Ann Voskamp's Blog, page 163
September 19, 2016
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Our #1 Best-Selling Drone--Meet the Dark Night of the Sky!
September 17, 2016
Only the Good Stuff: Multivitamins for Your Weekend [09.17.16]
Happy, happy, happy weekend!
Some real, down in the bones JOY to celebrate today! Links & stories this week 100% guaranteed to make you smile a mile wide & believe like crazy in a Good God redeeming everything — and that there’s love everywhere & for ((you))!
Serving up only the Good Stuff for you right here:
Mary Anne Morgan
Mary Anne Morgan
Mary Anne Morgan
You always gotta watch yo’ back…
Shawn Irish
You guys — the struggle. It is so. real. Related: #7. Where can I find a zebra dress like that?
My mind is blown. How do you just create this? And…does anyone else want to cry actual tears when it crumples?!
Fran Parente
Apparently, an old dog cannot learn new tricks — because I sat and tried this for 5 minutes yesterday and finally waved the white flag. Shoe-tying finger muscle memory is a REAL THING and apparently cannot be tampered with. So — what’s the verdict? Can you do it?
Jennifer Dukes Lee
What One Girl Taught Me About Vulnerability — this. Yes. That first brave step.
Anyone else have a love/hate relationship with that flight path screen — when you’re stuck on those long-haul flights? Sitting in despair, watching your plane move oh. so. slowly — but so fascinated you just can’t look away…
Over the Edge
anyone in? rappelling for a great cause. Note: Does not mix well with a fear of heights.
you’ve got to meet him: Dwayne Spencer
Come and share a day of inspiration and spiritual formation dialogue with Mark Buchanan, Steve Macchia and me as we explore the pursuit of a deeper, more experiential life in God. Plus special music by renowned songwriter and worship leader, Justin Unger. Register by October 6 to take advantage of early bird pricing. I would love to meet you there!
Medical trauma can be so real…so scary… for such little people. What a beautiful tool to help make little hearts feel safe
KidsDiscover: a brand new missions module for homeschool families. It’s packed with videos and resources that help introduce kids to global missions and Bible translation. Must come see this!
When they just can’t seem to take “No” for an answer….
This week’s Sticky Note for Your Soul:
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This is kinda sorta breathtakingly beautiful. To see — to dream — to capture — to share it with the world.
Adam and Kristin Polhemus
neighbor helping neighbor – #BeTheGift
Emily Freeman
For when you think you might be doing silence wrong
Totally makes me want to just pack up and explore this crazy big world of ours…
it was a grace to dialogue with Publishers Weekly – sharing a bit on brokenness
meet our kids where they’re looking, Lord…
PurpMe
he set out to prove a simple idea: people are good and the world is a good place. Yeah — really just couldn’t love this more.
Post of the Week from these parts here
… I kinda wonder if it’s hurting all of us? Hurting us, hurting our people, more than we even know?
Yeah — I’m all in:
Why We All Need the Beauty Bias to Stop
This is the important work that changes how this world spins — have you checked out Mercy House Global?
Best friends in a Chinese foster home — now reunited this side of the ocean. Preserving friendships — history — a little bit of their past… yeah. Couldn’t be more beautiful.
students gather to sing for their teacher battling cancer
Jesus help us carry you — alive in us Your light shines through.
With every act of love — we bring the Kingdom Come!
I know, the week may look impossible up ahead — but the truth is: “Only one thing is necessary.” Luke 10:42
The only thing necessary today — is to let everything else come after keeping company with Him. Just keep company with Jesus. Just keep saying: ‘I trust you, Jesus.’
Simply focus on Him. Simple things become complications because of our expectations. And today the only expectation? Is to trust Him without limitation.
It’s already okay, exhale & smile: Trust His Heart & Simply. Do. the. Next. Thing.
Believe it: The cross you’ve been given — is always God’s kindest decision. This cross you’re carrying today? Is carrying you toward who you are meant to be.
[excerpted from our little Facebook community … come join us each day?]
That’s all for this weekend, friends.
Go slow. Be God-struck. Grant grace. Live Truth.
Give Thanks. Love well. Re – joy, re- joy, ‘re- joys’ again
Share Whatever Is Good.
Links for 2016-09-16 [del.icio.us]
Our #1 Best-Selling Drone--Meet the Dark Night of the Sky!
