That is about how it is with you, slashing and stomping through the day with your sword and your boots, in full force from the moment you wake and your feet hit the floor.
I will say it has not been easy. God knew who to place within me to draw me out and refine me, but if he had checked with me first I probably would have declined. I'm glad he didn't ask. This is a lot of work, with tears and yelling and forgiving arms wrapped round each other, but when it is good it is very good. And, I think it will all turn out to be good in the end. Unless it doesn't-- who knows, and what can be done about that anyway?
So I'll do my best and I'll not give up. I'll grit my teeth and lay my body down in prayer for you: my son, you with those freckles on your nose, you with the will of iron, singer of songs.
You are your mother's son. Turn, turn to the One who made you, who is making you, who will make you whole. Yield, and melt before Him. Sing His song.
Come, child, and we will sing together.