Whoever first suggested making lemonade out of the lemons handed out by life must have been related to the originator of Murphy’s Law. Anything that could go wrong in my life, had gone wrong. After a string of soured investments and foreclosure notices, I found myself living out of my car. Every few days, I parked on a different dead end street hoping that a change in surroundings lifted my spirits. It made it feel like I was on vacation, as if my compact car had turned into an RV, one without a bed, kitchen, or bathroom. I begged for enough spare change throughout the day to keep the bare minimum in my stomach and fuel tank. The final insult was added to my injurious life when my vehicle was towed, even though it was legally parked. Maybe the neighboring residents didn’t like the staunch reminder of how far a person could fall. Rather than viewing my life as a cautionary tale, they thought it best to remove any trace of my existence lest they be faced with introspection of their own frailties. With only the change in my pocket and the clothes on my back, I meandered through town with no specific destination in mind.

Brick buildings filled with commercial businesses lined both sides of the street with residences on the second floor. Most of the stores and restaurants were closed for the night, not that I was in the position to buy anything. After window shopping, I entered a few stores to browse, until a more concrete plan was figured out. The sales staff at each dismissed me with a disapproving look of disdain, as if I wasn’t good enough to be there. It’s not like I wasted their time by asking for help and advice about items that I had no intention of purchasing. One quick look at my disheveled clothes and mussed hair and I was written off. Discarded and evicted without uttering a word. Their unspoken sentiment reinforced the way I felt about myself.

At the end on the block, the corner building housed a ministry with a few parishioners worshipping inside. A half dozen rows of folding chairs were set up facing a podium at the front of the room. I lowered my gaze to stare at the floor and walked to a seat in the last row. Spirituality was something I never had much time for. In middle school, completion of the Sacrament of Confirmation was viewed as being paroled from the Catholic Church. It was a prison I vowed never to return to.

With eyes closed, I thought about the downward spiral my life had travelled over the past several years. If one or two things would have broken my way, things would be different. I wouldn’t be broken. I’d still be living in my house where the biggest dilemma was whether to cook chicken or steak for dinner. If only I could figure out a way to get it all back. Getting ahead seemed an impossible task when I was barely treading water. Maintaining the status quo would have been an upgrade from how things had been. I was moving backwards, with no end in sight to how much further I could fall. Every rock bottom had been replaced with a subfloor that was lower than the previous level. It felt like I was trying to gain entry to a foreign country for which I had no passport.