By John Rieping | All rights reserved | Published 14 Sept. 2013 in The Madera Tribune Several months ago, a fellow Maderan asked that I dedicate some of my columns to answering questions posed by readers. I heartily agreed with the suggestion and then, most conscientiously, procrastinated. But that ends… later. Because I can't offer such columns without questions. I have had some in the past, but I doubt anyone wants me to keep re-answering them. So until the end of 2013 here's my offer. If you have a Christianity-related question on theology, philosophy, history, or culture, send it to me via my website (http://wambly.weebly.com) or the office of The Madera Tribune. If your question is published by me and I know your name and mailing address, I will send a gift card for St. Marello Bookstore (www.marellobookstore.org) in Madera. Any answers I give will be based on my own imperfect understanding and knowledge. Fallibility is guaranteed. If I'm totally stumped, I will seek out an expert on the subject and pass on the reply. Imagine that? Actual journalism! Tell your plans On a related note, I would gladly publish information about upcoming local Christian events, whether Protestant or Catholic, in this column. I would prefer the details be sent to me via my website, but if they're given through the Tribune please specify they are for my column. I will also need a contact name and telephone number (or email) that I can share with those who want more information. Men's conference I have been asked to spread the word of a local men's conference organized by Catholic Men of Faith for 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. Oct. 12 at Holy Spouse's Hall, 310 North I St. Speakers will be Matthew Arnold, Steve Ruda, Rick Sarkisian, and Mike Haddock. Mass will be celebrated by the Rt. Rev. Armando Ochoa, bishop of the Catholic Diocese of Fresno. Breakfast and lunch will be provided. For the record, I'm planning on attending myself, and I'll gladly lend you my ear there. Just be sure to return it. I only have one spare. The conference cost is $25 at the door or $20 for those who register by Oct. 6. Those who bring a teenaged son with them only need to pay $10 more for the son's registration. For information, call Hector Uribe at 474-9326, Chris Post at (209) 617-6683, or Bruce Simmons at 706-1160. Ask for prayers The same local association, Catholic Men of Faith, started a prayer network Wednesday. Anyone, regardless of religion, can request prayers from the group's members by visiting www.catholicmen.org/prayer-network/. Does your church or club have a prayer chain? Let me know and I'll share your contact information here as well. The columnist's aunt, Sister Conception Lozano of the Company of Mary, holds her 2-year-old brother Rico. She professed her vows of consecration to God a few couple of weeks before he was born and more than 60 years ago. She died Sept. 5, 2013. Photograph courtesy of the Lozano Family. My Japanese aunt
My earliest memories of my "Tia" (aunt) Connie were of her visits to my grandmother's home in Fresno. She would always have exotic gifts from Japan, where she taught as a missionary Sister of the Company of Mary. I enjoyed the seaweed crackers and the squares of colored origami paper with instructions for folding them into animals and other shapes. It didn't seem strange to have a Mexican aunt who was, in my eyes, Japanese. She was family. Sister Conception loved her decades as a teacher in Japan, and I am sure it was only obedience to her superiors that brought her back to California for retirement. She saw her latest assignment as another opportunity to serve and used her time at the retirement convent to minister to elderly sisters. I last visited her a decade ago at Viña de Lestonnac Convent in Temecula after leaving Mount Angel Abbey in Oregon -- where I had taken temporary three-year vows. She had just begun her time at her new home herself and missed her missionary activities. Yet she encouraged me during my peaceful stay before I completed my journey back to Madera. She died about 5 p.m. Sept. 5. For years, she abandoned to God's mysterious providence the gift of her great mind, which Alzheimer's disease slowly shrouded. Rest at last, tia. "Death be not proud, though some have called thee / Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so, / For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow, / Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me. "From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, / Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, / And soonest our best men with thee do go, / Rest of their bones, and souls delivery… "One short sleep past, we wake eternally, / And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die." -- John Donne
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By John Rieping | All rights reserved | Published 30 August 2013 in The Madera Tribune
