When God Uses Converging Thresholds to Shape One Life
For those who feel as though every part of life is changing at once. May you discover that what feels fragmented may, in God’s hands, be beautifully coherent.
Part I
The Threshold
There are seasons when life changes one thing at a time.
A new job.
A new city.
A relationship begins or ends.
A child is born.
A parent grows older.
One threshold gives way to another, and although each change asks something of us, we usually have enough space to adjust before the next one arrives.
Then there are other seasons.
Seasons when life seems to change everything at once.
Career and calling.
Parenthood and identity.
Joy and grief.
Hope and uncertainty.
The future we imagined and the present we never expected.
At first, these seasons feel fragmented. We speak of them as though they are separate stories unfolding side by side.
“I’m navigating a career transition.”
“I’m becoming a parent.”
“My parents are aging.”
“I’m grieving.”
“I’m questioning what success means.”
“I’m learning to trust God again.”
Each statement is true. Yet they often leave us with the impression that life has splintered into disconnected pieces.
I have begun to wonder if that is how God sees it.
What if the biggest changes in our lives are not happening to us, but within us?
What if what appears to be five different stories is, in fact, one story being told through five different chapters?
Perhaps there are seasons when God allows several thresholds to converge.
Not because He delights in overwhelming us, but because He is patiently shaping one life through many crossings.
I have come to think of this as coherent transformation.
The God of Thresholds
Scripture is filled with thresholds.
Abram leaves the familiarity of his homeland without knowing where he is going.
Israel stands before the Red Sea with no apparent way forward. Years later, they pause again at the Jordan River before entering the Promised Land.
Ruth crosses into a foreign land, carrying grief and uncertainty.
The disciples leave their nets, not fully understanding the One who has called them.
Again and again, God’s people find themselves standing in doorways between what has been and what will be.
The threshold is rarely comfortable.
It is the place where the old identity no longer fits, yet the new identity has not fully emerged.
It is where certainty gives way to trust.
Perhaps that is why thresholds often feel so unsettling.
We instinctively long for solid ground, yet God frequently meets His people in places that require them to keep walking.
Not because He is absent, but because He is forming them.
Throughout Scripture, God rarely transforms people by simply giving them more information.
More often, He transforms them by inviting them to cross another threshold.
Living Between Rooms
A threshold is a curious place.
It is not a room we are meant to inhabit.
It exists between two spaces.
One lies behind us, familiar and well-worn.
The other stretches ahead, still undefined.
Standing in a doorway can feel strangely disorienting.
The old life is no longer ours to return to, yet the new life has not become familiar enough to feel like home.
Perhaps this is why seasons of profound change often leave us asking questions we have never asked before.
Who am I becoming?
What really matters?
How do I spend the years I have been given?
Where is God in all of this?
These questions are not signs that our faith is failing.
They are often signs that our lives are expanding.
The threshold enlarges our questions before it enlarges our understanding.
A Different Way of Seeing
For much of my life, I viewed change as a collection of separate events.
Education prepared me for a career.
Career prepared me for stability.
Stability prepared me for the next goal.
Each chapter seemed complete in itself.
Yet as I began reflecting on this season of life, I noticed something unexpected.
The changes surrounding me were not independent.
Parenthood was changing how I experienced time.
Midlife was changing how I understood purpose.
Grief was reshaping love.
Joy was deepening vulnerability.
Faith was becoming less about having answers and more about learning to recognize God’s presence.
What initially appeared to be scattered pieces slowly revealed themselves as one mosaic.
I wasn’t simply navigating multiple changes.
God was doing one coherent work.
The thresholds had converged.
An Invitation
Perhaps you find yourself standing on a threshold today.
Perhaps your life feels beautifully full and painfully uncertain at the same time.
Perhaps several changes have arrived together, leaving you wondering whether they are connected at all.
If so, I invite you to consider another possibility.
What if your story is not fragmenting?
What if it is being woven together?
What if the God who led Abram into the unknown, Israel through the sea, Ruth into a new homeland, and the disciples away from their nets is quietly doing the same in your life?
Not by asking you to understand everything.
But by inviting you to take the next faithful step.
The pages that follow are not an attempt to explain every threshold.
Rather, they are an invitation to notice a pattern.