September 16, 2016
why it’s okay to let your dam finally break
Edie Wadsworth was in her third year of medical school when she held her dying daddy’s hand as she watched him take his last labored breath. Two days later, she split the cost of his funeral with her sister and stood at his graveside with a gaping hole in her heart—feeling the weight of a thousand memories that would soon unravel her. All the Pretty Things is her hard-fought memoir—a story of fatherlessness, of being untethered and unspoken for. Edie takes us on a brave and vulnerable journey as she walks out of the rubble of her childhood, into the devastating choices of her adulthood, and at last into the healing and forgiveness she never dreamed possible. Her story points us to the one True Light, who has promised to get us all home safe. It’s a grace to welcome my friend, Edie, to the farm’s front porch today…
Daddy died on a Sunday night in late September, just when the heat was making its first retreat from the Tennessee hills where I grew up.
I was twenty-seven years old with two small kids, trying my best to make it through the long hours and sleepless nights of learning to become a doctor.
I drove two hours south for the chance to tell Daddy I loved him one more time. I prayed the whole way that the lung cancer wouldn’t take him before I got there.
I could hear his death-rattle breathing before I ever saw his face.
I put my cheek to his and told him how much I would miss him and how life would never be the same without him. In the stillness of my breath on his face, I felt the life leave him. I looked up to catch the last light in his eyes, but they were already closed, his head tilted over in surrender.
Twenty minutes after I walked through the door, he left us.
I fell to his chest and sobbed until somebody finally unclenched my hand from his and made me walk outside for air. Nothing would ever be the same, and I knew it. There was so much still undone between us.
I knew Daddy was finally at peace.
No more labored breathing.
No more cancer or liver failure.
No more junker cars that wouldn’t start or wayward couches to thrash around on, trying to get comfortable.
No more trying with all his might to stay sober.
No more asking for us to bring him one more quart of beer or a few dollars for gas.
No more hurt, no more loss, no more tears.
Only peace—probably for the first time in his fifty-six years.
But there would be no peace for me.
I knew there would never be anyone else quite like him. I also knew that my complicated relationship with him was far from over.
For as long as I could after Daddy’s death, I clawed at the edges of everything, trying to find a way to stay above water, but nothing seemed to be able to stop my sure and certain sinking.
After twenty-seven years of pretending to be fine, something in me broke—like a dam too cracked and fragile to fight the constant beating rains. It felt like there was nothing I could do but stand like a spectator and watch the water rise around me, as if everything that had buoyed me to the surface of things was gone, even the faith that had once seemed unshakable.
Over the next few months, my life became so unmanageable that it felt like I was trying to survive an ocean storm on a flimsy piece of driftwood.
Before too long, I found myself at the front desk of a psychiatrist’s office filling out a stack of paperwork a mile high, already red in the face from trying to answer the questions on the second page, my life literally burning down around me.
“Are you having trouble sleeping?” Yes.
“Do you feel anxious?” Yes.
“Are you engaging in foolish, risky behavior?” Yes.
“Do you feel hopeless or helpless in your current situation?” Yes.
“Do you have a poor appetite?” Yes.
“Do you feel excessive shame?” Yes.
“Have you had thoughts to hurt yourself?” Pause.
Pools of tears began spilling out of my eyes.
When I finally sat face-to-face with the doctor, he asked me what brought me to his office, and all I got out was “My daddy’s been gone . . .”
Then I cried for ten straight minutes, trying between breaths to gather myself into someone more respectable and professional and whole.
That first visit, I mostly just cried and he mostly just sat there, listening and slowly nodding his head in what felt like disbelief.
The next visit, he asked about my childhood, and it all began to unravel.
Some of the stories that came out of my mouth made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
For some reason, talking about prison visits out loud made it seem like they were probably not all that good for a child.
Then there were all the times at the trailer with Daddy mostly drunk and us mostly hungry; the violence, the loneliness of never having a stable father, the insecurities that came with always seeking love in the wrong places; and the nights at Genie’s Bar when Daddy would be too drunk to drive us home.
The memories came in overwhelming waves, drowning me in their wake.
It would be months before I could admit I was angry and years before I would learn to hold the wounds from Daddy and my compassion for him in the same heart.
The search for wholeness finally led me to the communion rail, where Christ would begin to fill me with food that never corrupts and love that never lets go or disappoints.
