A couple weeks ago I spoke at a weekend conference that was put on specifically for military families struggling with an Operational Stress Injury (OSI). There were a lot of speakers and teachers there, most with fancy degrees and accomplishments, all were teaching life skills and lessons and stories. I felt really out of place.   I was nervous, which is unusual for me, public speaking doesn’t generally bother me, but I was a little overwhelmed by my lack of qualifications and the stories I usually tell seemed inadequate. So that Saturday morning found me out for a run at 5am. Because sleep is not a skill I have mastered on the best of days. And because I didn’t think through my decision, which is a pretty accurate representation about how I go through life, breakfast wasn’t going to be served until 8:30 so when I was done running at 6 I was starving and needed a distraction. So I lay on the grass next to the path I had been on, like a carefully presented bear snack in bright orange Lulu.  Contemplating my very possible imminent death by bear and wondering if playing Symphony of Destruction would be an adequate repellent, I watched as the sun very, very slowly lit up what had been just a sea of black in front of me. The idea that it’s always darkest before the dawn made more sense to me than it ever had before, because as the light filtered in there was, in fact, an entire valley and mountain view right in front of my eyes.   It was almost like the view came gently, not wanting to scare me off by being too much at once, reminding me that even when…