A pattern that has been quietly unfolding throughout Scripture, throughout the lives of God’s people, and, perhaps, throughout our own.
What if the God who authors our story is also its great Integrator?
Perhaps what feels fragmented today will one day reveal itself as a beautiful, coherent transformation.
Part II
Parenthood and the Gift of Paradox
There are some lessons that cannot be taught.
They can only be lived.
Parenthood has been one of those lessons for me.
Before becoming a parent, I assumed that growth meant moving from uncertainty to clarity. Experience would answer questions. Time would resolve tensions. Maturity would simplify life.
Instead, I discovered something entirely different.
Love did not simplify my world.
It made it wonderfully, beautifully more complex.
I find myself longing for my son to grow. I cannot wait to hear his questions, discover his personality, watch him become the man God is shaping him to be.
Yet in the same breath, I want him to remain exactly as he is. I know I will never hold this version of him again. I long for an uninterrupted night’s sleep.
Yet when the house finally grows quiet and he drifts peacefully to sleep, I find myself looking at photographs I took only hours earlier.
I crave moments of stillness. Then I miss him the moment the stillness arrives.
At first, these emotions felt contradictory.
How could I desire opposite things at the same time?
Wouldn’t maturity require me to choose one?
Perhaps not.
Perhaps parenthood introduces us to a different kind of wisdom.
Not the wisdom of resolving paradox…
But the wisdom of carrying it.
Hearts That Grow Larger
We often think of maturity as becoming more certain. Scripture offers a different picture.
The apostle Paul writes that love “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things” (1 Corinthians 13:7, ESV).
Love is not described as narrowing our lives.
It enlarges them.
It teaches us to hold joy without denying sorrow.
Hope without pretending suffering does not exist.
Faith without demanding certainty.
Perhaps love stretches the heart until it can carry what once seemed impossible to hold together.
Joy and grief.
Rest and longing.
Holding on and letting go.
These are no longer opposing forces.
They become companions.
This is not emotional confusion.
It is emotional expansion.
God’s Own Heart
As I reflected on this paradox, I began to notice something remarkable.
Perhaps this way of loving is not uniquely human.
Perhaps it reflects the heart of God Himself.
Throughout Scripture, God delights in His people.
He sings over them with rejoicing.
He calls them His treasured possession.
Yet He also grieves over their wandering.
He disciplines because He loves.
He waits patiently.
He longs for their return.
The God revealed in Scripture is neither emotionally distant nor emotionally simplistic.
His love is rich enough to hold justice and mercy.
Holiness and compassion.
Grief and delight.
When we begin to love deeply, perhaps we are not becoming more conflicted.
Perhaps we are becoming more like Him.
The Illusion of Either/Or
Much of life teaches us to think in opposites.
Be productive or rest.
Be strong or vulnerable.
Lead or follow.
Hold on or let go.
Yet the kingdom of God often refuses these categories.
Jesus is fully just and fully merciful.
The Lion and the Lamb.
The suffering Servant and the reigning King.
He calls us to lose our lives in order to find them.
To become great by becoming servants.
To die so that we may truly live.
The gospel itself is filled with paradox.
Why, then, are we surprised when our own lives begin to reflect that same pattern?
Perhaps spiritual maturity is not learning to eliminate tension.
Perhaps it is learning to remain faithful within it.
A Threshold of the Heart
Looking back, I realize parenthood has not simply changed my schedule.
It has changed the architecture of my heart.
There is now more room inside me.
More joy.
More vulnerability.
More fear.
More gratitude.
More dependence upon God.
The threshold into motherhood did not remove complexity.
It increased my capacity to live within it.
And perhaps that is one of God’s quiet gifts.
Not answers to every paradox…
But a heart made spacious enough to carry them.
A Reflective Pause
Perhaps you are carrying paradox too.
You may not be a parent.
Your threshold may look entirely different.
You may be caring for aging parents while launching children into adulthood.
Celebrating a new opportunity while grieving what it required you to leave behind.
Feeling deeply grateful for God’s faithfulness while quietly wondering what lies ahead.
If so, take heart.
The presence of paradox does not mean something has gone wrong.
It may be evidence that love has enlarged your heart.
Perhaps God is not asking us to choose between joy and grief, hope and uncertainty, rest and longing.
Perhaps He is gently teaching us to carry them together.