God would begin teaching me those years of suffering were just a gift in disguise, the thing He would use to remove the scales that had so lodged themselves in my eyes—the scales of hurt and loneliness and scarcity, which were eventually replaced by scales of lust and greed and my accumulating accomplishments.
All those had to be stripped away so that I could see the one thing I needed—Christ and Christ alone.
What I am sure of now is this—I wouldn’t trade one second of the life I was given.
Maybe your heartache has swallowed you up, and maybe nothing in your life looks like a gift either, but I’ve learned that often our eyes need adjusting and often our suffering is the tool He uses to give us new eyes.
If I look close at my story, it has all been one epic homecoming, one wondrous rescue, where the God of all grace has orchestrated every part of my story to see me remade in His image; where He never stopped chasing me and where He was at every corner putting the pieces all back together.
I pray He will do whatever it takes to keep removing our scales so that He may lead us to our deepest bravery,
our most vulnerable selves,
knowing that He who has baptized us with water and blood and fire will turn our sorrows to joy,
our suffering to gifts of grace,
our terrifying deep waters into soul-quenching cisterns that refresh us all as we walk through fire,
together toward home.
I’ll see you in the deep end.
Edie Wadsworth is a speaker, writer, and blogger who has been featured in various print and online media. After overcoming her difficult upbringing to become a successful medical doctor, Edie left her practice to raise her family and pursue her love for writing. Her passion is to love her people well and to see women embrace the full measure of their life’s passion and purpose. She has shared her story at conferences and churches around the country and is a Compassion International blogger.
All the Pretty Things: The Story of a Southern Girl Who Went Through Fire to Find Her Way Home, readers will treasure this refreshing and raw redemption story, a memoir for anyone who has ever hungered for home, forgiveness, and the safe embrace of a father’s love. It’s a lingering, beautiful story of us all, really, as we fight hard to see the gifts around us when it looks like everything is falling apart.
[ Our humble thanks to Tyndale for their partnership in today’s devotion ]
September 15, 2016
why we all need the beauty bias to stop
When I see her at the window, tucking her hair behind her ear, like she’s hoping she can hear her reflection whisper some assurance — that’s when I wander:
Maybe it’s hogwash, to keep saying that looks don’t matter?
Maybe we all need to just stop saying it?
Maybe I should lean in close so she can hear what keeps echoing in the chambers of one old woman?
It’s a busted up world: What shouldn’t matters too often does, and what should matters, too often doesn’t.
Because despite what my grandmother said while I stood in front of the mirror popping zits and wishing for a Roman nose that would surrender it’s noticeable boniness to beauty?
The truth is? Whoever has a pretty face, pretty much gets treated better by teachers, and classmates and waiters —and even mothers favor their prettier babies. Truth is, the beautiful earn $230,000 more over their lifetime than the less attractive. Truth is?
“… attractive people are more likely to be given loans by banks, voters prefer better-looking candidates; students prefer better-looking professors, while teachers prefer better-looking students.”
I want to ask her: You be brave and go ahead and tell me, and then I’ll tell you: How many beautiful souls have you missed, because you didn’t want to miss being with beautiful faces?
How many times have you looked past Jesus, because you were looking past women with soft, rounding middles, men with middle age paunches and pens leaking in wrinkled shirt pockets?
How many first rate stories and wonder and glory have we missed because we didn’t take a second look, ask another question of the unique and the singular, the worn and the one-of-a-kind?
How much love gets missed because people are looking at looks?
I want to take a few folk by the shoulders, find their eyes and ask it like you could lay your hand upon a soul: How many have us have you missed out on, because we don’t look like Hollywood would like, because we’re in mom jeans and 80’s hair and glasses we’ve been wearing for the last ten years, because we wouldn’t look right in anything from Anthropologie or Free People or Forever 21 because we’re forever aging and greying and sagging and this is not a thing to be ashamed of because we know we are becoming Real.
It’s true, we may not have chosen this face or this mind or this hard road, and maybe we wouldn’t have chosen this baggage or this past or this thorn in the bruising flesh. But those of us who look a bit more weathered by the way — may know a better way. A way with wider vistas and deeper authenticity and greater kindness.
The symmetry of someone’s face doesn’t indicate the suppleness of their soul.
