Pilgrim's Progress part 2

(Please read part one first)

The first steps

Having decided to start my journey up the steps, I went through the gate, got to my knees, and mounted the first step.  It wasn't easy, but it wasn't that difficult, either.  I don't remember thinking that much about it other than how great a blessing it was to (maybe, possibly) walk the same steps that Jesus walked on that day that he fought for my life.  I was fascinated by the wood and the marble.  I touched the marble slits that can be seen inside the wood. The marble was cool and smooth, and it made me think of opulence and wealth.  On many of the steps, you can see little medallions that are said to mark where there are actual bloodstains of the Lord.  As I said earlier, I'm by no means sure that this was the actual staircase, nor am I sure that these bloodstains are real or are the Lord's.  What I am sure of is the reality of the devotion of these pilgrims.  It was possible that Our Lord walked up these steps.  It is a certainty that hundreds of thousands of priests, nuns, Popes, saints, and worshipers like myself did.  And that was enough for me--during those first few steps.  

As I went on, however, I began to question myself.  There were perfectly usable steps to the side of the Scala santa.  Why shouldn't I just go back down and use those?  I didn't consider it seriously, though, because I looked up.  At the end of the steps, there was a painting of the crucifixion.  It was nothing when compared to many of the majestic pieces by Caravaggio, Da Vinci, Giotto, and other artists that I'd seen in Rome.  But today, it was an elegant reminder of what was to follow for Christ after he left these steps.  He had done this for me--did I have the strength to do this for him?  And so I continued on.

Midway
About half way up the steps, I really started to hurt.  My knees were sore, I did not feel blessed, by arms seemed to echo the ache in my knees, and I thought seriously about stopping the journey.  But then I realized the truth of my situation.  You may not ascend the stairs on anything other than your knees.  That said, the corollary is obvious:  neither may you descend on anything other than your knees.   In religious parlance--I was stuck.  I had no choice.  So up I went.

And as I went, I began to feel differently about this pilgrimage.  Before, it was something to do--a devotion to God.  But now, I remembered that woman at the gate.  I began to understand her feeling.  This was worth it.  All the pain, all the tears--this was something that (in an infinitesimal way, yes) was helping me understand what it might have felt like for him.  Not the actual walk up the steps.  For once, this was probably harder on me than it was on him.  But this was such a small part of the journey.  Up the steps, down the steps, bullied to another palace, back up the steps, back down the steps, and then sent on that long road to Calvary--being beaten and taunted the whole way.

As I continued on, I wondered, 'Did he react this way, too?'  For I felt myself telescoping.  Before, I had been observing other things--the other pilgrims, the paintings, the stairs themselves--but now none of that mattered.  I felt drawn inward, beyond the pain, to a place inside myself that I barely knew existed.  And that place was at peace with this.  I had been in prayer throughout, but obviously my prayer had not taken my total focus.  Now it did.

Perhaps if I were to do this today, I would be praying the Lord's prayer.  Maybe I would have a prayer book for just such an occasion.  But remember, this was a new discovery for me.  I had not realized that I would be doing this.  I had not prepared.  And so the prayer that came was that which, for me, was best and most sincere--simply speaking to God and listening to his answer.  Again, the focus wasn't on the steps--it was on the journey.  I was freshly amazed at the amount of pain and suffering that Jesus willingly went through--for me!  How unworthy!  How uncaring I had been of his sacrifice--up till that very moment.  But now I was different.  I would not take this sacrifice cavalierly ever again.

The final steps
As I continued up the steps, my mind became aware of music.  I don't remember hearing it before I was about 5 steps from the top.  Gregorian chant.  In my frame of mind, I thought 'This is what Heaven is like.'  But then I immediately decided not, since it was very obviously a recording.  Surely Heaven would have real singers!  There was a sense of lightness about me now.  I knew that it was almost over, and I was so excited to be nearly done!  My fatigue and pain didn't magically evaporate, but it did become easier to navigate the steps.

And then I was at the top.  I used the railing to bring myself to my feet, and I looked down on the steps I had trod.  This was my journey, my pilgrimage.  There was another room inside, and I know I looked at it, but it wasn't important.  The important thing was that this was one journey, one pilgrimage, that I had made for my Lord.  It wasn't something I had asked for, and it wasn't something that he had requested I do.  It was a gift, freely given.  And I'm so thankful that I gave it.  After that experience, I understand a little better the joy that Jesus must have felt even in the midst of his pain.  Yes, he was suffering unimaginable agony.  But he was doing it for His Bride, the Church.  And that made it all worth while.

