room” as we fondly called it circa the 1970’s, seemed as if it were miles away from the rest of the house. Yet when Mom called to say supper was ready, it was with superhuman speed we bolted up the five stairs to the main level. We sprinted two stairs at a time, not so that we might be first to bite into the hot, delicious meal on the table, but rather to avoid the job of the last one up–turning off the lights in the rec room. That place which felt like a safe haven for hours on end each day ceased to exist when it was void of all light. The horrible things that might just happen in the darkness were terrifying and taught me to become the fastest of all stair sprinters. But no one ever told me that when you grow up, sometimes there is nowhere to run from the dark, no matter how fast you are.

The events that unfolded in November and December were not foreign to us. We had encountered them many times before, but we thought things would be different at the new school. The new school isn’t a private one, like the one from which we came. It was supposed to be used to kids like mine, it was supposed to understand the brains of kids like mine, it was supposed to take good care of kids like mine. The problem is that it didn’t. Assignments turned it late were still docked by 50%. Some homework wasn’t even accepted late. After countless hours were spent trying to finish the night’s assignments, studying for a test or working on long-term projects was just an afterthought. She had nothing left to give at 11 p.m., having already put in 6+ hours of time outside the classroom after a full day’s work inside the classroom. Parent/Teacher conferences were filled with compliments and concerns. “She is so bright! Why can’t she turn in her homework on time?” “Your daughter is one of the smartest students I’ve ever had. I can’t understand why she is failing my class.” We formally appealed to the new school for help. They said “No”.

Christmas break was filled with tortuous hours of trying to catch up for the teachers who generously gave her a last chance to complete unfinished assignments. The days after break were filled with text messages sent to remind her to turn in all the homework she labored so intensely to finish. Sadly, they were also filled with her daily confessions of “I forgot to turn it in, Mom.” Then the emails began to arrive as the time for final exams neared. One, from her history teacher, asked us if we knew that failure on her part was a very real possibility in his class. “OF COURSE I KNOW! I LIVE THIS STRUGGLE WITH HER DAILY!” is what I wanted to write. Instead, I attempted to type out a respectful acknowledgement, a thank-you-for-letting-us-know and a pledge to try to help her pull up that grade so that she doesn’t have to spend her summer doing what she and many ADHD kids hate doing–more school. There were tears from her and cries of the injustice of the situation–“I thought they were going to help me, Mom! I wish I didn’t have ADHD! I just wish I was normal!” With nowhere to run from this all prevailing darkness, I was forced to fight it with all my might each day. It wore me out. It made me feel utterly helpless. It tempted me to simply lay down on the battlefield and surrender.

One day, something changed. While sitting in the physical darkness of my kitchen I pulled a stool up to the island and lit one candle on the Advent wreath whose greens were now yellowing and dried up. I had lit this wreath all during Advent, but this time, for some reason, I saw it with new eyes. At that moment it dawned on me that the darkness in the room actually served a good purpose. It provided a backdrop that allowed the light to appear brighter. It even served to point me towards the source of the light. The darkness was redemptive in quality. In a new way of thought, I saw that insomuch as the darkness reveals the light, it is capable of illuminating the brilliance of that one, single flame. No longer did I have to fight it with all my might. I could take its good with its bad. We could still wrestle one another, but now I was resigned to let it be a guide. My search for the light, for answers, for a new way for my girl was renewed with this realization.

Thankfully, she survived first semester of freshman year, hanging from a frayed thread, but intact. Kicking off second semester with a renewed hunger and thirst for the light, I began consulting educational materials, friends in the academic profession and mental health professionals. I set up new structures and collected data and became relentless in my pursuit to make a difference for her. A date had been set for another meeting with the new school. This time I was going to be better prepared. This time I would demonstrate my expertise on the subject of my daughter. This time I would not accept “no” for an answer.

The morning of the meeting arrived. In a strange way, the wrestling match had energized me to face this day. Although I was feeling a bit nervous, I also felt ready. To calm my nerves, I headed out for a quick run down to the river whose sight always soothes my soul. As I ran, from the depths of my being I appealed to the Light on her behalf. On my way back home, nearing the top of the hill, I resumed playing some music. A new song I hadn’t heard yet cued up. Its words summed up the journey that had led to this moment:

this being human is a guest house
every morning a new arrival
a joy, a depression, a meanness
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor

 

welcome and entertain them all

 

be grateful for whoever comes
because each has been sent
as a guide”

 

Kaleidoscope by Coldplay

Today I heard back from the new school. To my latest formal appeal for help, they answered “Yes”.