Who came up with the toxic lie that the beautiful souls are only housed in size two bodies with porcelain faces and bleach blonde locks?
Who said wisdom’s only found in those who are easy on the eyes instead of those who have walked hard roads?
Who decided only the brilliant should be chosen for anything — when it’s the light that blazes from hearts that changes everything.
Those with slick tongues aren’t the best people to listen to any more than trendy singles are the best music to listen to, and those with attractive faces may not be the best fit your soul any more than the trendiest clothes may be the best fit for your middle-aged hips.
When I watch our girl open the windowed door off the porch, walk down the steps, carrying her reflection in the DNA of memory, I wonder if she knows it the easy way you know how to breathe:
Eyes may be biased toward beauty —
but the eyes of the heart can lean toward loving insides more than outsides. Walk like this through the world.
A life bias toward the beautiful is pointless — because the point in life is kindness.
Be more concerned about being thoughtful than being beautiful. This would change the world.
The girl knows. The woman she is becoming knows:
The realest beauty can hide in the most unlikeliest people.
Her and I can hear it all along the beaten backroads rarely taken:
The song of plain sparrows can lead the way home.
Resources: fair-trade clothing at Raven + Lily
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September 13, 2016
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September 12, 2016
A Secret to Parenting that No One Tells You: The Strength is in the Struggle
In our glorious mess of 7 kids, I think of Julie Lyles Carr – who has eight kids. Plenty of messes. Lots of laughs. And sometimes boatloads of fears, worries, and challenges navigating the uncharted waters of raising and launching eight singular lives, all originals, all fresh characters in the narrative of God. I desperately needed the wisdom of her words today — hear what she has to say. It’s a grace to welcome Julie to the farm’s front porch today…
guest post by Julie Lyles Carr
My husband Michael and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary in 2014 and went on what we called our Silver Honeymoon.
We headed to a beautiful beach resort close to where we went on our original honeymoon and enjoyed several gorgeous days of rest and sunshine.
On one of our final evenings at the resort, we were sprawled on beach chairs, watching the sky move from shades of blue to a kaleidoscope of orange and pink and gold as the sun began to slide down the horizon.
From the corner of my eye, I saw several resort employees making their way down toward the surf, carrying a large plastic tub. Curious, I sat up in my chair. Michael, also curious, got up and walked down to where they were, then motioned for me to join him.
Nestled in the plastic tub were about 150 baby sea turtles, newly hatched that afternoon.
The area of the Caribbean where we were staying is a natural sea turtle nesting area. Our resort, in cooperation with a natural preservation program, monitors the beach for sea turtle nests, protects those nests, and—once the baby sea turtles hatch—helps the babies get off to a strong start by releasing them into the ocean.
It was a powerful example of how humans can protect and participate in the processes of nature.
Plus, baby sea turtles are ridiculously cute. Ridiculously. Like, really. My maternal heart gave a flip as I watched them move their little flippers and clamber over their fellow turtle siblings still snuggled in the towel-lined plastic crate.
Miniature and geometric, their small shells were a gorgeous pattern of deep tannish greens, tiny tiles set in ornate, exact patterns. The resort employees had set the crate about twenty feet up the beach from the surf, and the baby turtles were already pushing toward the side of the crate that faced the seawater, their sense of the ocean as home already in full operation.
And then, as the sun dropped lower in the sky, one of the resort workers called to me. As I walked toward him, he gestured to the crate and motioned for me to pick up one of those amazingly teensy turtles.
Me? Really? Vacation trip made. Right there.
I cautiously picked up one ambitious guy who was trying to scale the side of the crate. Flippers waving, small head craning toward the sea, he felt cool and smooth, the soft leather of his belly and shell a delightful new texture in my hands. I couldn’t believe how strong he was for such a tiny creature. His flippers rasped against my palms, the drive for motion and waves creating his choreography.
I named him Abraham.
He looked like an Abraham.
In a turtle kind of way.
The director of the release program drew a long line in the sand, marking the starting point for the upcoming journey. He explained that the turtles needed to make their own way down to the water, that we were not to carry them to the surf.
We then began to pick up Abraham’s siblings from the crate and set them on the sand at that line, heads facing the sea. By then, a few other resort guests had made their way over to our impromptu zoological lesson and joined us in placing babies on the sand.