And perhaps that, too, is part of His coherent transformation.
Part III
Time Reimagined
Every life is shaped by an unspoken philosophy of time.
Most of us never articulate it.
We simply inherit it.
Study now. Enjoy life later.
Work hard now. Rest later.
Save now. Travel later.
Sacrifice now. One day, it will all be worth it.
There is wisdom in delayed gratification.
Scripture commends diligence, perseverance, and patient endurance.
Seeds are planted long before harvests appear.
Farmers wait for the precious fruit of the earth.
The Christian life itself is one of hope, trusting God’s promises even when we cannot yet see their fulfillment.
Delayed gratification is not the problem.
The question is whether it quietly becomes the only way we know how to live.
Waiting for Tomorrow
Looking back, I realize how much of my life was shaped by tomorrow.
I endured a difficult academic environment because I believed the degree would open new doors.
I persevered through unhealthy workplaces because I believed a better opportunity would come.
I left one country for another because I believed the sacrifices of immigration would create a richer future.
Each decision carried genuine purpose.
Each season required endurance.
I do not regret those choices.
God faithfully met me through every one of them.
Yet somewhere along the way, I had unconsciously begun to measure life by what came next.
Tomorrow became the place where fulfillment lived.
The next milestone.
The next promotion.
The next season.
The next arrival.
Without realizing it, I had become remarkably good at postponing joy.
The Unexpected Teacher
Then a child entered my life.
Babies have an extraordinary way of disrupting our assumptions.
They refuse to participate in our carefully constructed timelines.
They do not worry about five-year plans.
They do not understand career trajectories.
They are wonderfully indifferent to productivity.
A baby asks different questions.
Will you watch me?
Will you smile with me?
Will you notice this moment?
Will you be here?
For perhaps the first time in my adult life, I encountered someone who lived entirely in the present.
He is not trying to get somewhere else.
He simply inhabits today.
I began to wonder if I had forgotten how.
The Gift Hidden Within Ordinary Moments
The older I become, the more I realize that life is not lived in milestones.
It is lived in ordinary mornings.
A cup of tea shared without hurry.
The warmth of a tiny hand wrapped around your finger.
The familiar laughter of people you love.
Sunlight filtering through a window.
The quiet rhythm of an ordinary Tuesday.
These moments are so ordinary that they almost escape our attention.
Yet they quietly become the substance of a life.
Perhaps this is why Scripture so often calls us to notice.
“Give us this day our daily bread.”
“This is the day that the Lord has made.”
“Teach us to number our days.”
God’s invitations are surprisingly present-tense.
Not because tomorrow is unimportant.
But because today is where we meet Him.
A Different Kind of Stewardship
There was a time when I thought faithfulness meant continually asking,
“What should I do next?”Now I find myself asking another question.
“Am I fully receiving the gift of today?”
These are not competing questions.
Both matter.
Wisdom plans.
Love pays attention.
One prepares us for the future.
The other keeps us from missing the present.
Perhaps Christian maturity is not abandoning delayed gratification.
Perhaps it is learning to hold future hope without forfeiting present joy.
Time as a Gift
Ecclesiastes offers an observation that has become increasingly precious to me.
After describing the changing seasons of life, Solomon concludes:
“There is nothing better than that a man should rejoice in his work, for that is his lot… everyone should eat and drink and take pleasure in all his toil — this is God’s gift to man.” (Ecclesiastes 3:22; 3:13, ESV)
The gift is not only what lies at the end of the journey.
The gift is found along the way.
The shared meal.
The meaningful work.
The conversation.
The ordinary day.
I spent many years believing life would begin after the next accomplishment.
Now I am learning that life has been quietly unfolding all along.
The Second Threshold
Parenthood did not simply teach me to love differently.
It taught me to inhabit time differently.
I still believe in planning.
I still believe in perseverance.
I still believe that some harvests require years of patient faithfulness.
But I no longer want tomorrow to steal today’s joy.
The future remains God’s gift.
So does this moment.
Perhaps that is one of the quiet miracles of becoming a parent.
A child does not merely change our schedule.
Sometimes, by God’s grace, a child restores our ability to notice time itself.
A Reflective Pause
Perhaps your threshold has nothing to do with parenthood.
Perhaps your own life has been shaped by the language of “later.”
Later, when life slows down.