So today, January 6, the Epiphany, I challenge you to "go home another way".  Go out of your comfort zone.  Find something that you have thought of doing but never dared and do it--for him.  While you work, remember that the gift isn't the result of your labors.  The gift that you thought you were giving to God will come back one hundredfold to you.  God is sneaky that way--he loves to reward you when all you're trying to do is make him happy.

One pilgrim's progress

Today is Epiphany.  Epiphany is a day of revelation--a day when we go home a different way.  It is the marking of an experience that changed your life.  So here is mine.  I'm starting it today, but I will not have time for the whole story.  So I will continue as I go.

1.  An unexpected pilgrimage

I was on my own on my last day in Rome.  I was at the Coliseum and had heard about the Pope's own church--not the basilica, a small private church where the pope hears mass.  I knew that it was in Rome, but I wasn't sure how far away it was.  So I asked a vendor if he had heard of it.  "Si, si", he said.  Did he know how far away it was?  "Oh, it's just over that next hill," he replied.

So off I went.  I walked up one hill and down another, on and on, and remember--I wasn't sure what I was looking for.  Every so often, I would talk to someone and ask if I was still heading in the right direction.  "Si, signorina.  Just over the next hill." Rome is said to be made up of seven hills, and I could swear I traveled through all of them.  But finally, I saw it--a modest little building with an equally modest building to its side.

I entered the church, and it was beautiful.  As I left, I noticed again the yellow building to the side.  I asked someone at the church about it, and she told me that it was "La scala sancta."  She said that I owed it to myself to go.  I thought to myself, 'Why not?  I've traveled all this way, I might as well see what's inside."  So I stepped inside and changed my life.

2.  La scala sancta

La scala sancta--the holy steps--is a relic brought to Rome from Jerusalem by Helena, the mother of Augustine.  Legend has it that it is the actual staircase that Jesus ascended when he was on trial before Pilate. It used to be open to view, but so many people climbed the steps that it now is covered in wood, with just a small view of each step.  You climb the stairs on your knees.  It is 28 steps high--quite a climb for a 45-year-old woman.  I felt the holiness of the place, and whether it was the holiness of the steps themselves or the holiness of 600 years of pilgrims coming to honor Christ was immaterial.

At first, I planned to simply look, say a prayer, and leave.  Although a converted Catholic (and not yet an Episcopalian), I did not put too much stock in pilgrimages, and it seemed senseless to climb steps on my knees just to say that I did.  Besides, I have arthritis in my knees, and I couldn't imagine the pain that I would experience.  I don't like pain.  However, something happened that changed my mind and made me realize that there was more to this than I had realized.

3.  An act of devotion

She was easily in her 80's.  I noticed her as she made her way before the steps.  She was so crippled that she walked with two canes, slowly, upper body hunched.  She was Italian, and it was obvious that this was not her first trip here.  She stood at the black iron gate in front of the steps, signed herself with the holy water, and began to pray.  As she continued, her prayers turned to tears as she watched the pilgrims climbing the steps.  It was obvious she was never going to be able to climb the stairs herself, and it was obvious that the fact caused her great sorrow.

As I watched her, she made the sign of the cross once again, stood for a few minutes watching the pilgrims as they climbed, and then slowly, painfully made her way out of the building.  I realized that this journey was her pilgrimage.  She had done what she could for her Lord.

And then it hit me like a hand forcibly grasping my shoulder.  "Have you done what you can for God? Are you willing to try this and give the pain as a gift to God, for his glory?"  Yes.  And so my pilgrimage began.

Wonder what's ahead

Dreams--we all have them.  In my earliest remembrance, I wanted to be a mommy with 16 kids.  Later on, I wanted to be a veterinarian.  This, of course, was strongly influenced by the wonderful James Herriot books.  I also wanted to live among the lions (Born Free), have hundreds of horses (Black Beauty, the "Misty" books, the Black Stallion books), be a psychologist (David and Lisa and a slew of other books whose names I don't remember), and be a professional singer.  In college, I decided that I would be a music minister--no, an opera singer.  Through it all, I knew that I would write.  That was a given.

