My New Year's Wish

I'm on my way down to St. George to ring in the New Year with a little bit more heat and a few new friends...

But I couldn't go without telling you my New Year's wish!

My hope for both of us – you and I – is that

we spend a little less time creating worry lines,

more time creating laugh lines.

That we live a bit more simply,

but also a bit more glamorously.

That we place fewer restraints on ourselves,

one another,

and God.

That our eyes might see those things that help us grow,

good and bad, happy and hurtful.

And, most of all, that we might feel each day that we acted

instead of being acted upon.

Read more

I simply remember my favorite things.

Days have slipped by in blogging silence.  Desolee, my sweets.  In the interim between then and now have come finals, food poisoning, miracles, and holidays filled with laughter, merriment and – best of all – lots and lots of reading.

I have flipped through the pages of Tolkien (my first time!) and pondered the emotional life of boys in America.  I have procured, to my great delight, vintage beauties from an idyllic second-hand bookshop in Bountiful and stacked high tomes from the library.  I think I had forgotten this past semester what joy I find in reading.

That got me thinking about some of the other things that are such boons to me:

1. Waking up to NPR.
2. Falling asleep to NPR.
3. Ira Glass' infinite Ira-Glass-iness.
4. Making things.  
5. Giving (humble) gifts.
6. Writing letters... real letters!

My list is decidedly more pedantic than Maria's cat whiskers and brown paper packages tied with twine.  But, still.  

I'm not one to really make New Year's resolutions, if only because calling them such dooms them to failure.  I am, however, one to readdress priorities.  And so, I will say this:  I have found much value in pausing and engaging in those things that bring me stillness and fullness; this year – and, hopefully, much longer than that – I will place a higher priority on items that seem to continually get pushed to the bottom of the list in favor of the much more pressing, and stillness-snatching, idle to-do's.

Read more

Leftover Turkey Sandwiches and Other Such Nonsense

The scent of sweet potato and rosemary is wafting through the house tonight - I'm making baked sweet potato fries (which I will enjoy with Vanilla Honey Chamomile tea, thankyouverymuch).  The smell reminded me of yesterday, Thanksgiving, and how I probably should have sat down and written a little something about what I'm thankful for... because I'm a blogger, you know?

...But then I sat here, staring at the blinking cursor on this very large, very grey page, and I thought, Am I really going to write one of those run-of-the-mill Thanksgiving posts?  I'm so thankful for my family and my friends and my house, blah, blah, blah.  (I mean, I am grateful for those things, but who isn't?)

So I decided to do something a little bit different.

...which, let's face it, might end up being not that different at all.

All I could think I wanted to write about is how gratitude changes everything in my life.

Gratitude has given breath and life to the joy that I cultivate.  Gratitude is the bellows that stokes the fire of passion and excitement to my every day.  Gratitude gives way to the glorious yes! of my life.

Even knowing these things, even feeling them down to the immaterial elements of my spirit, mustering gratitude sometimes seems to be a heroic act beyond my reach.  At times, gratitude seems something Godly and distant.  And while I often admire its Godliness, I never, ever acknowledge its distance, for - if I choose - I feel its ever present closeness... like it is perpetually sitting on the tip of my nose and I just have to choose to fix my eyes a certain way so that I might glimpse it.

Gratitude is the lens which opens this dark and dreary world into something much more heavenly.  Gratitude forms the walls of the temple within.  My worship is nothing without the gratitude that supports it.

I sat, yesterday, with a smile on my face as I peered through a jungle of candlesticks, gravy boats and fizzing Martinelli's bottles, observing a family that has made excellent practice of gratitude.  Not only do they love one another (because familial love is often not a conscious choice), but they are so grateful for one another.  It was beautiful; gratitude - not mere love - changed the tenor of that home.

I hope that we will each determine to grasp that benevolent creature, gratitude, and welcome it into our hearts with more fervency.  I hope that we will not detain ourselves from this gift for another year, until another Thanksgiving marches into our attention.  I hope that we might play architect with our inner selves and make gratitude the very beams of support upon which we might erect our holy of holies.

Read more

Waxing Poetic

So, I should be finishing the touches on my PowerPoint for my ancient history presentation for tomorrow.
...And translating Ruth 3 for Hebrew.
........And translating and reformatting Isaiah 14 - 18 for my parallelisms class.