Later, when the children are older.
Later, when work becomes less demanding.
Later, when the diagnosis is behind us.
Later, when we retire.
There is wisdom in preparing for tomorrow.
But there is also wisdom in receiving today.
Perhaps the greatest tragedy is not that tomorrow never arrives.
It does.
The tragedy is discovering that while we were faithfully preparing for the future, we forgot to inhabit the life God was already giving us.
Perhaps coherent transformation is, in part, God’s gentle invitation to recover the present.
Not because tomorrow does not matter.
But because today does.
Part IV
Becoming Someone New
There is a question that quietly accompanies every threshold. It is rarely the first question we ask.
At first, we wonder about circumstances.
Will this work out?
Will I recover?
Will I be a good parent?
Will this new season become easier?
Will I ever feel like myself again?
These are honest questions. God welcomes them.
Yet beneath them lies another question, one we often discover only in hindsight.
Who am I becoming through this?
Perhaps that has always been the deeper work.
Two Transformations, One Invitation
As I reflected on this season of life, I realized that two profound transformations had arrived almost simultaneously.
The first was one I expected. Motherhood.
Or, more accurately, matrescence — the lifelong process through which a woman becomes a mother.
The second arrived much more quietly.
Midlife.
Not as a crisis.
As an invitation.
One asked me to care for a new life. The other asked me to examine my own.
One changed my daily rhythms. The other changed the questions I carried.
Together they created an unexpected convergence.
Midlife seemed to ask,
Who do I want to become?Matrescence whispered,
Who am I becoming?
At first those questions felt different.
Now I wonder if they are the same question viewed from opposite directions.
One looks toward the future.
The other looks within.
Both invite transformation.
Identity Beyond Achievement
For much of my life, identity was closely tied to movement.
Learning. Building. Accomplishing. Preparing.
There was always another mountain to climb, another skill to develop, another milestone to reach.
There is nothing inherently wrong with those pursuits.
Work is a gift.
Learning is an act of worship.
Faithfulness often requires perseverance over many years.
Yet somewhere along the way, I began to notice that God was becoming less interested in asking me what I was building and more interested in asking who was doing the building.
Not because my work had lost its value.
But because my identity could no longer rest upon it.
Motherhood accelerated that realization.
A baby does not admire your résumé.
He does not know your accomplishments.
He simply knows your presence.
And in that quiet knowing, God began exposing a question I had not asked often enough:
If every title disappeared… If every achievement faded… Who would I still be?
The Quiet Purpose of God
It is here that Paul’s words began to sound different than they once had.
We often quote Romans 8:28 when life feels uncertain.
“And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good…”Yet Paul does not leave the word good undefined.
He immediately tells us what that good is.
“For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son…” (Romans 8:29, ESV)
Suddenly, the thresholds of life are no longer random.
The question is no longer simply,
Why is this happening?The deeper question becomes,
How might God be using this to make me more like Christ?
Not because every circumstance is good.
Scripture never says that.
But because God refuses to waste any circumstance.
Joy. Grief. Calling. Waiting. Success. Failure. Parenthood. Aging.
Each becomes another instrument in the hands of a faithful Craftsman.
The coherent transformation is not that every event makes sense.
It is that every event is gathered into God’s greater purpose of forming Christ within us.
The Pattern Beneath the Pattern
Looking back, I can now see a progression I could not see while living it.
Parenthood expanded my heart.
It taught me to carry paradox.
It enlarged my capacity to love.
Then my relationship with time began to change.
The future no longer held all the meaning.
The present became sacred again.
Only then did I begin asking a deeper question.
Who is this person emerging through these thresholds?
The thresholds themselves were never the destination.
They were shaping the pilgrim.
Perhaps that has always been God’s way.
He begins with the circumstances around us.
He uses them to enlarge the heart.
The enlarged heart learns to inhabit time differently.
A redeemed relationship with time loosens our grip on achievement and control.
And somewhere within that slow, patient work, we discover that God has been quietly reshaping our identity all along.
What once appeared to be fragmented now reveals itself as beautifully coherent.
Christ, the True Threshold
Jesus Himself walked the greatest threshold.
He left the glory of heaven and entered our humanity.
He crossed from life to death.
From death to resurrection.
He is not only the One who calls us across thresholds.
He is the One who has already gone before us.
