15 funny/serious thoughts on the hell that has been my past two weeks.

What I’ve learned in the past two weeks in dealing with several acute eating disorder clients who are bipolar/schizophrenic.

15 funny/serious thoughts.

• I will never look at a fast food Japanese restaurant the same way ever again, especially Yoshinoya.  Let’s just say, I canceled the order.
• Friends who care about you, pray for you, and make you laugh during the most stressful situations of your life are just priceless.  Priceless.
• If I think you are in the bathroom too long, I will stand at the door and listen.  And maybe even make you sing a song or say the alphabet.  Friends, feel free to tell me to snap out of it if I accidentally follow through on this new habit with you.
• I love boundaries.  Boundaries and I were strangers, then acquaintances, and now we are becoming bffs.
• While naps are few and far between, they are a slice of heaven in my life.
• I have now heard the f-word at least a thousand times….in an hour.  No joke.  It was yelled at me, screamed in my face, and inserted after every word.  I still loathe that word, but I now find it comical how it has become the new overused word similar to “like.”
• I can handle crisis situations, but at a certain point, my adrenaline will run out, resulting in sheer exhaustion and headache.
• Even in crisis situations, I am still very much a 26-year-old woman.  During the night from hell at 3:30 a.m. and after I witnessed a mild seizure, I watched the paramedics come in the house and thought, “Ooo, he’s cute.  Now is NOT the time, Ashley.  Not the time.”  : )
• My “go to” phrase:  I know you don’t think we care, but we do.  We are here to help you.
• I used to think it was mean to laugh in tough situations.  It still may be inappropriate, but it is quite a useful technique when with other staff and away from the girls.  I’ve realized it doesn’t mean I don’t care.  It’s quite the opposite.  Laughter comes after the tears
• I’m now pretty darn good in utilizing my “manipulator detector.”  I wish I could just believe everything at face value, but it is for their benefit (most of the time they protest that fact) that I filter things through this “detector.”
• While I am not in the best spiritual space at the moment, I have seen in the past two weeks how much I NEED the Lord.
• I need to carry mace with me.  No, I’m serious.  After a girl threatened to strangle me and another threatened to kill another girl and me after punching a door, I realized I am quite defenseless if a threat became, well, an action.
• Spooning with another house mom, who has now become a good friend, after the night from hell…absolutely priceless.  Disclaimer:  A girl was sleeping on the other couch, so we had no choice.
• A person has to first be aware of the problem.  Then, he/she has to make a conscious choice to begin the steps towards healing.  If the first is not in place, then the second cannot happen.

Shedding a burka

I stared at the word “hiding” that I had just written on one of the girls intake notes form and felt the overwhelming urge to scribble it out.  I picked up my pen to do just that and then stopped.  No, she was hiding.  She was clothing herself in this fake identity like a burka, allowing her body to fade into a black abyss.

For her, it manifested in loud laughter, belting songs, and ridiculous dance moves.  In fact this is how she greeted me after her eating disorder meeting was over tonight.

I smiled at her antics and asked about her day, and she responded with an enthusiastic, “I had a f’n fabulous day.”   While I wanted to believe her, I could see pain in her core.  I could see sorrow, frustration, and anger seeping through the eyes that were peering at me from the gap in the black hood.

Since I am a housemom at an eating disorder home, all of these girls are in pain some way or another, which is then exhibited in unhealthy eating behaviors, distorted body images, and low self-esteem.   While they desperately want to heal, they continually gravitate towards anything- smoking, cursing, cutting- in order to prevent the pain or, at best, keep it at bay.

Hiding.  I decided to keep the word in the notes.  Why did I think she was hiding?  I’m not a therapist.  I haven’t been trained.  I am not equipped to read between the lines of someone’s behavior.  I could have continued this rant for awhile, but my thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Coming,” I said.  I opened the door, and there she stood.

“Can I talk to you?”

And with those five words, I knew she had indeed been hiding.  For some reason, she had decided that her burka had become too heavy, too hot to wear alone.  So for 30 minutes, I stared into her eyes and helped her lift just a small portion of the hood in order to unveil her beautiful face.   With both pairs of hands, we fingered the cloak of lies that were woven together by self-hatred and feelings of worthlessness. Although brief, she was able to breathe in fresh air without the constraints of the heavy fabric surrounding her mouth and nose.