Thank you for visiting my guest house, darkness. You came at an unexpected time and I didn’t want to welcome you, but in the end, I know you were sent as a guide to lead me to the Light.

Say “Yes” to the Mess

muddy-field-7About a six weeks ago, I was running along the river pondering how life had been relatively smooth, as of late, mirroring the state of the water that was my companion on that run. In fact, the river was so smooth, I could see in it a perfect reflection of the trees that hang so gracefully over its banks. It was a breathtaking sight which allowed me to glimpse the beauty of creation twice. Since summer had ended, our family transitioned back to school almost effortlessly. In fact, it was probably the first time I could remember since my daughter’s diagnosis of ADHD with anxiety, added to the previously diagnosed Sensory Processing Disorder, that we had experienced such a peaceful and calm fall. Usually these changes to life triggered the worst of anxieties, leading to behaviors which became disruptive to any sense of normalcy we touched during less challenging times. But this year was different; so different that it was strange. I kept waiting for something to set off the chain of chaos that had become our new normal, but that something never came. I don’t know if it was the fact that this was her ninth year in her current school or that we finally figured out the perfect combination of meds. I don’t know if it was her incredibly knowledgeable and sensitive home room teacher who “gets” my girl and works well with her or the regular dosage of exercise and sweat that came as part of the package when she signed up to play volleyball. WHATEVER it was that could be attributed to these sweet, smooth, serene months of calm and peace; it was a most beautiful gift.

As the old idiom goes, all good things must come to an end. Volleyball season ended. High school placement tests were administered. Talk of next year’s plans were initiated. Then came the final straw: Shadow Day at her dream high school arrived. At first, when I picked her up after school, she seemed very excited about the day. She said that she participated in class and knew lots of the answers to the teachers’ questions. She mentioned that the high school kids affectionately referred to her as “Shadow” all throughout the day. She happily chatted about friends from last year’s 8th grade class with whom she was able to reconnect in the hallways and cafeteria. But mere hours later, the telltale signs reappeared. At first it was the hypersensitivity to touch. My right arm brushed up against her left arm in the car when I opened up the compartment between the seats. An explosive emotional response followed immediately, along with the physical retraction from the touch. Next came the need to balance out the unexpected sensory input by brushing the arm that wasn’t assaulted against my arm which remained between us. Quickly thereafter, she was throttled by a flooding of all things sensory. She slammed the radio off to stop the sound. She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her eyes to shut out the onslaught of visual images that threatened to cut the thin thread of sanity to which she was clinging. To watch her in these moments is to witness a response of both fight and flight. It breaks my heart to see her suffering.

The smooth, serene waters are no longer. They are choppy and treacherous and threaten to drown her once again.The future is uncertain, unknown, uncontrollable. The secure position of stability, found after so many years of therapy and learning how to cope, has collapsed all too soon. The aftertaste that remains of the peace now lost makes this new chaos all the more bitter. Day after day, unmet expectations or unwanted sensations or unplanned events trigger the strife once again. I grasp to recall how we successfully navigated these days in the past. It feels as if I am a combat soldier, though once strong in battle, now utterly unprepared for the daily warfare.

In the midst of all this comes Advent, a time when I am supposed to prepare for the birth of a Savior on Christmas. As one who works in ministry, I am ever aware of the dichotomy that exists between what I am called to embrace and my life as it is in these days. How in the world can I prepare to invite the newborn babe into this utter turmoil, this MESS? When we prepared to invite her into the world, everything was ready and waiting. We took classes to learn how to care for her. We read books and devoured articles about how to be good parents. We painted her room and decorated it tastefully. We assembled the crib and equipped it with the softest bedding we could find. Everything was perfect and I felt ready.

In a feeble attempt to prepare for Christmas, I dug out an old Advent reflection book written by Franciscan priest, Richard Rohr, O.F.M., Preparing for Christmas: Daily Reflections for Advent.  Sometime during the end of the first week of Advent, I finally got around to opening it up. I figured I would try my hardest to prepare my heart for His birth like I did my house, for her birth. I would make everything neat and clean and perfect and ready. The very first page I read reminded me that my ways are NOT God’s ways, my thoughts are NOT God’s thoughts. It read,

Advent is not about a sentimental waiting for the Baby Jesus. Advent is a time to focus our expectation and anticipation on ‘the adult Christ, the Cosmic Christ’ who challenges us to empty ourselves, to lose ourselves and to surrender.”

