Writing this book has been incredibly wonderful, but painfully ironic. This thought wakes me up in the middle of the night: I’ve waited to get to write this book for decades. I think I could have written such a magnificent piece awhile back. But now I’m all torn up. Some days I’m listless, dull and brooding. I feel like I’m at about half capacity. The book I so much wanted to write to you, is being written by a man I sometimes scarcely recognize or want to own.

…And all may be true. Except this thought hit me just yesterday. This very reality is true for most of us. All of us are playing with injuries. All of us have been shredded by some manner of loss and new reality we never foresaw when we were on our game. God says to me in the very midst of it, “What if this is the book I want you to write?” Or for you…“What if its you, in this very condition, who I most want to raise these children. What if it is you, this wife, this single parent, this one marriage has passed by, the addicted one, the one slipping in capacity, the one in your twenties who has already failed enough to kill some dreams, or the one whose old paradigm no longer works and whose new one you don’t yet know fully how to live in? “Alright then, sovereign God. I’m in. Keep writing through me.”