As one of my part-time jobs, I serve as a security guard. Knocking against my thigh with each step, my heavy-duty flashlight hangs from my utility belt. No batarangs, smoke bombs, or other superhero gadgets dangle beside it, but sometimes it really shines, so-to-speak. More than a week ago I returned home after my shift while a large portion of the west side of Madera, California, had no electricity, doubtlessly due to a late summer thunderstorm. My oversized cylindrical companion suddenly held an indispensable and rare power. Though I saw neighbors relying on cigarettes and cell phones to see by, it appeared no one had a simple flashlight at hand that evening. Yet what a difference it made when trying to unload groceries and navigate inside and out. Disappointment mixed with relief when the alternating current surged anew, a seldom noticed hum met ears, and blocks of the city lit up as usual in a moment. My flashlight, no longer the brightest luminary, seemed to dim and my nascent Internet withdrawal symptoms disappeared. There is much we take for granted in the "civilized" Western world, which so easily pampers and entertains us. We tend to forget our fragility and our dependence on others. My father recently reminded me of what my eldest nephew, Michael, did to amuse himself as a tween about 20 years ago. While staying at my parents' minuscule farm, he took a long tree branch, hay bale twine, and a "single tree" to harness my dad's mule, Jenny, to a red Radio Flyer wagon. With his improvised setup, he then drove his sister Bernadette and cousin Joshua like a charioteer for hours around the property. My father would be surprised to see similar ingenuity from his youngest grandchildren. Whether young or old, we rely more and more on technology even in our play. His laments evoke twinges of guilt personally, because I've always been a more abstract than hands-on creative sort. As a child, I would skin my knee and play in the mud, but I loved books more than any of that. When computers and video game consoles arrived belatedly at our home, I rejoiced and explored their potential for play and creativity as deeply as I could. Geek, nerd, and dork were appropriate labels I embraced long before the first two of the trio ceased to be insulting. I dreamed, among many other things, of being a roboticist or computer programmer. There's nothing wrong with all that, of course. Yet life is more than a binary system. Despite my preferences, I knew manual labor. We children would assist our dad with his landscaping, tree trimming, and janitorial service around Madera and occasionally beyond. I remember waking up a few hours before school to help my dad sweep or mop St. Joachim Church before eating breakfast and attending classes for the day. The human-like statues in shadowy side aisles in the large building spooked me greatly before dawn, and the shiny brass cross on the main aisle doors gouged a few ounces of skin, flesh, and fat from the side of my chin once when I failed to get out of their way fast enough. Summer days could start early and end late as we pushed lawnmowers across the growing green blades that blanketed the yards of customers. But between tending to local fiefdoms, oh, the joy of an after-lunch nap as well as that of an ice cream sandwich or even water from a hose on a sweat-drenching afternoon. I never quite appreciated the physical work then as I would in my year as a novice monk at Mount Angel Abbey in St. Benedict, Oregon, not far from Woodburn, Salem, and Portland. We novices would often work under the late Father Dominic, a former college professor whose life had changed mid-stream when the abbot reassigned him from the ivory tower of academics to the fields and orchards. I felt the satisfaction from spending one's self fully on a tangible task. Though never a vegetable admirer, the tomatoes I helped cultivate and harvest for a season were the best I ever tasted. I also saw the humility and wisdom of the priest who worked along with us, a passionate bespectacled scholar turned leathery farmer with muscles that were legendary. During my years of temporary monastic vows that followed, Fr. Dominic's health faltered. I recall being by his bedside near the end, and at his funeral after. My heart wept. May we never forget the beauty of the simpler powers and gifts of life, and the labor that makes possible so much that many take for granted. Thank you, God, for all of them. By John Rieping | All rights reserved | Published 24 August 2013 in The Madera Tribune
A fictional little boy who was being punished studied his mother with fascination. Finally he asked, "Why are some of your hairs white, mom?" Irked by the day and the reminder that a few strands of her hair were indeed turning gray, she replied, "Well, every time you do something wrong and make me upset or cry, one of my hairs turns white." He pondered this a long time and then said softly, "How come all of grandma's hairs are white?" I suspect many of us can easily forget the words of a Jewish rabbi spoken less than two millennia ago: "as you judge, so will you be judged, and the measure with which you measure will be measured out to you." (Matthew 7:2) One needn't wait until Judgment Day before God to discover the truth of this warning. In a different and far lesser sense, it occurs even now. A 2010 psychology study by Dustin Wood, Peter Harms, and Simine Vazire concluded "how we perceive others in our social environments reveals much about our personality." How do our judgments expose us? As an ancient text on Jewish laws and history, the Talmud, said: "We do not see the world as it is. We see the world as we are." In the study, university students were asked to rate the good and bad traits of acquaintances. Researchers found that those with more positive characteristics themselves, according to a self-rating and the opinions of others, were much more likely to see others positively. Yet the sunnier students didn't simply assume others were similar to themselves. Instead they were able to recognize good in others even if they did not share in