She pulls the covers over her head to hide from the persistent voices of inadequacy, failure, guilt and shame that greet her yet another morning. This might be the day she could succeed in smothering the constant murmuring of these unwelcome companions. The laundry begs for attention, the dishes are piling higher in the sink like a child's creation of building blocks and other miscellaneous collected items, dust on the furniture has become another medium for drawing while the floors dare you to walk on them barefoot. Children shuffled off to school provide the silence that buries her deeper into the piles of protection she has amassed for herself. We might picture the little boy or girl going out to play in the cold so encumbered from the heavily layered clothing donned by an over-protective mother as to inhibit their movement. Messages are accumulating on her phone; she can vaguely hear the well-meaning voices coming from a distant part of the house. If she were to pull up her email correspondence, she would be overwhelmed with the hundreds of items listed in her inbox. All energy is zapped from her body, in fact from her very soul, so that even turning from one side to the next seems too burdensome a task. Years have passed as the little girl she once was has grown up, graduated from college, held a prestigious job, married, borne children, owned her own business and participated in the American life. What has remained constant through the milestones are the demons clamoring for attention striving for her full agreement with their evaluation of her. Believing she possesses nothing worthy of love, acceptance, honor, affection, contribution or value, she settles down with resignation to her plight.
     But, hark, birds are singing outside her window, fawns are skipping in her front yard, fall leaves are fluttering upon her porch and sunlight is finding its way through the one crease in the curtain to shine a shaft of light upon her bedcovers. A friend persistently knocks upon the door and enters her world. Whispering in her ear, overpowering the darkness is the assurance of love and understanding, hope and the reality of another stronger presence beckoning her to listen and come out of hiding, one peek beyond the layers and then another and then another. It's taken many years to get here; it will take time to travel to a new place and even longer to feel at home there.  The journey will be difficult; others will show up along the way to cheer her on, but much will be required on her own in the wee hours of the morning. Can she depend on the one behind the whispers more than the one who screams at her around every corner? Might she be able to find more comfort in the presence of light than of the familiar darkness? Would she be willing to erase the recording that has been playing ever so long and replace it with a new, brighter, truer rendition?
     And will I be one that knocks upon her door, enters her world, and helps to bring her out? Will I be willing to travel with her when needed no matter the distance and time involved? Is there one I can look to who has done this for me and for all of humanity that I might learn from and follow on this unchartered course? If the answer is uncertain, let me declare there is no true or false, multiple choice, mathematic formula to follow or essay required. There is but one.