When we finished talking, I gave her a huge hug and reminded her that I was here for her.  She smiled, took a large inhale in, appreciating the space, the air, the freedom.  She walked out the door and greeted her friend with a roaring laugh, placing the constraining headdress back on.

We all do this, don’t we?  We hide behind a burka, whether it be out of pain, anger, or, insecurity.  We hide from others.  We hide from God.  We hide from ourselves.

I know I do.  Busyness.  Laughter.  A smile.  A nice and yet often false response of “I’m fine.”  Always listening to avoid talking about myself.  They cover me from the tips of my toes to the top of my head.  I tend to fiddle with the cloth around my body and push it out of my eyes a little, hoping one day I will have the courage to shed it for a much lighter, less constrictive outfit.

And yet, day-by-day, I do.  I am.  Writing this post.  Confronting people.  Talking about myself.  A response of “I’m actually not doing that great today.”  Saying no.  I am slowly peeling my burka away from my body and donning a new outfit.  A sundress.  A sundress, exposing my skin, exposing my face, exposing my beauty, exposing who I am.  And in this sundress, I can move.  I can dance.  I can be free.  Free to be me- Ashley.  The Ashley God created and not the Ashley everyone wants me to be or the Ashley I want to be for everyone else.  Just Ashley.

Jogging down memory lane

As my feet pounded the pavement to the catchy beat of Andy Grammer’s “Keep Your Head Up,” my achy muscles propelled me forward- past Fuller and over the 210 freeway to a beautiful tree lined street called North Madison Avenue.  Slowing my pace to mind the cracks in the sidewalk, I steadied my breath and remembered the many confusing, exciting and lonely walks to and from Fuller on this very path when I first began seminary in 2008.

Passing the infamous yellow house where it all started- 647 North Madison Avenue, I glanced at the front porch, mentally tipping a hat at the house as if to say thank you.  While the 1920s mansion/craphole was never a home to me, it helped me begin a journey of making Pasadena home.

I picked up the pace a bit more to round the corner and run alongside Los Robles.  When I passed 570 North Los Robles, I smiled a toothy grin and chuckled a little, remembering bonding moments with Tiff- 24 marathons, after church conversations, and embarrassing moment confessions.

Running back over the 210, I passed Fuller once more and headed towards the structure that has awed me since I first laid eyes on it:  Pasadena City Hall.  My mouth parted a little in delight, recalling times when the Lord met me in the Rose Garden of the City Hall as I watched the sunset.

I rounded the square several times and proceeded to Colorado Boulevard.  Squeezing my arms into my chest to take up less space on the busy sidewalk, I ran up and down both sides of Old Town Pasadena, reflecting on girls nights with my cohort, late night fro-yo runs, deep coffee conversations, celebratory dinners, and movie outings.

While my chest felt tight and my calves throbbed from the 45-minute jog, my mind told me to keep going.  “But I’m so tired,” I grumbled to myself.  I wanted nothing more than to stretch my tight calves, still my breathing, and sprawl out on the ground.  However, I felt as though this memory jog was not over.   So I started running back to Fuller.

With each step, I felt the desire to give up grow stronger and stronger.  And yet I kept going.  I saw the Fuller library from a distance and flocked to it, as if it was home.  I guess it has been home.  I ran through campus smiling at friends, which helped me remember rich and refreshing dialogues about the Lord, ministry, children at risk, and callings.

However, I knew this was not a full picture of my experience here.  Just as the exhilarating runner’s high is matched with painful aches,  my Fuller experience has been filled with both highs and lows, ups and downs.  As I turned the corner and approached Walnut, I allowed myself to embrace those bad memories- people over stepping boundaries, harsh criticisms, confusion about my calling, and stress.

At this point, tears formed in the corners of my eyes, and I wanted to be done with both this physical and mental jog.  Yet I kept going.  In fact, I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was going anymore because I was full of both joy and pain, praising God for my time here at Fuller and yet pleading for the Lord to show me my next steps.

Finally, I couldn’t do it anymore, and I stopped abruptly.  Heaving, I placed my hands on my knees and laughed at the irony of Andy Grammer’s song that was playing once more.