it. How positively students saw others also matched their own level of likability and their satisfaction with their own lives. In contrast, those who viewed acquaintances darkly were more likely to have a personality disorder, such as narcissism or depression. The students were not merely tested once for this study. They were tested across a year, and surprisingly the results were stable. The fickleness of momentary moods didn't seem to have an impact. Nonetheless, I trust Jesus had something deeper in mind than psychology when he spoke long ago. Flannery O'Connor (1925-1964) of Savannah, Georgia, wrote popular short stories, novels, and more, often in a style known as Southern Gothic. The genre uses macabre twists to highlight the values of the U.S. South. Her tales often featured an ugly and morally flawed character who unpleasantly received God's help to see more clearly. She explained in a letter, "All human nature vigorously resists grace because grace changes us and the change is painful." You never saw her dramas illustrated by the late painter Thomas Kinkade or in television movies sponsored by a greeting card company. She confronted and challenged rather than soothed. But she was unapologetic and even defiant when faced with the critics of her day. "Most of us have learned to be dispassionate about evil, to look it in the face and find, as often as not, our own grinning reflections with which we do not argue, but good is another matter," she said. "Few have stared at that long enough to accept that its face too is grotesque, that in us the good is something under construction. The modes of evil usually receive worthy expression. The modes of good have to be satisfied with a cliche or a smoothing down that will soften their real look." Some, such as Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI, have said the greatest danger to Christianity is we Christians, who wound self and others as we fall short of its ideals. According to a vision by the apostle John, Jesus lamented those followers who were neither hot nor cold. He preferred either of those to the lukewarm, which he viewed as vomit worthy (Rev. 3:15-16). That points to a deeper truth behind the admonition of Jesus to not be judgmental of others. How many of us are truly and completely on fire for God? We should pray no one gets what he or she deserves from God, but rather that they receive God's mercy -- for that is our own best hope as well. We all sin. As rock band Reliant K sang, "The beauty of grace is that it makes life not fair." So how can we be hot and not lukewarm? With God's daily help, love self and others as God loves you, and love God most of all. By John Rieping | All rights reserved | Published 17 August 2013 in The Madera Tribune Did you hear about the student whose mother had bought him a really cheap dictionary app for his smartphone? He couldn't find the words to thank her. It gets worse. While defending her purchase, she declared that a good education was a man's best friend. The family dog bit her. As for myself, the other night I was in the mood for heavy reading, so I read the telephone book. But I couldn't make sense of the plot. There were too many characters. So I picked up "Butler's Lives of the Saints" and skimmed some life stories. Disappointingly, all the biographies were the same: the main character always died. But let us speak of literacy more sublime. There is an ancient practice of prayer known as "lectio divina," a phrase that means "reading God" or "divine reading." It traditionally involves reading the Bible slowly, with imagination and thought. We Christians tend to read the Bible like we drive on the freeway, eager for our destination. But lectio divina requires reading like a car trapped in rush hour traffic -- stop and go. A 12th century Carthusian monk, Guigo, wrote of it: “Reading puts, as it were, whole food into your mouth; meditation chews it and breaks it down; prayer finds its savor; contemplation is the sweetness that so delights and strengthens” ("Scala Paradisi"). How to do it Begin by seeking out silence, letting go of distractions, and focusing on God. A prayer may help. Next, read a sentence or phrase, and then reflect upon it. Put yourself in the circumstance mentioned, ponder what it must have meant to those present, or listen to its echoes in your own life. In whatever way you choose, "Go to your bosom: knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know," as William Shakespeare once wrote. Then speak to God about it or just spend time with God. After an uncomfortable pause, continue on. Lectio divina will test one's patience at first if done properly. But the temporary breaks are necessary, like in any conversation, to make space for a two-way exchange. Lectio divina isn't "Bible study." It is meant to be an encounter. The goal isn't to master knowledge. It is to embrace God. The Cistercian monk Charles Cummings sums it up better than I: "Sacred reading allows the word of God to touch and awaken my heart. 