And, yet, here I am.  Talking to you wonderful people the cosmic void.  What's sad is that I don't even have anything that earth-shattering to discuss.  Nevertheless, here are the two topics that I can't get off of my brain:  1) Autumn is here almost.  2)  I love what I am studying.


I have already waxed poetic about the latter of those two subjects, but I feel the need for just a little bit of redux.  I sat in a class this morning, which was really not a class that I eh-vurr thought that I would be taking; and yet, as I sat there, listening to a professor who wasn't saying anything too monumentally profound, I discovered within myself a truth:  deciding to follow the prompting of the Lord to enroll in that class wasn't just an exercise in obedience or faith, it put me - very literally - in the exact right place at the exact right time.  And what a blessing that is.  Listen, I'm not saying that these days haven't been long or that there haven't been times when I have asked myself 'Can I even cram one more second into this day?'*  But there is an undeniable wholeness in knowing that the Lord has brought me here to learn these things, and that makes each and every day exquisitely wonderful.


And that's all I have to say about that.


Now, onto the topic that has been burning a metaphorical hole in the back of my mind (oh, my bad, I'm mixing metaphors).  This past Labor Day (which, I'm telling you, feels forever ago), some friends and I were able to have one last summery shindig at the community pool totally gratis compliments of a kind stranger.  I know, I know, the very words "community pool" call to mind shrieking babies and slightly yellow pool water, but in all reality, it was awesome.  Complete with legit water slides!  (That I didn't go on!)  We spent a few hours there playing Marco Polo (there was an unfortunate handful of a stranger's boob incident that we're not really going to delve into here) and generally laughing so hard it was hard to swim.


But then!  THEN, we came home and dried off and something almost palpable in me flipped the switch from Summer to Autumn and I immediately began dreaming of bobbing for apples, and picking apples, and lighting fires in the fireplace, and cozying up in a really big sweater.

So, my friends, I'm here to tell you that autumn is here.  Please don't burst my very delicate bubble.


I wore my (classy) knee-high boots yesterday.
I made a pumpkin pie from a real pumpkin.  (And Madie's begging me to bake another.)
I made pumpkin creamy polenta.
I even layered a (thin) sweater with a(n airy) blazer and I wasn't sweltering.


It got me thinking about this poem that Austin sent me last year, which is, in my estimation, the pinnacle of autumnal perfection:

The Autumn, Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Go, sit upon the lofty hill,
And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods and waters wild
Do hymn an autumn sound.
The summer sun is faint on them —
The summer flowers depart —
Sit still — as all transform’d to stone,
Except your musing heart.

How there you sat in summer-time,
May yet be in your mind;
And how you heard the green woods sing
Beneath the freshening wind.
Though the same wind now blows around,
You would its blast recall;
For every breath that stirs the trees,
Doth cause a leaf to fall.

Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth
That flesh and dust impart:
We cannot bear its visitings,
When change is on the heart.
Gay words and jests may make us smile,
When Sorrow is asleep;
But other things must make us smile,
When Sorrow bids us weep!

The dearest hands that clasp our hands, —
Their presence may be o’er;
The dearest voice that meets our ear,
That tone may come no more!
Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,
Which once refresh’d our mind,
Shall come — as, on those sighing woods,
The chilling autumn wind.

Hear not the wind — view not the woods;
Look out o’er vale and hill —
In spring, the sky encircled them —
The sky is round them still.
Come autumn’s scathe — come winter’s cold —
Come change — and human fate!
Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,
Can ne’er be desolate.

Guys, get ready for me to start saying 'autumnal' all. the. time.

Read more

The Man Box

As a single woman, there is so much up in the air about the future.  The hows and whens and the what is that going to look like?s.  One thing has always seemed to be worked out, though.  That I will have sons.

As a strong woman, that puts a lot of the onus on me to prepare to raise graceful, whole men.  Which is a daunting task, to say the least.  The result is frequent pondering on exactly what I need to be doing so that I can accomplish this feat in the face of a society that would have me put my sons in The Man Box (more on that later).

You see, I desire to marry and raise men that are Christlike, recognizing the equality, beauty and value of both genders.  Men who are able to see clearly through the fog of gender stereotyping and societal norms.  Men who do what they want to do without fear of being called "girly" and when they are, they do not take it as an insult.  Men who are able to be true partners with women.