This means that every threshold we face is ultimately an invitation into deeper fellowship with Him.
Not because every path is easy. But because every path is already known by the One who walks beside us.
Our transformation is never merely self-improvement. It is participation in the life of Christ.
The destination has never been a better version of ourselves. It has always been a life increasingly shaped by Him.
A Reflective Pause
Perhaps you find yourself asking questions about your future.
Your calling.
Your family.
Your health.
Your purpose.
Those questions matter.
But perhaps there is another question God is gently inviting you to consider.
Who are you becoming?
Long after today’s decisions have become yesterday’s memories, that question will remain.
Because when the thresholds have been crossed…
When the seasons have changed…
When the milestones have faded…
The person who has been formed will remain.
And that, perhaps, has been God’s work all along.
Not merely leading us through changing circumstances.
But patiently conforming us to the image of His Son.
Perhaps that is the deepest meaning of coherent transformation.
Epilogue
Looking Back
There is something remarkable about looking back.
Not with nostalgia.
Not with regret.
But with the quiet perspective that only time can offer.
When we are living through a threshold, our vision is necessarily limited.
We see the uncertainty beneath our feet, but rarely the landscape that is unfolding around us.
We ask whether we are making the right decision, whether we are strong enough for the journey, whether the path ahead will ever become clear.
It is only later, sometimes years later, that we begin to recognize a pattern.
What once appeared to be a collection of disconnected experiences slowly reveals itself as a coherent story.
Perhaps this is one of God’s quiet mercies.
He does not ask us to understand the whole journey before taking the next step.
He simply asks us to trust Him with the next faithful one.
Throughout these pages, we have walked through several thresholds.
1: We began with the changing landscape of life itself.
2: Then we entered the expanding landscape of the heart, discovering that love often enlarges our capacity to hold paradox rather than resolve it.
3: From there, we found ourselves rethinking time. The future remained important, but the present became sacred again. We began to notice that life is not merely waiting for tomorrow’s milestones, but receiving today’s gifts.
4: Finally, we arrived at the deepest threshold of all.
Identity.
Not the identity we construct through achievement, success, or recognition.
But the identity God patiently forms through every joy, every disappointment, every calling, every interruption, and every season we would never have chosen for ourselves.
Looking back now, the movement feels almost inevitable.
God met us in our circumstances.
He enlarged our hearts.
He reshaped our relationship with time.
And through both, He quietly transformed the people we were becoming.
Perhaps this is why the Christian life cannot be reduced to acquiring more knowledge.
Certainly, we are called to grow in wisdom and understanding. We study Scripture, seek truth, and renew our minds. Yet God’s work in us is never merely intellectual.
He forms us through lived faithfulness.
Through ordinary Tuesdays.
Through sleepless nights.
Through unanswered prayers.
Through laughter around the dinner table.
Through grief that refuses to leave quickly.
Through unexpected joy.
Through all the quiet places where theology becomes experience.
Perhaps that is why so many of God’s greatest works unfold slowly.
Seeds become harvests.
Children become adults.
Disciples become apostles.
Ordinary people become faithful saints.
Transformation rarely announces itself while it is happening.
It is often discovered only when we pause long enough to notice.
And perhaps that is what this essay has been inviting all along.
Not simply to think differently about change.
But to look differently at your own life.
To consider that the threshold you are standing in today may be doing a deeper work than you can presently see.
Perhaps the tension you are carrying is enlarging your heart.
Perhaps the waiting you find so difficult is teaching you to receive today as a gift.
Perhaps the questions surrounding your identity are not signs that you are lost, but invitations to discover your truest self in Christ.
None of this means the journey is easy.
Some thresholds are marked by profound suffering.
Others by uncertainty, loss, disappointment, or grief.
The Christian hope has never been that every path is pleasant.
It is that no path is purposeless.
The One who called Abraham from his homeland, led Israel through the wilderness, met Elijah in the whisper, walked with disciples on the road to Emmaus, and conquered death itself is the same God who continues to walk with His people today.
He has not stopped leading.
He has not stopped forming.
He has not stopped redeeming.
And so we arrive where every threshold ultimately leads.
Not to a place.
But to a Person.
Jesus Christ.
The One who entered our humanity, embraced our suffering, crossed through death, and emerged in resurrection life.