I’ve been waiting on the sunset

Bills on my mindset

I can’t deny they’re getting high

Higher than my income

My income’s breadcrumbs

I’ve been trying to survive

The glow that the sun gives

Right around sunset

Helps me realize

This is just a journey

Drop your worries

You are gonna turn out fine.

Oh, you’ll turn out fine.

Fine, oh, you’ll turn out fine.

But you gotta keep your head up, oh,

And you can let your hair down, eh.

you gotta keep your head up, oh,

And you can let your hair down, eh.

At that, I pulled my hair out of the pony tail and collapsed onto a small patch of grass on Fuller’s campus and rested.  I rested in lessons learned and lessons still learning.  I rested in my joy and confusion.  I rested in my completed degree and the one yet to be started.  I rested in the answered questions and the unanswered questions.  I rested in the known and the unknown.  I was resting, in that moment, with the Lord, and I think He said I would turn out fine.

Giving Up

As the melody chimes from my alarm clock, I turn over, turn it off, and then look at the ceiling.   I sigh, close my eyes, and pray for the chance to go back to sleep again.  To forget about everything…to simply just sleep.  With resignation, I force my eyes open, throw off my covers, and put my feet on the ground.

Getting ready for my jobs as a libriarian and nanny, I can’t help but ask myself, “What the heck am I doing?”

While I love both jobs, I feel like I’m floundering in an abyss.  Since I did not get into the Marriage and Family Therapy program at Fuller, I am now looking for work.  However, I cannot get a job with abused children without an MFT or MSW.  I cannot get into an MFT or MSW program without past job experience.  Herein lies one of the reasons I just want to pull the covers over my head and sleep.  I’m in a catch 22.

Putting on my mascara, I look in the mirror and shake my head in disappointment.  I have so many credentials behind my name:  BA in Journalism and Mass Communication, MA in Cross-cultural Studies with an emphasis on Children at Risk.  Yet these degrees are not enough.  I cannot get a job doing what I want to do.  I could not get into a program that would help me get a job doing what I want to do.

Eating my oatmeal, I calculate for the hundredth time my monthly expenses and my monthly income from my three part time jobs…soon to be four and even five.  No matter how many times I endure this process, the result is still the same.  I will always hate the color red.

Grabbing my purse as I head out the door to the Fuller Library, I hear a faint voice.  One I’ve heard all my life, but I don’t really trust it anymore.  A voice that told me to go to Africa.  A voice that told me to come to Fuller.  A voice that told me to be open to psychology.  A voice that says, “Just trust me, Ashley. Trust me.”

I slam my apartment door shut just like I slam the door shut on that option.

Regardless of these situations, I really do love my jobs.  Not joking.  I love working in the library where I interact with patrons, friends, and my co-workers.  I also love watching the precious children that I’m nannying.  It’s just not where I thought I’d have to stay for long….especially since I’m working sometimes 12 hour days and still not able to pay my bills.

Despite my confusion and pain, this voice is following me.  While at the library, a random Ph.D student approached me and told me that he has seen me the past couple of months and sees my sorrow, my confusion.  He said that he has seen me smile and laugh but has recognized that I am in the midst of figuring out the “next steps.”  He followed this statement by saying, “I’m praying for you.  I don’t know what your call is, but I believe the Lord has placed a big call on your life.  I believe in your calling.”

Wow.  ”Just trust me, Ashley.”

Yesterday, I visited a church with a friend.  When the pastor asked for people to raise their hands if they need prayer, my hand went up faster than a kid reaching for candy.  I needed it.  I wanted it.  Several people came and prayed with me, but what struck me was a particular woman named Theresa.  She held onto me, praying intensely for me.  When I looked at her, tears streamed down my cheeks.  Tears that had been wanting to flow down for about a month now.  She gazed into my eyes, pulled me into a strong embrace, and told me to write down what was going on in my life so she could be in intercessory prayer for me.

Wow.  ”Just trust me, Ashley.”

A couple of my friends have also been so confident in my calling that I’ve laughed at their assurance.  They are believing for me when I simply can’t.  I cannot do this anymore.  And that is the conclusion I came to this weekend.  I cannot do it alone.  I have felt incredibly lonely.  I can be in a filled room and feel completely alone.  Although I have enjoyed many people’s company these past few months, I can’t seem to be fully present because I am so worried about my calling, finding a job in the field, paying my bills, finding new roommates and a new housing situation.