With all of that in mind, I want to share with you a fantastic TED talk that struck my heart with force.  (If you can't see the video below, scroll all the way to the bottom of this post to read the full text.)  In this video, Tony Porter discusses some of the issues involved in raising men of true strength.  Take a look:





I was particularly stuck by Tony's closing statements:

I need you on board. I need you with me. I need you working with me and me working with you on how we raise our sons and teach them to be men. That it's okay to not be dominating. That it's okay to have feelings and emotions. That it's okay to promote equality. That it's okay to have women that are just friends and that's it. That it's okay to be whole.

That my liberation as a man is tied to your liberation as a woman.

I remember asking a 9-year-old boy—I asked a 9-year-old boy, "What would life be like for you if you didn't have to adhere to this Man Box?" He said to me, "I would be free."

I found Tony's assertion that "my liberation as a man is tied to your liberation as a woman" incredibly on point.  And, to that end, extremely eye opening as a Latter-day Saint.  It comes as no surprise the idea that when one gender is bound, both are.  However, I wonder if, in this society where the issues Tony discusses are extant, we don't focus too much on the oppression of women.  I found myself thinking of what a disservice we do our men, our beloved boys, in giving them the perceived "leg up."  The countless intangible, but very real, ways we stunt men by teaching them to stunt women.

Neither Tony nor I offer up many avenues to reaching this lofty goal.  Which is a shame, and I'm sorry.  I have to think, though, that getting people - parents and future parents - on board is the first step.

***Full Text Below***

I grew up in New York City, between Harlem and the Bronx. Growing up as a boy, we was taught that men had to be tough, had to be strong, had to be courageous, dominating, no pain, no emotions, with the exception of anger, and definitely no fear. That men are in charge, which means women are not. That men lead, and you should just follow and just do what we say. That men are superior; women are inferior. That men are strong; women are weak. That women are of less value. Property of men. And objects, particularly sexual objects.

I've later come to know that to be the collective socialization of men, better known as The Man Box. [shows graphic of box containing classic masculinity tropes] See, this Man Box has in it all the ingredients of how we define what it means to be a man. Now, I also want to say, without a doubt, there are some wonderful, wonderful, absolutely wonderful things about being a man—while at the same time there's some stuff that's just straight-up twisted. [laughter] And we really need to begin to challenge, look at, and really get in the process of deconstructing, redefining, what we come to know as manhood.

This is my two at home—Kendall and Jade. [shows picture of two children, a girl and a boy] They're 11 and 12; Kendall's 15 months older than Jade, and there was a period of time, you know, when my wife, her name is Tammy, and I, we just got real busy, and whip bim bam boom, Kendall and Jade. [laughter] And when they were about 5 and 6, 4 and 5, you know, Jade could come to me, it didn't matter, come to me crying, you know, it didn't matter what she was crying about, she can get on my knee, she could snot my sleeve up, just cry, cry it out, Daddy got you, that's all that's important.

Now, Kendall, on the other hand, and, like I said, he's only 15 months older than her, he come to me crying, it's like, soon as I would hear him cry, a clock would go off, you know; I would give the boy probably about 30 seconds. Which means by the time he got to me, I was already saying things like, "Why you crying? Hold your head up. Look at me. Explain to me what's wrong. Tell me what's wrong! I can't understand you while you crying!" And out of my own frustration, of my role and responsibility of building him up as a man, to fit into these guidelines and these structures that are defined in this Man Box, I would find myself saying things like, "Just go in your room! Just go on—go on in your room! Sit down, get yourself together, and come back and talk to me when you can talk to me like a"…what? [audience: "Like a man."] Like a man. And he's five. years. old.

And, you know, as I grow in life, I would say to myself, "My god. What's wrong with me? What am I doing? Why would I do this?" And I think back, I think back to my father. [shows picture of his family] There was a time in my life when we had a very troubled experience in our family. My brother Henry, he died tragically when we was teenagers.

We lived in New York City, as I said—we lived in the Bronx, at the time—and the burial was a place called Long Island—it was about two hours outside of the city—and as we were preparing to come back from the burial, you know, the cars stopped at the bathroom, you know, let folks take care of themselves, for the long ride back to the city, and the limousine empties out—my mother, my sisters, my aunties, they all get out, but my father and I stayed in the limousine. And no sooner than the women got out, he burst out crying. He didn't want to cry in front of me, but he knew he wasn't going to make it back to the city, and it was better me than allow himself to express these feelings and emotions in front of the women. And this is a man who, 10 minutes ago, had just put his teenage son in the ground—something I just can't even, I just can't even imagine.

