Gripping a stack of pages, I began to rip chunks of paper out and throw them into the air. They fell into piles around my feet. I tried to destroy the only thing that could rescue me. My mother shook her head and left. There I was, standing alone, staring at the tattered paper and shattered glass that was scattered across the house. It was more than a mess; it was a metaphor for my fragmented life. My mom was right: Only God could help me now. But I didn’t realize it at the time because I was still blaming others for my problems and still telling myself that I could solve them all if I just
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