The story of how I got from Philadelphia, PA to Orange, CA is a sloppy, gloriously imperfect, and beautiful saga between God and I . . . and I expect you all to "interpret that in the most favorable sense." I’ll spare you most of the details and start somewhere in the middle of my story– my early twenties. Philadelphia was a city that I thought I knew well, that is, until I started my job as a social worker for a community mental health center in my home town. I began every morning with a stop for coffee from Rag and Sanjee at the local Dunkin’ Donuts to prepare my body for the congested, chaotic, stop-and-go city traffic. I prepared myself mentally with Motown music to curb the effects of all that I encountered when I made my visits from home to home. I can’t say that prayer was an intentional part of my ritual. I did little to prepare myself spiritually from day to day. God , however, did much. I came face to face with my ‘dear neighbors’ and the stories hidden behind their armor. Fear, control, and rejection were common things that propelled poverty, depression, and crime. I too was equipped with shields of my own. I tried to avoid hearing the call of the gospel when I would sit in the pandemonium of social work. It was as if I had a special breastplate to reject the piercings of God. To grossly oversimplify, my tactics failed. After seven years in this type of work, Christ became unavoidable. I cannot pinpoint a time when the charism of the Sisters of Saint Joseph was birthed in me, but I can contend that my "dear neighbors" in Philly led me to claim and love this invitation from God. Somewhere in that seven year period as a social worker, work became ministry. My intention wasn’t what shifted – it was my attitude. I believe unreservedly that God wants me here, but can make no declarations beyond that. My parents have been married for 30 years and I am the oldest of their five children.