The thing that sticks with me the most is that he was apologizing to me for crying in front of me. And at the same time, he was also giving me props, lifting me up, for not crying.

You know, I come to also look at this as this, this fear that we have as men, this fear that just have us paralyzed, holding us hostage to this Man Box.

I can remember speaking to a 12-year-old boy, a football player, and I asked him, I said, "How would you feel if, in front of all the players, your coach told you, you were playing like a girl?" Now, I expected him to say something like, "I'd be sad; I'd be mad; I'd be angry," something like that. No, the boy said to me, the boy said to me, "It would destroy me."

And I said to myself, "God, if it would destroy him to be called a girl, what are we then teaching him about girls?" [applause]

It took me back to a time when I was about 12 years old—I grew up in tenement buildings, you know, in the inner city, and at this time, we're living in the Bronx—and in the building next to where I lived, there was a guy named Johnny. He was about 16 years old, and we were all about 12 years old, younger guys, and he was hanging out with all us younger guys, and this guy, he was up to a lot of no good; he was the kind of kid parents have to wonder, "What is this 16 year old boy doing with these 12 year old boys?" And he did spend a lot of time up to no good; he was a troubled kid, you know, his mother had died from a heroin overdose, he was being raised by his grandmother, his father wasn't on the set, his grandmother had two jobs, he was home alone a lot.

Well, I gotta tell you, we young guys, we looked up to this dude, man. He was cool. He was fine—that's what the sisters said; he was fine, right? He was having sex. You know, we all looked up to him.

So one day, I'm out in front of the house doing something, just playing around, doing something, I don't know what. He looks out his window, and he calls me upstairs. He said, "Hey Ant—" (they called me Anthony growing up as a kid) "—hey Anthony, come on upstairs." Johnny call; you go. So I run right upstairs. As he opens the door, he says to me, "Do you want some?" Now I immediately knew what he meant, because for me, growing up at that time, and our relationship with this Man Box, "Do you want some?" meant one of two things: Sex or drugs. And we weren't doing drugs.

Now my box, my card, my Man Box Card was immediately in jeopardy. Two things: One, I never had sex. We don't talk about that, as men; you only tell your dearest, closest friends, sworn to secrecy for life the first time you had sex. For everybody else, we go around like we been having sex since we was two. There ain't no first time. [laughter] The other thing I couldn't tell him is that I didn't want any. You know, that's even worse. We supposed to be always on the prowl; women are objects, especially sexual objects.

So anyway, I couldn't tell him any of that, so, like my mother would say, to make a long story short, I just simply said to Johnny, "Yes." He told me to go in his room. I go in his room; on his bed is a girl from the neighborhood named Sheila. She's 16 years old. She's nude. She is what I know today to be mentally ill, higher functioning at times; at others, we had a whole choice—words, you know, inappropriate names for her… [he drifts off; he looks pained]

Anyway, Johnny had just gotten through having sex with her—well, he actually raped her, but he said he had sex with her, because while Sheila never said "no," she also never said "yes."

So he was offering me the opportunity to do the same, so when I go in the room, I close the door—folks, I'm petrified. I stand with the back to the door, so Johnny can't bust in the room and see that I'm not doing anything, and I stand there long enough that I could have actually done something. So now I'm no longer trying to figure out what I'm gonna do; I'm trying to figure out how I'm gonna get out of this room.

So in my 12 years of wisdom, I zip my pants down, I walk out into the living room, and, lo and behold, while I was in the room with Sheila, Johnny was back at the window calling guys up. So now there's a living room full of guys, like, you know, like the waiting room at the doctor's office. And they ask me, "How was it?" And I said to them it was good. And I zip my pants up in front of them, and I head for the door.

Now, I say this all with remorse, and I was feeling a tremendous amount of remorse at that time, but I was conflicted, because, while I was feeling remorse, I was excited, because I didn't get caught, but I knew I felt bad about what was happening. This fear of getting outside the Man Box totally enveloped me. It was way more important to me, about me and my Man Box Card, than about Sheila, and what was happening to her.