He is not merely the destination of our transformation.
He is its source, its companion, and its fulfillment.
If there is coherence in our story, it is only because our lives are being gathered into His.
And if there is hope for tomorrow, it is because He is already there.
So perhaps the invitation is simpler than we imagined.
Take the next faithful step.
Receive today’s gift.
Trust the One who is writing a story you cannot yet fully see.
One day, you may look back and discover that what once felt fragmented was, in the hands of God, beautifully coherent all along.
Author’s Reflection
A Final Selah
There is one final observation I would like to share.
It wasn’t where this essay began. It is where it led me.
When I first started writing for Selah Space, I never imagined there was a single thread connecting the articles.
One week, I was writing about wisdom.
Another about shame.
Then vocation.
The presence of God.
Motherhood.
Suffering.
Identity.
Spiritual formation.
Neuroscience.
The ordinary rhythms of life.
They felt like separate conversations, each arising from a different question, a different season, or a different passage of Scripture.
Only recently did I pause long enough to look back.
And as I did, I noticed something I had completely missed while walking forward.
These were never disconnected reflections.
They were all exploring the same quiet mystery.
How does God transform ordinary people into the likeness of Christ?
Not through extraordinary moments alone.
But through ordinary faithfulness.Through the thresholds we would never have chosen.
Through the paradoxes we never expected to carry.
Through the seasons that seem confusing while we are living them.Through work. Family. Waiting. Loss. Joy. Relationships. Calling. Rest.
Every article had been circling the same center.
I simply hadn’t recognized it yet.
Perhaps that should not have surprised me.
The Scriptures themselves tell one coherent story.
Across centuries, cultures, kings, prophets, shepherds, fishermen, and exiles, God is carrying forward one redemptive purpose.
He is making all things new.
He is forming a people who bear His image.
He is patiently conforming them to the likeness of His Son.
Why should our own stories be any different?
Perhaps our lives also appear fragmented only because we are reading them one chapter at a time.
God, however, sees the whole narrative.
He is never surprised by the turns we cannot anticipate.
He wastes nothing.
Not the successes we celebrate.
Not the disappointments we struggle to understand.
Not the detours.
Not the waiting.
Not even the wounds.
The same hands that authored redemption’s story are gently writing ours.
That realization has changed the way I think about Selah Space.
I no longer see it as a collection of articles.
I see it as an invitation.
An invitation to slow down long enough to notice God’s quiet work.
To resist the pressure to rush toward quick answers.
To linger in Scripture.
To pay attention to the ordinary places where theology becomes lived experience.
To discover that formation is often happening when nothing dramatic seems to be happening at all.
If these pages have encouraged you, I hope they have done more than offer ideas.
I hope they have helped you become more attentive.
More attentive to God’s presence.
More attentive to His Word.
More attentive to the quiet ways He is shaping your heart.
Perhaps, after closing this essay, you will begin to look at your own story differently.
Not as a series of unrelated events.
But as chapters in a coherent work of grace.
You may still have unanswered questions.
You may still be standing in a threshold that feels uncertain.
You may still wonder where the road is leading.
That is alright.
Very few people in Scripture understood the whole story while they were living it.
Abraham did not.
Joseph did not.
Ruth did not.
Peter certainly did not.
Yet they kept taking the next faithful step.
Perhaps that is all God asks of us as well.
Not that we understand everything.
But that we trust the Author.
As I finish this essay, I find myself returning to one simple prayer.
Lord, when I cannot see the pattern, help me trust Your hands.
When I cannot understand the season, help me remain faithful within it.
When life feels fragmented, remind me that You are writing a story far more beautiful than I can presently imagine.
And when I finally look back, may I recognize that every threshold was drawing me closer to Christ.
If that becomes true of my life… If it becomes true of yours…
Then every threshold, every paradox, every season of waiting, and every quiet act of faithfulness will have served a greater purpose than we could ever have imagined.
So before we hurry to the next article…
Before we move on to the next task…
Before life gathers its familiar pace once again…
May I simply invite you to pause.
To breathe.
To remember.
To notice.
To give thanks.
To trust.
And perhaps, in that quiet pause, you may begin to hear the gentle voice of the One who has been faithfully walking beside you all along.
Selah.
Originally published on Medium. Reposted with the author’s permission. All rights reserved.