As if a horn had sounded to start the race, little turtles began scrambling toward the waves, scaling big clumps of seaweed and pushing their way through uneven sand. Some reached the water quickly, others moved at a more leisurely pace.
A few got a little confused. A few stopped. I set Abraham down at the line and his odyssey to the ocean began.
His nose sniffing the salty air, he made a beeline for the surf, tiny flippers churning up grains of sand, a distinctive trail in his wake. I walked to the water alongside him, mindful to honor the boundaries.
I clapped, I cheered, and yes, I’m not ashamed to admit that I got a little teary as I saw that tiny turtle scoot into the water and tumble into the tide.
In the rush of my sudden turtle love, I uttered a little prayer that God would protect Abraham throughout his life and carry him into full adulthood. Yes, I cried over a baby turtle and became a turtle prayer warrior, all in one fell swoop.
It was just profound to see this intricate and pocket-sized being launch himself into the vastness of a turbulent ocean.
I turned from seeing Abraham successfully dispatched into the surf to find more baby turtles making their way through the sand. Most of us onlookers were standing back, watching the varying levels of success and struggle.
A few of the turtles seemed exhausted, overwhelmed by the challenges of the terrain. Others got turned around, heading away from the sea or scrambling in a parallel line to the water.
We watched, a little worried, until dusk began to settle. Finally, one of the resort guests couldn’t take it anymore. She scooped up one of the stragglers and began to carry him down to the water, unable to bear the uncertainty.
One of the employees in charge of the release called after her, motioning for her to put the turtle down, but her overwhelming concern overshadowed his instructions. As she gently placed the turtle in the shallows, her husband caught up with her and reminded her that she wasn’t supposed to help the turtles.
She, on the other hand, was incredulous that we were allowing these turtles to struggle so mightily. She saw her actions as a kindness.
Unwittingly, though, she was participating in potentially tangling the turtle population in protective bubble wrap.
That trip from the sand to the water? That’s critical turtle training ground. It’s what gives baby turtles a better chance of survival.
The best conditions possible had been created by monitoring the nest and timing the release at sunset when predatory birds and scavengers are not as active.
But once those conditions had been achieved, newly-hatched turtles need the trek to the water to strengthen their flippers, to practice the motion that will be required once they hit the water.
They need the experience of heading accurately toward the shore, even if it takes them a bit to figure it out.
These moments of struggle in the sands of their childhood would serve them well during their next hundred years of survival.
What an overprotective heart saw as too hard or too cruel or too tough is actually exactly what a baby turtle needed to up his chances of survival. To cut the journey short, to abbreviate the endeavor, would make the turtles more vulnerable and com- promise their skills for endurance.
The strength is in the struggle.
Hard as it can be to watch. Fearful as it can make us.
Fear, when fed, grows.
Once fear grows, it becomes contagious. And once it becomes contagious, it can limit the scope of a life. But we can’t let that happen. Even when it seems easier to scoop up a struggling sea turtle and carry it down to the shore.
Even when it seems easier to intervene in every schoolyard conflict.
Even when it seems easier to protect and buffer and bubble wrap and round off all the sharp edges of life.
Even then.
It’s time to trust.
We can never clearly see the threads of purpose in our kids if all we can see is the risk, the scary, the unknown. We can’t raise an original if we raise them on a steady diet of worry.
For our original kids to reach their full potential, we need to model vision, courage, and daring. We need to show the way.
Ask yourself, Am I parenting in this situation, this challenge, this circumstance, from a place of raising my child’s strength and capacity, or am I wrapping him up to defensively buffer my own anxious heart? Am I enabling or empowering?
It’s possible to end a contagion of fear that spreads its tentacles from one generation to the next.
It’s possible to pioneer a new day.
Be strong and courageous. Fear not. God commands us to do so (Deuteronomy 31:23).
Originality is not the provenance of copy cats and scaredy cats.
It’s the territory of the brave, the visionary, the bold.
It’s possible to let them boldly go.
Julie Lyles Carr is an author, speaker, a runner, a non-profit-founder, a wife to Michael, a mom to eight, and a chaser of a dozen other passions and interests.
Julie’s most recent book, Raising an Original will provide readers with tools for better communication with their children as well as tools for uniquely guiding and disciplining each unique child. With a helpful and detailed Personality Trait Assessment Tool included as a major part of the book, readers will understand themselves, their parenting style, and their child better. They will also discover ways to improve their children’s communication within sibling groups and with parents themselves – as well as learn how to parent each child according to their own unique needs and personality style.