I cannot do this anymore.  So I give up.  I give in.  I am calling upon my friends, my family, the body of believers.  I give in to the voice.  I have nothing else to do but to simply give in and pray that it’s the truth.  I have to trust the Lord no matter how much I feel like I can’t.  I have to because the alternative hasn’t been working for me, either.

My call to help sexually abused/exploited/trafficked girls and women heal is strong and growing stronger everyday despite my frustrations.  I just have no idea how to get from point A to point Z.  I actually do have several opportunities to volunteer with women in the LA area (involved in the sex industry, have been raped, and/or have eating disorders), but I can’t find the time because I have to work to pay my bills.  Again a catch 22.

I walk back into my apartment at the end of the day and fall back into bed exhausted from work, exhausted from job searching, exhausted from worrying, exhausted from “being there” for so many others.  Now,  I’m trying to rest in that voice.  ”Just trust me, Ashley.”

Can I Erase Life?

“Does a blender weigh about five pounds?” the nine-year-old boy I was babysitting asked me as he looked quizzically at the blender on the counter.

“Yes, I think so,” I replied and continued to doodle circles on a scratch paper with a pencil.  He then scribbled down “yes” on his homework sheet.

“Does a lemon weigh about a pound?”

“No, it’s much lighter than a pound,” I again replied, except this time I began erasing my circles.

He kept asking me questions, and I kept drawing and then erasing.

Flowers.    Erase.     Balloons.    Erase.    My name.    Erase.     Circles.    Erase.

I stared at the pencil in my hand and marveled at the brilliant large soccer eraser on the top.   I felt it’s rubbery edges and realized it had probably been at least seven years since I’d written with a pencil instead of a pen.

I miss it.   A pen is so permanent.  If you mess up, you have to scribble it out or throw away the paper.  I guess I’ve done my fair share of awkwardly converting a “c” to an “e” when I’ve misspelled a word.

No matter what type of correction, a pen’s ink always stains.  While I love permanence, I find so much joy and even safety in using a pencil.  Any mistake can be erased away in seconds.  Don’t like the way you drew the person’s eyes?  Erase.  Don’t like the way you worded that sentence?  Erase.  Misspelled a word?  Erase.

Sometimes I wish life had an eraser.  Imagine….erasing away those hurtful words, that manipulative relationship, those dark moments.  With that thought, I glanced once again at my paper that I had so intently doodled and erased, doodled and erased.

From far away, the paper looked white, clean, and untouched.  However, the closer I looked, the more I saw the faint lines and circles of my past drawings.  The eraser had erased the lead, but the paper still had impressions from the pressure I exerted on the pencil.

“Maybe the eraser isn’t the perfect answer,” I thought.  Just like the pen, this pencil still left marks on the paper.  Although less noticeable, they were still there.

Maybe it doesn’t matter what utensil you use.  Maybe it doesn’t even matter if you make a mistake or draw something that is less than your best or write an awkward sentence.  Maybe the point is simply to doodle, to draw, to write.  Maybe the point is not to obliterate these mishaps but to embrace them for how they mark the paper, for who they make you.

Running Away

I was about to don my rain boots and brave the rain with the flu and a cold to see a play at Fuller to support my friends, when a friend took me aside and asked,  “What are you running from?”

My immediate response was, “Nothing,” which I said with a shrug and a little indignation at the fact that I had essentially been “called out.” And while I desperately wanted to believe that I was running away from absolutely nothing, I knew I was, indeed, running from something in life.

I then asked, “What made you think I am running from something?”  And the response was what I feared.  “You just seem like you don’t know how to rest and usually that means you’re running from something,” he said.

While my response remained the same, I knew I had been hit in the face with the messy truth.  A messy truth that left goop smeared all over my face, which I have let drip down my face.

And by writing this post, I’m picking up a towel and wiping it off.

I, Ashley, study really hard to maintain a high GPA.  I strive to excel at everything (and like I just mentioned- especially school).  I keep my schedule filled with work, school, extracurricular activities, and coffee convos.  I am a busy body, and I struggle to rest.

I recognize that this is often the case for many Americans because in this culture busy means important, busy means power.  However, I actually don’t think I keep busy to feel important.  Like he pointed out, I am running from something.