Then reality intruded.  Marriage and children took the place of travel and singing.  The day-to-day overcame the dreams, and they didn't just become a sideline; they went away altogether.  I found myself somehow afraid to dream.  It seemed too much to hope for--a life of success, a life with meaning and purpose other than family.

Many years passed.  My family grew and changed.  We went through immense trauma and loss, and we suffered for it.  My older children grew up and married, and I surprised myself by being brave enough to move away from all of them (except my youngest, who would graduate from high school in Arizona) to begin a new job in Tucson.  It was lonesome and hard, but it gave me back myself.  Having nobody else to cling to or try to please or emulate, I was forced to look at myself, and I found that I began to like what I saw.  As I struggled in Tucson, I was faced with the realization that I had lost not only my dreams, but even my hobbies and pastimes.  Many of them went away because my sight had deteriorated, but others were just put aside due to depression.  Through trial and error, I began to build again.  Slowly, haltingly, with many steps backward, life started to re-establish itself.  The major thing that I started to do was write.  I started to blog every day, and things began to flow again.  Short stories, devotions, essays, posts--I began to remember the joy that I used to feel in writing.

And then disaster.  A situation occurred at work due to my own poor judgement in blogging. I was humiliated, embarrassed, and I did what I always used to do when confronted with my own poor choices--I blocked it all out.  In this case, blocking it out took the form of deleting my entire blog.  Never mind that very little of it had to do with the issue.  Everything was destroyed.  All the joy I had begun to discover disappeared, and I was afraid to write.

It took another year to even think about writing again, and another year after that to begin to blog once more.  But here I am, and I'm seeking an audience--a critical audience that is not afraid to comment on my work and tell me where I can improve.

My daughter Emily shared a blog with me today that spoke to the question, "Why blog?  What could I say that hasn't been said before?"  The answer resounds with truth.  It might have been said before, but never by YOU.  You are unique and special.  You give a spin to the story that nobody else can give.  One thing more--why do you suppose it's been said before?  People listen.  And no matter how many times it's said ("it" being words of truth, words of hope, words of optimism, words of caution, words of experience), it can always be said again.  People are not static.  Emotions ebb and flow, and what is read is perceived through the filter of experience.  While I might write something that is read and forgotten, you might write essentially the same thing for the same reader--but at the moment when that reader needs to hear it.  One plants, one cultivates, and one reaps.  If it weren't for the soil being made ready by myself and others before me, the thoughts wouldn't be accepted when the reader reads your work--or the ones who come after you.  So I no longer worry about that aspect of my dream.  I want to write-so I write!

How about you?  Do you have a dream?  My husband did.  It was his long-term goal.  I found out about it when he applied for a job that would have meant great things for our family.  He made it through the first interview, and then he was called in for the last interview.  He was asked to give his long-term goal, and he said, "To be happy."  To be happy???  He told me his answer when he arrived home (he didn't get the job), and I am sorry to say that I ridiculed him for it.  I was so disappointed--it would have meant so much! I wanted more than anything for him to be in a position that was better than the trap he was in--a job that I was afraid would end up killing him.  But what I didn't realize was that my husband had less than two years to live.  I don't know if his new job would have saved him, but I now understand that goal--that dream.  I hope and pray that he achieved it, at least in part, in the birth of his son and the love of his family.  I know that his children were his joy, so I hope he found true happiness in them.

Today, for all to see, I tell you my dreams.  I dream of being content in my job.  I dream of singing before an audience. I dream of having a few close friends that I can share my soul with.  I dream of a closer relationship with my children.  And more than anything, I dream of one day being reunited with those who have gone before.  I dream of a place where living doesn't hurt, where life is eternal, where every day is another day of joy.  And I know that one day, I will see that dream.  Praise God.

On being embarrassed and praise

I was adorable when I was a child.  No really, I was.  Everyone used to say so.  When I was small, I used to do things like dance with my big brother, "smoke" a pipe, have a collection of dolls that I treated like babies, and so on. I remember playing horses by myself, with friends, and even at dear Mrs. Crabtree's.  I remember starting up many different groups--bands, drama clubs, and so on.  Do I remember these things fondly?  Nope.  I remember them with a pang of embarrassment.