See, collectively, we as men are taught to have less value in women, to view them as property and the objects of men. We see that as an equation that equals violence against women.

[shows a graphic reading: "The Collective Socialization of Men: Less Value + Property + Objectification = Violence Against Women."]

We as men, good men, the large majority of men, we operate on the foundation of this, this whole collective socialization. We kind of see ourselves as separate, but we're very much a part of it. You see, we have to come to understand that less value, property, and objectification is the foundation, and the violence can't happen without it. So we're very much a part of the solution, as well as the problem. The Centers for Disease Control says that men's violence against women is at epidemic proportions—it is the number one health concern for women in this country and abroad.

So quickly, I'd just like to say, you know, this is the love of my life [shows picture of daughter]—my daughter, Jade. The world I envision for her, how do I want men to be acting and behaving—I need you on board. I need you with me. I need you working with me and me working with you on how we raise our sons and teach them to be men. That it's okay to not be dominating. That it's okay to have feelings and emotions. That it's okay to promote equality. That it's okay to have women that are just friends and that's it. That it's okay to be whole.

That my liberation as a man is tied to your liberation as a woman. [applause]

I remember asking a 9-year-old boy—I asked a 9-year-old boy, "What would life be like for you if you didn't have to adhere to this Man Box?" He said to me, "I would be free."

Thank you, folks. [cheers and applause]

Read more

Five Years.

This is coming a bit late; I readily acknowledge this fact.  But, let's be real.  The only person this matters to is me.  And I can live with it coming a few weeks late.

So, on June 11th of this year, the fifth anniversary of my baptism came and went.  It was, mainly, uneventful.  In fact, I can't really remember what I did on that Saturday.  It was, however, filled with the emotional and intellectual gravitas due such an event.

Five years is a long time.  There is no kidding around with five years.  To boot, a lot can happen in five years.  I've had eight addresses in those five years.  I have been at least three or four versions of myself in those five years.

Looking back, many, many more substantial things have come to pass.

I have found a deeper understanding of my purpose.  The world, my actions, my personhood have all gained gravity.  Or, rather, they have come into the orbit of something with much more gravity – the ultimate gravity.

I have become something more... or, maybe, something less.  Less confused.  Less anxious.  Less rowdy.  Less like every atom within me was pushing outward with equal force.  Less traveling in every direction.  Less.

But also something more.  More principled, that's for sure.  More certain.  More loved, loving and lovely.    More... me.

And, I am particularly grateful for these parts of me that are lesser and for those that are more.  As a convert, I am continually trying to display to my family and my old friends that I am the same person as I was before, just... with evolved priorities.  I think that there is truth in that, and that I certainly haven't been lying.  When I sat back this past June 11th, though, I wondered if those parts of me that are different haven't overwhelmed the parts of me that are the same.  Is sameness, after all, the goal of a continuing journey through life?

I remember a few years back when I just woke up one day with the absolute knowledge that all this, "this" being the sweeping expanse of the Gospel and my adherence therein, was true.  It became unquestionable - not that I couldn't question, just that I had literally no desire to do so.  Up until that point, I had believed.  I had hoped.  I had sought for ever-mounting evidence.  And then one day, I woke up and just knew.  I knew like I know that when you add one to one, you get two.  It was just... there.  And obvious.

That day changed my life.

It is quite remarkable, though, to lay out on the table that this day came a couple of years after baptism.  It took that long for me to get it.  Crazy.

In these five years, I have fought to become the person I want to be.  Maybe it was an invisible fight.  The fight was mine, and mine alone.  It still is.  I think, looking back, I have to conclude that I have made less room for frivolity in order to create space for stability.  (Imagine that from someone who has had more addresses than boyfriends in the past five years!)  I decided to give up the more ridiculous possibilities of my day-to-day in favor of inundating myself with goodness, strength, constancy and loyalty.  Sometimes I miss having the ridiculous sort of fun, but rarely and with less fervency each time.

I have loved these past five years.  I have found significant joy in the journey.  I have found joy in the heartache and in the confusion.  I have found joy in the evolution of myself.  My entire story – not just these past five years, but my lifetime – is a story of joy.  And isn't that exactly how it should be?

Read more

The Rain.