Ugh. this is exactly why I both love and hate reading Richard Rohr’s writings. His insights usually serve to cut to the core and reveal a smattering of my most prevalent character defects and flaws. Perfectionism. Need for control. Frustration with others’ disruptions of my plans. And the list goes on. The question that followed that particular day’s reflection led to a realization that still challenges me today. The realization is that deep within, I struggle to believe that God is to be found in the unrest, the disorder, the chaos, the emotional outbursts, the discord, the anxiety, the disrupted plans, the late arrivals, the overwhelming uncontrollable and messy moments that pepper my life. I am very uncomfortable with emptying myself, losing myself and surrendering. There, I admit it.

I left the time of prayer that day reminded that Jesus wasn’t born into serenity and sweet peace. Yeah, somehow I had conveniently forgotten about some of those little parts of the Gospel. Like when Mary was visited by an Angel and she was greatly troubled and she was told she was going to give birth to the Son of God. Oh and that small part about the fact that she wasn’t yet married, but was pregnant, which 2014 years ago was kind of a big deal, like a you-deserve-to-be-stoned-to-death big deal. And, guess what? I forgot that Joseph and Mary didn’t get their house all ready for Jesus with a fresh paint job, new furniture from Ikea and soft bedding. Nope. They were rushing around last minute, like my crazy family does regularly, looking for a place to birth him and all they could find was a stable. He was born into unrest, disorder, chaos, discord, disrupted plans, late arrivals, overwhelming, uncontrollable, messy life. I vowed right then to try to surrender to my life as it is and I asked God that somehow in the midst of our messiness, that He would provide an opportunity for us to serve someone in need this Christmas. From that day forward, my Advent mantras became, “Help me to find You in the mess” and as particularly stressful moments arise daily, “Into this mess I say, O Come, O Come Emmanuel.”

We have a tradition of cutting down our tree each year at a local Christmas Tree Farm run by the Benedictine monks. This year when we arrived at the farm, it was already about 3 p.m. With the winter solstice drawing near, our window of daylight was quickly waning. As we trudged through the wet and mucky fields, my daughter was the first to come upon a young family whose minivan had become lodged in thick, deep mud. Without a moment’s hesitation, she offered our family’s help and summoned us to assist her in gathering dry grasses and the occasional evergreen branch abandoned in the field. These were placed under the wheels of the vehicle and accomplished the goal of dislodging it from ensnarement. Her inventive solution had worked! We were proud of her and grateful to get back to the task at hand. When we had whittled our search for the 2014 Christmas Tree down to the last 2 finalists, our plans were again disrupted. The young family had been unable to find higher ground in the direction they had taken. When they turned around, they had become entrenched a second time. The evening was growing darker and our patience was wearing thinner. Our solutions weren’t as effective in this subsequent round of attempts. But my girl, she didn’t give up. Undeterred by the frustration, she kept gathering dry materials and bringing them to the minivan. Time after time, the wheels spun, even though we had secured the bundles of grasses to give the tires a surface to grab. As we tried to push the minivan from behind, both my husband and I slid backwards and subsequently, I fell down into the mess, catching myself just short of receiving a full mud bath. At that moment, it became clear to me. This was the answer to my prayer. God had provided us an opportunity as a family to serve  someone in need. I wanted to laugh and I wanted to cry. I couldn’t even have imagined a more disruptive, unplanned, uncontrollable and utterly messy opportunity to serve than this.

With one final push, the van was freed for a second time and the family fled for dry land. The sun had set, we could no longer see well enough to reclaim our last 2 finalists, we were all covered in mud and exhausted. My girl’s big and generous heart was quickly overcome with the big crashing wave of realization that plans were now changed, nothing was like it usually is and we weren’t going home with a tree this night. Unrest, disorder, chaos, discord and uncontrollable, messy life continued as we made our way out of the field, stopping to attempt to comfort her as she collapsed on to the muddy ground, wailing in grief over unmet expectations and unfulfilled dreams. As I stood in the glow of the orange sunset on the horizon, waiting for her to gather her strength to carry on, I whispered into the cold night air, “I surrender Lord. I say “yes” to this mess.” Then deep in the quiet of my heart I heard a still, small voice whisper, “I AM in this mess, it is to be with you in this mess that I come.”