I'm not sure when I started equating being creative or different with being embarrassing.  I'm sure it really doesn't matter.  The thing is, I know that I did, and the doing so resulted in creativity being stifled.  I'm sure that some things probably were stupid, but some things, according to others, weren't.  I just felt that being found out was embarrassing.

In Spanish, tenía vergüenza means "she was embarrassed".  It also means "she was ashamed".  For most people, these are two specific meanings.  Not for me.  For being, embarrassment was shame.  Not sure why, really, it just was.  And so someone "oohing and ahhing" over something I did resulted not just in embarrassment but also in shame.  Again, not sure why.

I know that there are some things that I've accomplished in my life that I should look on with pride.  As an adult, I learned to do so.  But as a child, no matter what it was, it was always embarrassing more than something to be proud of.

And I also remember penalizing others who tried to help me see pride--or maybe joy--in doing something.  My mom was the most penalized, and I wish to God that I could see her before me today so I could apologize.  I was in the 8th grade, and I was always a good writer.  I wrote an essay on my family, and I hid it in the linen closet (don't know why--maybe subconsciously I wanted her to find it).  She eventually found it and read it.  I don't remember exactly what it said, but I remember her complimenting me on it.  Tears in her eyes, she told me how much she liked what I wrote about our family.  I then said, to my shame, that it wasn't real.  It was just an assignment.  Mama, I hope you realize that of course it was real.  I just didn't know how to take praise.  I know you can hear me, so I'm telling you (and not for the first time) that I meant every word.

I think that my problem with praise was that I had somehow come to think that God did not want us to accept praise.  Praise belonged to him and him alone.  If we accepted it, we denied the God that created us (and therefore created the talent within us).  I felt that way for years--to the point that if someone came backstage to congratulate me on the job I did, I would not thank him--I would say "It's not me, it's God," and walk away.

After many years of this, someone had a heart-to-heart with me.  "Yes, God gave you the skill.  That's true.  But God did not just make you ready to go.  It took months and months of work, years of lessons, hours of practice.  Yes, God is responsible for your success--but so are you.

Those words have changed my life.  They've helped me go past the feeling of being ashamed, being embarrassed.  They've allowed me to understand that I will not displease God by using my gifts--and accepting the praise that others give.  And although I still walk away before the praise can come, if it does manage to find me, I've learned to smile and say thank you.

Friends, there are those of you who sing like angels.  There are those of you who write like Hemingway.  There are those of you that dance like Baryshnikov.  Be joyful in your gifts.  I appreciate you.  You are special, and you are loved.

the decision

I couldn't believe it.  My daughter--gone.  How could the judge have decided that I am unfit as a parent?  I thought it through--my husband had more money, better lawyers, and a private detective that was not above falsifying evidence to show me in the worst possible light.  Put all that together, and, really, what chance did I have?

I tried to reason my way around the problem.  I called my ex--I should have known better.  "You wounded me, Marlene.  You knew that I wanted custody.  You knew that I would fight.  And I did.  You only have yourself to blame.  You do realize that, don't you?  Shania is never going to see you again, and it's all your fault."

Next, I tried to speak to my lawyer.  He reminded me that I still owed him money.  It's pretty hard to pay up when your ex-husband has made it impossible for you to use any funds in common--and he made sure that all our funds were held in common.  Somehow those funds conveniently disappeared, and the only funds that he says we have are a savings and checking account with less than $2000 total. Yes, I have half of that, but that won't even pay for rent and food for the month.  The rest of the money--the money that I earned while he went to school, the money that he made while I stayed home with Shania, the money that he had assured us would more than take care of our needs when he retires--all gone.  Not a penny in sight.  Anywhere.

So I made a decision.  I went to school to bring Shania home with me.  I figured it would be easy.  As far as I knew, I was still on the emergency card, so I thought I would just come to school and sign her out, then I would take her away--somewhere.

Things started going wrong right away.  I'd forgotten that I had to be buzzed in, and it scared me.  Then, when I got into the main office, it wasn't as easy to see my daughter as I thought it would be.  The secretary, friendly and smiling as always, told me to hold on just a minute while she looked up Shania's schedule.  When she did, I could see the smile freeze on her face.  She told me to hold on just a minute while she took care of something.  Already scared, that made it even worse.  I took out the knife I'd brought with me "just in case" and--hardly believing what I was saying myself--told her that she wouldn't talk with anyone.  She would tell me where my daughter was--now!  I decided that the smartest thing was to get her and run.