I have remained mostly silent this past little while.  I have this policy of never, ever exposing on the internet the harder things of life, opting instead for a consistent tone of optimism and joy and happiness and curiosity and love.  I have figured that complaining on the internet has very little benefits and, perhaps most importantly, I have always thought that I have no business sharing my pittance of worries or fatigue when I have no idea the very real traumas of those around me, both close and at the periphery.

So, I have remained mostly silent.

Please do not get me wrong.  My life has plentiful joys and abundant laughter, and things are, mostly, good.  They were previously, however, great.  And the descent from great to good has thrown me a bit off kilter.  I want great again.  I'm working hard to regain that greatness; and that work is tiring.

So, I have remained mostly silent.

I'm breaking the silence because of a need to begin to unpack some of this stuff from off of my back so I can stop having silent conversations in my head about all of it.  But, truly, truly, no need to worry.  Life is good in the life of Lauren House.  I promise.

Read more

Recapturing the Je Ne Sais Quoi

Let me set the scene.  I was laying here in bed, the enormous bay windows in my room flung open with wild abandon and the overhead fan spinning with a creaky hum.  It was such a nice day today, and the time I spent beneath our willow tree reading the new issue of Martha Stewart Living just wasn't enough of this almost-summer weather we have had of late.  So I threw open the windows and let the breeze come pouring in.

So here I was, lounging on my miracle foam mattress, with the breeze and the freshly cut grass and all that summery intoxication (not literal intoxication, I promise, mom Bishop).  And I found my heart so full and joyous that the only antidote was to share it.  I'm super grateful because I have recaptured my absolutely joy over moving to Utah – a feeling so intensely potent for the first several months here, which has been somewhat lacking for the past little while.

To be fair, I have had a few experiences leading up to tonight's victory.

I have started running in the evenings.  I take a three mile loop, first going away from the mountains, down south, then back east and north.  I save the eastern and northern legs of the run for last because that's when I get to see the silvery moon light up the looming silhouettes of those mountains I love so dearly.  I am, without exception, sweaty and ready for the run to be over by the time I reach this part of the loop... and yet I smile all the way home because I get to drink in the Rockies.

Then last night, Mad and I went to the Rooftop Concert Series at Provo Town Square to see Mindy Gledhill and Meaghan Smith.  It was totally rad.  Apart from the fact that Madie and I got to let our hipster selves run free reign (think full vintage skirts and boy scout assistant scoutmaster shirts), it was just one of those perfect nights where love envelopes you whole.  Mindy Gledhill totally stole the show (even though I'm fairly certain she was supposed to be a side attraction) and I just found myself unable to resist smiling throughout the evening.  The happiness of that place and all of those people reverberated alongside the guitar.  It was totally infectious.  And I found myself thanking the powers that be that I'm here in Provo.

Man, I'm such a sap.  I just thought you should know that I'm totally aware of what a lame post this is.  But still, I love my life.  And in a world filled with complaint and sarcasm and pessimism, that's gotta be something worth sharing.

Read more

Like Sand Through an Hour Glass...

...So Are the Days of Our Lives.

Cheesy opening, I know.

But honestly, I have been quite amazed as of late as to how beautifully, how gracefully each of these days passes into the next.  Perhaps more importantly, I have found myself in the most extraordinary position of loving each day with a more heated and intense passion than the one before.   Even when the day has been hard.  Even when I go to bed knowing that I could have done more, been more.  The joy still bursts from my heart, springing I might think, from a secure foundation of faith.

Take the other day, for example.  What I expected to be an ordinary day became...so much more than I could have planned for myself on my best day.  And even now, when I rehearse the events of that day, the overwhelming gratitude and the incredible amazing-ness of that day cannot, I think, be communicated by sharing a play-by-play of its events.  And yet, at the end of the day, I found myself driving, singing as loudly as I could to music that was ridiculously upbeat, smiling and laughing and loving the life – and the me – that has come to be.

All of this is to say to all of you:  If you wonder whether our Heavenly Parents are cognizant of you, I must assure you that they are.  If you are unsure as to whether this life is fundamentally good, I have to say to you, it is!  And, perhaps the most important item I have to share:  if you doubt the goodness, the mercy, the kindness, the virtue of the Deity whom we revere, I say – with fullness of heart – He is!

I have no more or less to say than that.  We – we being all humans – are gifted with the greatest of gifts; that of love from on high.

Read more