Though everything is imperfect, I am ready. O Come, O Come Emmanuel.

To learn more about Sensory Processing Disorder, visit STAR Institute: About SPD

An Oblivious Amen

10481946_10152235969004372_3691425472651833846_nThis past week I was delighted to find out that a local Catholic church was hosting one of my new favorite recording artists, Matt Maher (http://www.mattmahermusic.com/), in concert at a venue close to my home. Even though I really wanted to go, with the looming deadline of a rather large quarterly tax payment due in just days, I couldn’t justify spending the cash. I tried to put it out of my mind and forget about it. But just hours before the concert, a nagging urge to go came to the forefront in my consciousness. I wrestled with an intense desire to be fiscally responsible, but the nagging urge became all consuming, so I went.

As I approached the box office, I slid a credit card through the entrance in the glass window and asked to purchase one ticket. The girl behind the window promptly slid my card back to me, along with a ticket and said, “A generous donor just donated a handful of tickets to give away to the next few people in line.” As I accepted the gift, I found myself both speechless and stunned. A sense of gratitude flooded my heart because somehow, it seemed clear to me that I had just been led to a divine appointment. I was convinced that I was supposed to be in this place, at this time, for this concert and that before the end of the night, I might leave with some understanding as to why. Before Matt Maher walked onto stage, a representative from the host church welcomed us and began the night with prayer. As we Catholics are typically not known for possessing stellar skills when it comes to spontaneous prayer, we were invited to join together in the “Our Father”. Excited about the concert, I rushed through the words rotely and ended the prayer with a thoughtless, but resounding, “AMEN!”

Matt did not disappoint. We listened as he introduced his songs with stories of his life and how he had found God’s presence over and over in the midst of his experiences. At times the music was loud and rocked the theatre; at other times, it was reflective and prayerful. Through it all, I found myself drawn, like a moth to light, to the text painted on the side of his piano. As an enthusiastic aficionado of all things typographic, I was drawn to its simple, rugged beauty. In an irregular, vintage letterpress-like text, it simply read AMEN. After the concert, I even made my way to the stage to snap a photo of it. While it was a very worthwhile, enjoyable evening, I arrived home without a definite understanding as to why I was meant to be there. However, as darkness consumed the day’s light, I climbed into bed and once I stilled myself, I began to see it over and over in my head; that word, AMEN. I drifted to sleep for a time, only to awaken later with visions of it playing on repeat in my mind. So be it. That is the definition I could remember of amen as I laid there in bed. My dad, a true wordsmith, always made us look up words in the dictionary when we asked him what they meant. Most of them I forgot, but not this one. Just three simple words, but with such powerful possibilities. So be it. I had spoken it earlier that night. I had thoughtlessly spoken it at the end of the “Our Father”. I had just said “so be it” without even thinking about that to which I was agreeing. I had obliviously said “so be it” after telling God straight from my lips, “Thy will be done.” Yikes, I thought to myself, what if God takes me seriously?

It could be said of me at this point on the journey that I am a sort of recovering control-freak/perfectionist (still very much a work-in-progress). However, at my core, I don’t like to say “so be it” until I’ve previewed the terms and conditions to which I am agreeing and definitely not until I’ve been told the details of Plans “B” and “C” if “A” doesn’t worked out as was explained to me. My mother’s mantra, which I recall hearing even in my earliest of days, was something to the effect of, “Sometimes plans change and you’ve got to learn how to deal with it.” This was spoken most often following a total meltdown on my part, because something out of MY control changed and I hated when that happened. I did not possess the admirable skill of “going with the flow”. Even before I met my husband, I was quite certain about how God’s future plans for my life should play out. My days at a Catholic University, sheltered in a bubble full of virtuous people striving for sainthood, only served to cement this vision of my perfect life. I was to marry a devoted, Catholic man who adored me, we were to have five to seven children and we were to reside in a gloriously beautiful, clean, sizeable home decorated straight out of the pages of the Pottery Barn catalog. My life’s work would be inside my home, homeschooling our little darlings so they would not be stained by the imperfections of the world outside our piece of heaven on earth (insert gagging noise here, right?)Well, apparently, this Plan A was gonna change and neither Plan B or Plan C was explained to me in advance, because if they were I would have NEVER agreed to them either. Guess what? No one consulted me. But then, was it possible that I had already agreed to the change because I had said the same oblivious AMEN, as I did the other night, following hundreds of “Thy Will Be Done” my whole life and God actually took me at my word?