The secretary begged me to wait for Shania to be brought to her, but I didn't want to hear it.  I looked over her shoulder at Shania's student profile--it said that her homeroom was room 210.  I wasn't sure where that was, but I ran out of the building to look.  As I ran, I heard an announcement "This is a lockdown!  Please go to a safe area immediately! This is not a drill!"  I thought that was sort of odd--I didn't see any children anywhere--but I figured that I'd better get on with it.  Next thing I saw was a group of teachers going out of their rooms and locking the doors.  I went to the nearest teacher and forced my way into the door before she could lock it.

I felt the tears running down my face.  "Please, I don't want to hurt anyone; I just want to see my little girl."  The teacher put herself between me and the class.  "Who is your daughter, Ma'am?"  "Shania Wilson."  "I'm sorry, Ma'am.  Shania isn't in here.  Do you want me to call the office and see where she is?"  "No! I just want to see my daughter!"  I thought about it for a minute, then I pulled my knife.  Children began to scream.  "Let me see my daughter!"

The teacher went to her computer.  She told me that she would try to find out what class Shania was in right now, and I let her.  After a minute, she looked at me and said, "She's in room 315.  Do you know where that is?"  I told her that I didn't, and she took me to a map of the school and showed me where her classroom was and how to get to the other.  I thanked her and left.

I didn't get to 315.  I didn't get past the hallway.  When I left the room, there were two security guards waiting for me.  They tackled me and threw me to the ground.  The police arrived soon after.  I realized that I had made a gigantic mistake, and I looked for my knife--I wanted nothing more than to end it all right then.  But the security guard had already found it and taken it.  The police handcuffed me and walked me down the hallway.  In my mind's eye I saw Shania looking at me through a window that wasn't there.  Goodbye, Shannie.  I'm so sorry.  All I wanted was for us to be together.  Just one more in a series of bad decisions.

Yes, I get depressed

I get depressed this time each year.  No matter what I do, what I take, how jolly I try to be, I get depressed.  This isn't a blog about why I get depressed.  This isn't a blog about what I do to get by, day by day.  No, this is a blog talking about the journey.  I think it's important to understand that it is a journey.

I don't remember a time when I wasn't depressed.  As a child, I wasn't depressed every day, but I definitely was depressed from time to time.  I realize as an adult that my father was, too.  I'm not sure about the rest of my family.  As a teen, the depression escalated, and by the time I was in high school, I was depressed pretty much all the time.  I don't remember recognizing it as such, and there were many things in my life to get depressed about.  I spent my teen years thinking that sure that I was sad, and I was sure that when I grew up, found a mate, and had children, everything would clear up and life would be good.

Well, I did grow up.  I found a husband, a beautiful man named Val, and we had four children together.  I did not magically find life to be good, however.  I was still sad--depressed--and I blamed it on many different things, from finances to family to loss.  I understood that I was depressed, but I didn't realize that depression had a cause other than sad things or feelings.  A few friends suggested that I try anti-depressants, but I refused to even contemplate such a thing. I'd heard horror stories about zombies going from pill to pill and sleeping all day, and I had no desire to experience such a life.

After my husband's death (he was 36), the depression got much worse, and I was often suicidal.  I'm ashamed at the things I put my family through during this time.  I was out of control, but it was many years, even so, before I realized that I needed help.  I went so far as to try a therapist, but it was  even longer before I tried medicine.

Medicine helped.  Medicine still helps.  But medicine isn't a cure-all, and it doesn't help all the time.  I am a widow, I have suffered many things in life, and I have a hereditary disposition to depression.  Sometimes the medicine just keeps it down; it doesn't clear it up completely.  This season is one of those times.

In the past, I would "howl at the wind' about this.  I would work on my attitude, engage in uselessly angry self-talk dealing with how I'm only hurting myself, and then at other times blaming my family and my friends for not allowing themselves to be at my beck and call.  Of course, that attitude was less than useless. It was actually helpful--to the depression, that is.  The more I fumed, I cried, I worked, I blamed the worse I felt.  But one day everything changed.