By excelling at school, I become an academic.  By investing my time in extracurriculars, I become a dancer, a writer, a photographer, a “you name it.” By keeping my schedule filled with fun excursions and coffee convos, I become outgoing, fun, and friendly.

I use these things, these activities to define me, to allow others to define me…to make me enough. “Enough of what?” you ask.  Just enough.  Enough to find acceptance, to find love, to find myself.

I am afraid that me, plain ole’ Ashley, is not good enough.  I’m afraid that people will see me without all these credentials attached to my name (no, not my BA or MA…but smart, friendly, happy, etc) and reject me.

So I am running away from myself.  I am sprinting away from myself because it’s too hard to look at myself in the mirror without these labels, without these credentials and still find worth.

And this is where I truly understand Dr. Myers’ concept of poverty of being.  Instead of realizing my worth in the sheer fact that I am made in the image of God, I am finding my validation in things, in activities, in people, in people’s thoughts of me.

I guess I think that if I run fast enough, keep busy enough, I can find my identity in all of these things that are keeping my busy and thus have no time to actually confront who I truly am.  Therefore, I prevent realizing that I’m not enough.  However, in reality, I’m actually preventing myself from realizing that I AM enough.

It’s time to slow my sprint to a leisure stroll so I can walk up to the mirror, wipe the goop off my face and look at myself for who I truly am- a child of God.  That is it.  With this one fact, I am enough.  I am worthwhile…and it’s not because of what I do for others or what I can prove to myself.  It is solely because God created me….in God’s image…and….wait for it….it was good.

Breath of fresh air

My get away

This quarter, my tenth (crazy!), has been quite a bit different than the rest of my quarters.  I’m working about 39 hours, including working as a collection management assistant in the Fuller library and babysiting for three (yes three) families.  I’m also taking Gospels online, which is my last class for the Master of Arts in Cross-cultural Studies.  Really, what all this means is that my lifestyle is very different now.  Instead of staying up late to do homework, I go to bed early (well as early as I can…which is still midnight) so I can get up early the next morning for work.  Another reason it’s different…I am actually taking a Sabbath on Sunday.

This past Sunday I went to the beach.  So much has happened in the past two quarters, and I simply felt the need to get away.  I needed to get away from finances (or lack there of), scholarships, the MFT application, interviews, and even people…from those who confuse me right now to those who have hurt me and even those who make me extremely happy (this is my introverted-ness appearing).

So even though it was cold and rainy in Pasadena, I gathered up my beach gear, got into my new car (sadly, my VW Bug- Daisy- is no more due to the timing belt breaking and ruining the engine), and ventured to the closest beach- Santa Monica.

I had no idea what I was going to do when I got to the beach.  I just knew I needed to go.  When I walked down to the shore, I sat down and almost fell over from the sheer force of the wind.  Even though it wasn’t raining in Santa Monica, it was still quite stormy.  I was determined not to let the cold, wind, or even sand flying in my face ruin my contemplative Sabbath at the beach.

So I broke out the book I’m reading with several amazing women at Fuller called “Life of the Beloved” by Henri Nouwen.  Between several powerful gusts flipping the pages and sand flying in my eyes, I eventually read the entire chapter labeled “Taken.”  Let me just tell you, I read it with glassy eyes (and, well, sandy eyes) and a beating heart.

This struck my core:

“Long before any human being saw us, we are seen by God’s loving eyes.  Long before anyone hear us cry or laugh, we are heard by our God who is all ears for us.  Long before any person spoke to us in this world, we are spoken to by the voice of eternal love.  Our preciousness, uniqueness, and individuality are not given to us by those who meet us in clock-time- our brief chronological existence- but by the One who has chosen us with an everlasting love, a love that existed from all eternity and will last through all eternity.”

I lapped this up, I lathered it all over me, and I embraced it.  When the world rejects me, when people reject me, and even when people do accept and embrace me, God still chooses to love me.  God knows exactly who I am….in all my uniqueness and peculiarities…my strengths and weaknesses….my positives and negatives….my smiles and my frowns….and God still chooses to love me.

Overjoyed by these thoughts, I did what I love:  dance.  Yes, dance.  I picked up my ipod, rolled up my pants, walked down to the shoreline, peered sheepishly at the three people around, and began to tap in the sand.  Well, I couldn’t really tap in the sand, but I did the best I could.  And every time I thought I looked ridiculous, I would think about how God knows exactly who I am and still chooses to love me…and I would feel overjoyed and then keep dancing.

