Three years ago, anyone who told me that there was hope and a light at the end of the tunnel would get silently scoffed at.
At that time, I had plunged so deep into personal despair and anguish that it was like sinking to the bottom of the ocean.
At some point, the light above is extinguished, and you are surrounded by nothing but complete darkness.
A string of significant personal losses dating back to 2011, coupled with the onset of a severe physical impairment, left me feeling like God had abandoned me; forsaken me to suffer within myself.
Making matters worse, doctors couldn't determine what was causing my steady decline in physical functioning.
I had been run through the gamut of tests and exams. I sought second, even third opinions. Still no answers.
The straw that broke this camel's back was going from gainfully and securely employed to jobless and very nearly penniless.
I felt as though I had let everyone in my life down; my wife, my daughter, my god-children, even my late father. But most of all, I felt I had let myself down.
I believed myself to be a hopeless, pitiful wretch that was left to fall through the cracks of life and lay somewhere to waste away where no one would be able to find me.
But then, somehow, I found grace again. Or, rather, grace had found me.
When I was at my very lowest point, clinging to the last fiber of my rope, I cried out with a gasping effort, hoping perhaps in vain that someone would not only hear me, but would care enough to respond.
That's when grace found me.
I don't intend to turn this into a column about Christian faith; but my being saved by grace is important to the point I want to make.
Over the past year, grace has slowly, gradually healed and restored me inward. The pain of the past doesn't hurt like it used to.
And the faith I thought was once gone forever had returned. When this happened, grace then began to work in my favor to restore me outward.
I became employed again, and I felt a restored sense of community purpose.
I also finally got diagnosed, which helped to define what I've been suffering from for the past three-plus years, and put things into better perspective for me.
I suffer from Primary Lateral Sclerosis-Spastic Paraparesis, a group of motor neuron and neuromuscular disorders that effect muscle integrity and function.
I have difficulty with mobility, flexibility, coordination, strength and even cognition.
The disorder has similarities to its terminal cousin, Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, better known as Lou Gehrig's Disease. It also has likenesses to Muscular Dystrophy and even Multiple Sclerosis.
My neurologist calls it a disease of exclusion. In other words, everything else has to be ruled out first before a PLS-SP diagnosis can be made.
The trouble with that is, it's a long road to hoe from developing symptoms and through an exhaustive series of tests and exams before the disorder can be accurately pinned.
It was that long process which broke me inward.
But grace found me, and showed me that my life was far from over.
For one thing, PLS is not terminal as Lou Gehrig's Disease typically is. It is chronic, a lifelong illness, but it can be managed and people can and have gone on to continue living productive lives in spite of it.
It's grace that has put me here, in front of this computer, writing this column to spread the Good News of grace and hope through Jesus Christ.
If you are suffering the way I did, I can say with categorical conviction that there is hope.
Hope does exist. It is real. Even when we can't see it, it's there.
I am reminded of the sun. When it's cloudy and overcast, you can't see the sunlight or feel its warmth. And yet, the sun is there, behind the clouds. We just don't sense it.
I am also reminded that the inner peace I now feel is akin to the dark depths Iikened to earlier.
On the surface of the water, a storm is raging, causing rough seas, swells, and thrashing waves.
But below the surface, where sunlight is dim -- or perhaps non-existent -- there is a silent, quiet serenity that does not regard the chaos above.
My heart is like that now; floating down in the deep where it's dark but peaceful, quiet, still and serene.
I have to remind myself of this whenever I don't feel or see any light. There can be peace in the darkness.
I am reminding myself of this truth once again.
I just learned the other day of yet another crisis of a loved one very close to me. Several family members, in fact, are currently going through significant medical problems that make it even more critical that I find peace within myself.
I could just as easily cry out in anger to God, declaring this is all His fault, and demanding to know why He lets things like these happen.
I've been there and done that. I'm over myself now.
What's important is not who or what is at fault, where I can point my finger and place blame, but what I am going to do about all of this.
I have control over just one thing in this world; that is me and my response to problems, hardships, and crises.
This world could use more responders and fewer reactionaries. It needs people to take action on behalf of others, instead of vainfully looking for blame.
I have learned that I am not alone in my struggle, and that the war has already been won in spite of the daily battles I must face and fight.
I am not alone in the darkness, and somewhere in front of or above me is the light of hope.
Hope does exist. It's what keeps me going anymore.
Somewhere above the surface and behind the storm clouds, hope shines. Eventually, its intensity will burn through the clouds and the storm will break apart.
My grandmother was fond of saying, "This, too, shall pass away."
Thanks, Grammy, I needed that.