I don't really know what caused it.  I want to believe that it was just time and wisdom, but I really think that it was my son, David.  He has always had a very matter-of-fact attitude (so does my son Val).  When I would try to deal with my depression, he would just say things like, "It's okay, Mom.  Don't worry about it.  I understand."  He understood?  Understood what?  So for a minute I took my mind of myself and my dealing with the depression and thought about the depression itself.

And I realized some things.  For one, the depression came every year right around the second week of December.  It might not be as bad if I was with family, but it was always there. And it went away in stages--it was much better the day after Christmas, and it was usually gone by the time school started again.

This was important to me because it gave me borders, boundaries.  I knew now not only why I felt depressed, but when I felt depressed.  And so I've been able to realize and deal with this.  I call it walking through.  Some days are better and some are worse.  If I forget to stay focused and lose myself, I can go deep into depression, but these boundaries seem to help me get out of it.

These musings are for no major reason, really.  Everyone is different and your journey may be different than mine.  But please remember that you are not alone.  If you feel that you can't take your depression any more, reach out.  Please keep reaching out till you find someone who reaches back.  I promise that there is someone there.  Honest.

Who shall find rest? Thoughts on Messiah

He shall lead his flock like a shepherd
Will you, now?  Will you really?  Who exactly will you lead?  The conservative right? The liberal left?  The gatherings who can trace their heritage to  the foundation of Your church? The newcomers who have broken away because of perceived errors in this line or that line?  Who?

Will you lead only those who are fit to be called Your children?  And who determines that, by the way?
The above-mentioned conservative right or liberal left?  Are all children your children?
Are none of us really really yours?
Is this just some big cosmic joke?

What flock exactly will you lead?

And he shall gather the lambs in his arm
And he shall carry them in his bosom
The lambs.  You will gather the lambs and carry them.  The lambs from Columbine?  The lambs from Sandy Hook?  The lambs from Kenya and Congo and Botswana?  All of these?  What if some don't believe in you?

Will you keep them safe even when the world is determined to do them damage?

And he shall gently lead those who are with young.
Oh.  That was me.  You led me all those days when the earth was black and without hope or purpose.  You led me past hardship and sorrow and grief and pain and loss and suicidal thoughts and you carried me
right into more grief and pain and loss

But were you really carrying me?  I felt so alone.

Come unto him, all ye that labor
Come unto him, ye that are heavy-laden
And he will give you rest.
Well, that's pretty clear.  All.  Conservative right, liberal left, homosexuals, homophobes, pro-life, pro-choice--everyone. Only qualification--you have to be heavy-laden.  Does that let anyone out?  I really don't think so.  All of us struggle.  Guilt, shame, depression, humiliation, physical and mental infirmity-we all struggle.  We all labor under our own yokes.  And when we come unto him--when we seek him out (or accept that he has led us to him) what happens?  We find rest.  Rest for the weary. That sounds good. 

Take his yoke upon you
And trust in him
What? Another yoke?  Don't we have enough to bear already?  Do we also have to bear his burden?  But wait.  Trust in him.  When you yoke two animals together, the burden--no matter what it is--is decreased.  You don't have to bear it alone.  He isn't asking you to take more; he's asking you to give him more and let him take care of it all.  You just have to trust.  But trust is such a big word!  Why should we trust?

For he is meek and lowly of heart
And you shall find rest unto your soul.
Oh.  He is meek and lowly of heart.  What does that even mean?  Meek?  The dictionary says that to be meek is to be patient and submissive.  Submissive?  To me?  You mean he will allow me to put my needs first?  And lowly?  What is lowly of heart?  A heart that is meek.  A heart that isn't bound up in pride.  Coming unto a man such as this would surely bring rest to the soul.

So yes, Lord,
I accept you as my Shepherd. 
I accept that I am a lamb--one of many, but precious to you.
I acknowledge my need to find rest
And to find the ability to trust.

So today,
As much as I can,
I take your yoke, 
Put it upon myself--
knowing that you are sharing my burden so much more than I'm sharing yours
And I ask for grace
To trust in You.

And this trusting comes without the need for answers.
I need not worry about conservative right, liberal left,
Lambs in the US and abroad,
Those who know you and those who don't know you.

They are not my burden to bear.
Not that they aren't important--
They are, much more than I can ever comprehend.
But they are your burden, 
Not mine.
And even my own burden,
My heart, my friends, my children, my past and my future--
Your desire is for me to give them over in bondage with you.

And so I do,
Now and forever.
Amen.