My dancing led to laughing and my laughing led to praise and my praise led to tears.   This week has been quite a terrible week, but when I cry about this crappy situation, I am reminded of the tears that derived from sheer joy..and then it leads me back to dancing.

I dance in joy.  I dance in pain.  The bottom line:  I dance with the One who has chosen to love me.

Note:  I know a ton of my posts are about dancing.  For some reason, this is the main way I’ve connected with the Lord since starting seminary.

Crescendo

Crusin’ on the 210, I tried to concentrate on the music echoing through the car instead of the rather annoying and ever-present traffic (that is LA for you).  Gradually, I was so involved with the music that I did actually forget about my road rage that was about to seep out.  This particular song began with an acoustic guitar, followed by a soft and slow beat on a conga drum.  It was nice music to drive to- even calming.  With every second, though, the guitar player strummed a bit faster and the drummer beat the drum a little harder.   The beats were steadily increasing in tempo.  Tears began to well up because I couldn’t wait for the break, the moment when the artists finally abandoned their inhibitions and strummed and beat to their hearts content.  I wanted the song to reach the most climactic moment when it would finally break through in utter abandon to its potential.  I wanted the artists to reach this break through, to abandon inhibitions.

I do not know a ton about music, but I did remember the name of what I was experiencing:  a crescendo.  A gradual increase in volume and intensity.

I feel like I’m in a crescendo in life right now, with God.  Things are building and building, getting louder and louder, becoming more intense.  While it is great, I want nothing more than to give into God with reckless abandon, releasing my inhibitions.  But I guess that’s now where I am right now.  Right now, I’m in the midst of the crescendo.  I’m in the middle of understanding my calling.  I’m in the middle of understanding who I am.  I’m in the middle of understanding who God is and is not.  I’m not yet at the climax…but I wonder what that will sound like, look like.

Holding on Tight!

I thought I would share one of my essays for the MFT application….

As we cruised down the open road, I gazed warily at the Driver, wondering where we were going. “God,” I said addressing the One sitting in the driver’s seat and guiding me down the road of life. “You just missed our turn.”  Overcome with doubt and frustration, I tried to grab the wheel.  Before I gained control of the car, God gently took the wheel and compassionately said,  “Ashley, let’s go for a ride.”

My life as a Christian has been just that- a ride.  It’s been an exhilarating, scary, adventurous, painful, and healing ride, in which I daily fight for the driver’s seat.  As displayed above, God, thankfully, remains the One in control.   The following story is a brief version of my joy (and sometimes scary) ride with Christ.

While I know my traditional Christian upbringing in the South played a large part in my decision to follow Christ, I did make a choice at age nine to believe in the Lord.  I wholeheartedly loved the Lord, but I never questioned my faith or delved deeply into scripture until I went to college.

Although I loved Samford University, my spiritual growth there was not as comfortable or joyful as my personal growth.  As I learned about the Q Source and the Apocrypha, I felt as though my faith was being attacked.  However, I was actually learning what it meant to have faith in the Lord.   Through my studies at Samford and at Fuller, I have learned that faith is not the absence of doubt, but rather the belief in the midst of doubt.

During two summers in college, I also ventured to Africa for several months.  From the moment I stepped onto African soil, I knew my life was going to change.  By being away from all things familiar, I was challenged to give God my time by listening and serving.  Basically, I gave God an opportunity to strip away my unbelief and complacency, and God took it.

I lived simply, befriended the locals, played with street children, laughed with high schoolers, cried with the women when they told me stories of rape and sexual abuse, and hugged children dying of AIDS.  I simply loved God’s children.

Among hunger, poverty, and disease, I also saw hope and joy.  I witnessed God heal hearts and bodies through the Holy Spirit.  After those experiences, I finally understood the concept of the Trinity and the power of the Holy Spirit.  More importantly, my relationship with the Lord became extremely personal.  During these trips, I learned how to live for Christ and to love people as Christ loved people.

Now five years later, I am studying at Fuller so that I can love on people for a living.  Ultimately, I want to journey with others in their sorrow and pain and joy and healing.  Now as I approach this second degree, I am still cautiously letting God steer as I continue on the ride.  So I am holding on tight!