My Plan A pretty much started to fall apart the day my devoted Catholic husband and I welcomed our first child into the world. Our daughter’s birth was the event that God used to gently pull the loose string on the tightly wound ball of my ideas for the future. On that day, mental illness struck with a mighty blow, crushing my ideals and aspirations of perfect motherhood into tiny shards, and later I would discover, this was only just the beginning. (https://eyeswideopentothesacred.wordpress.com/?s=imperfect+imperfection). Nearly five years later, my life, even on the best of days resembled nothing of my hopes and dreams. A series of events that followed her arrival had derailed us off of the fast track to perfection; the realization that our first child would most likely be our only; her diagnosis of Sensory Processing Disorder, which rendered the simplest task of getting her dressed in the morning a monumental and herculean one, the harsh reality that financially we couldn’t thrive without me working outside of the home. By the time we enrolled her in kindergarten, after I finally surrendered to the notion that I wasn’t up to the task of homeschooling this girl, I felt my life was completely falling apart. Where was God to be found in all of this mess? I believed Him to be a God of order, of perfect function and of peace. My life was disorderly, dysfunctional and stressful. Certainly this chaos couldn’t be God’s plan for my life.

Lent of 2007 was about to begin and through a series of events, a book landed in my hands which I decided to use as spiritual reading for the next 40 days. It’s title:Yearnings: Embracing the Sacred Messiness of Life. It’s author: Rabbi Irwin Kula. (http://yearnings.irwinkula.com/thebook.htm) I distinctly remember my husband remarking how very interesting it was that a Catholic girl was reading a book written by a Rabbi for her Lenten spiritual reading. He’s right, I thought to myself, but I was captivated by two words in the title, Sacred Messiness. Could the mess that was the reality of my life actually be sacred? I devoured the book and when finished, had a second and third helping. I went back over certain phrases in an attempt to soak them into my stream of consciousness. Some of the most powerful ones for me read,

Inevitably, for everyone there comes a time (or times) when the way we divvy up our life no longer makes sense…our relationships, our work, our world back us into a corner and cause us pain. And then it’s time to dive, to widen, to make room for new truths to emerge.

The ability to live with seeming contradictions-and the ambivalence and tensions these contradictions create-is what gives rise to wisdom. The messes are the point.”

WHAT? The messes are the point?? This book turned my inner life upside down and opened my eyes to the exciting possibility that God was exactly in all of this mess and was actually leading me into it, so that I would find Him in a whole new way. This unplanned, chaotic Plan G (a.k.a. God’s plan) for my life is probably the best thing that ever happened to me. It opened me up to receive anew the gifts of mercy and non-judgment; acceptance and trust. It has made me much more yielding to things beyond my control. And without doubt, it continues to bless and surprise me with new challenges. I laugh to think what an an unlikely headline this would have made in the Plan A of my life – “God Uses Jewish Rabbi to Save Catholic Girl from Her Lame Plans.” Hee.

At age 11, our daughter was diagnosed with inattentive type ADHD. Once again I was led to dive into deep waters whose currents I am woefully unable to control. In the days since then, as I’ve been learning to navigate the turbulence, there have been times when I thought I would surely drown. But here I am, two years in, with my head still above water. I’m a stronger swimmer and am capable of doing things I didn’t know I had in me to do. It was a surprise to figure out that this major people pleaser has the ability to do that which my daughter recently described as one of my greatest talents, when she said, “Mom you are really good at writing mean letters, but making them sound really nice.” (In reference to my attempts to advocate for her when things at school aren’t going so well.)

In retrospect, I am thankful for all of the AMENs I’ve ever spoken-the deliberate, intentional ones and the oblivious, unintentional ones. Most of all, I am grateful to God for taking me at my word. Even though to this day, I still find moments when I’m still clinging with all my might to Plan A, deep within I am convinced that Plan G is ultimately a far better way. It is difficult and challenging and not very comfortable a whole lot of the time. However, if God deems it possible to be present in this mess called my life and deems it possible to somehow use it for good, I resoundingly and intentionally say, SO BE IT!