Readers will find freedom in discovering that God hasn’t asked them to raise perfect children; He’s asked them to uniquely raise purposed children. Such a worthwhile read.
[ Our humble thanks to Zondervan for their partnership in today’s devotion ]
September 10, 2016
Only the Good Stuff: Multivitamins for Your Weekend [09.10.16]
Happy, happy, happy weekend!
Some real, down in the bones JOY to celebrate today! Links & stories this week 100% guaranteed to make you smile a mile wide & believe like crazy in a Good God redeeming everything — and that there’s love everywhere & for ((you))!
Serving up only the Good Stuff for you right here:
Warren Keelan
Warren Keelan
Warren Keelan
Praise the Lord! (love, love, love!)
Peggy Pisano
she’s got it: “anybody can do anything, as long as they put their mind to it”
Books on the Rail
some interesting organization advice right here!
California Wildlife Center
California Wildlife Center
because sometimes we all need help getting back on our feet
take-off in slow motion – just fascinating, so who knew?
Palo Alto College
now this story is sure to bring a smile
there’s a lot of good people in this world
This week’s Sticky Note for Your Soul:
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just in case someone else would like to know too
5 students. turning grief into joy. one simple act.
she’s on a mission: to serve others
Jennifer Tucker
A little reminder for you this weekend, wherever you are, whatever you are facing:
God is good.
He loves you.
You can trust Him.
He will do what He says He will do.
Even when your circumstances seem hopeless…in hope, believe against hope…be fully convinced that God is able to do what He has promised.
It may not look the way you thought it would, it may not happen as fast as you would like, it may not make sense and you may not understand it all right now…but God can be trusted, He loves you more than you can ever imagine, and His plans for you are good…He is working everything together for your good and His glory.
So give Him glory.
Even in the waiting, even in the storms, even in the hardest days…believe God and give Him glory, and your faith will grow.Don’t miss this: (Free printable encouragement from Romans 4, and a few more words about the faith of Abraham, can be found over at Little House Studio)
community does care
…so the neck will be breaking out in nervous blotches…but it would be a joy to meet you!
A humbling grace to be visiting a bit with James and Betty Robison on Life Today!
Come join us? Tuesday, September 20 – free tickets available
What would it look like if Canadian women of faith were stronger together
through a connected infrastructure coast to coast?
GATHER is an invitation. To tell the Canadian story.
To champion a culture of support as we walk out our callings:
unified and diverse.
To connect us all regionally and nationally through a robust network
on the ground and online.
God is stirring in us the desire for a uniquely Canadian expression of
His heart for us.
In 2016 we will Gather locally, regionally and nationally.
Please sign up and count yourself in!
are your biggest dreams even possible?
Leah Paske/ Facebook
perspective
Post of the Week from these parts here
so true, you can end up with a life you’d never choose — and then this kind of thing happens & it sorta blows your heart up:
the unlikely thing you have to believe when you’re living a life you didn’t choose
a lifelong friendship, thanks to the gift of life
you must come meet him
I AM
in oceans deep, my faith will stand…
All the brokenness in the world begins with the act of forgetting — forgetting that God is enough, forgetting that what He gives is good enough, forgetting that there is always more than enough to give thanks for.
But You… You have no idea how I needed You to do just that,
to pull me in close & hold me with those Words, all that really matters:
“I will not forget you. I have written you on the palm of My hands”
Though we forget, though we’re prone to chronic soul amnesia, You never forget us, You never abandon us, You never give up on us. You have written us, our very names, on the palm of Your hands, written even me right into You — though we forget, You re-member us, You put us & the broken bits & members of us back together again. We are re-membered in You — You who engrave Your love letter to us right into Your skin…. right into Your beating heart.
And help us to remember? It really is okay. So you are broken. Be brave. Let yourself be loved.
In the name of the only One who ever loved us to death & back to life again… In Jesus’ name… Amen.
[excerpted from our little Facebook community … come join us each day?]
That’s all for this weekend, friends.
Go slow. Be God-struck. Grant grace. Live Truth.
Give Thanks. Love well. Re – joy, re- joy, ‘re- joys’ again
Share Whatever Is Good.
September 9, 2016
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