'Indeed,' says the Letter to the Hebrews, 'God's word is living and effective, sharper than any two-edged sword... It judges the reflections and thoughts of the heart' (Heb. 4:12). When I spend time in sacred reading I invite God's word to penetrate my heart and to evoke from that deepest center of my being a response of surrender, wonder, praise, regret, petition, love. In the words I read, God speaks to me; in my prayerful pauses I respond to God, verbally or wordlessly." The final step of lectio divina is living out God's Word. In his 2010 exhortation "Verbum Domini" ("Word of God"), Pope Benedict XVI noted: "We do well also to remember that the process of lectio divina is not concluded until it arrives at action (actio), which moves the believer to make his or her life a gift for others in charity." Lectio divina remains a daily prayer for many monks and nuns as it more or less was for their earliest predecessors, the "desert fathers" and "mothers," who fled Roman decadence by seeking the desolation of the deserts of Egypt in the 4th century. These days other Christians of all kinds likewise find light in "reading God." By grace, may we be able to sincerely say: "Truly I have set my soul in silence and peace. As a child has rest in its mother's arms, even so my soul" (Tehilim/Psalm 131:2-3). By John Rieping | All rights reserved | Published 13 July 2013 in The Madera Tribune
"Grant misery to me, my Lord and my God," my mother prayed repeatedly Thursday morning. She meant "mercy." But her dark malapropism didn't alarm me. She has moderate Alzheimer's disease, and her reasoning and memory suffers from its creeping blight. She has better and worse days. I remember one incident when I, my dad, and other family members took her to her favorite eatery, Lola and Rico's Restaurant at 12889 Highway 145, a few months ago. She spotted her youngest grandson, Zachary. Mistaking him for myself as a child, she called out "Johnny" over and over until -- prompted by my brother -- Zachary came. "How are you feeling, Johnny?" she asked. How fitting that her question would be that. Though I can seem stoic, I have always been an emotional person and in younger years confided in her often. Now I felt a disorienting but happy sense of deja vu as if I were glimpsing my own past from afar in a sort of out-of-body experience. I imagine that every mother still sees the child in her grown offspring. But my mom sees me best in other children now -- yet loves me all the same. She generally has a more difficult time when the sun has set, so the longer days of summer are kinder to her. My father, siblings, and sisters-in-law know this best, as they help far more than I in the evenings. Any who desire marriage should see such examples. My father has grown closer to God, I think, along this spousal journey of heroic love. Without God, family, others, and the refuge of the farm upon which my parents live, I don't know how he would cope. The Jewish prophet Yirmiyahu of 6th century BC once wrote, "O LORD, I know that the way of a man is not his; neither is it in a man who walks to direct his steps." (Jeremiah 10:23) Years ago, I jotted that Scripture down along with others. It was a reminder to myself to surrender to God's wishes. Looking it up, I'm not surprised I didn't record the next verse: "Correct me, O LORD, but yet with moderation and not in fury, lest you bring me to nothing." (10:24) In this 21st century AD, how often do we pray to be chastised? Well, technically, my mother prayed for "misery." As she spoke them, her words reminded me of the Latin word "misericordia," which means "mercy" and has the roots of "misereri" ("to pity") and "cor" ("heart"). Yet the Latin word "miseria" means "poverty." Romance languages, such as Spanish, continue to use "miseria" and "misericordia" thusly. Our words reflect our thoughts, so why have so many considered mercy and poverty to be neighbors? Pondering this I recall the story of the widow's mite. While Jesus and his followers were at the Temple of Jerusalem, they did what many of us still do in public places -- people watching. They saw many wealthy persons throw large donations of money into its treasury. The bags of coins must have produced a satisfying crunch, and if they were loose you can just imagine the clatter. Then a widow came and threw in two "mites" -- to be exact, two "lepta." The Greek word "lepton" means "small" and described the tiniest coin in the Roman province of Judea. Like U.S. pennies used to be, lepta were made of copper and weren't worth much. Jesus commented: "Amen, I say to you, this poor widow has cast in more than all they who have cast into the treasury. For all they did cast in (was) of their abundance, but she -- in her want -- cast in all she had, even her whole living." (Mark 12:43-44) His words turn my thoughts upside down. If mercy and poverty are linked, I had thought, surely it would be because we should pity the poor. But that is not what we see here. Instead, it is the poor woman who gave of herself beyond the point of comfort and security and is praised for generosity. Those of us who are Christian claim God showed us the greatest mercy in his suffering, death, and resurrection. Does this not suggest that being merciful may, even should, be uncomfortable? Nobel Peace Prize winner Mother Teresa of Calcutta, India, once said: "God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son. Jesus said, 'As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you.' The Father's love, the Son's love, and our love is but a giving until it hurts." By John Rieping | All rights reserved | Published 29 June 2013 in The Madera Tribune This past week has taught me two important lessons. First, blending a can of sweet corn into a fruit smoothie one is making may not be as clever an idea as it seems. Secondly, it is possible to salvage such a smoothie by heavily diluting it with milk and bananas. I suppose such hard-won insights may seem laughable to many, but I am a reluctant bachelor with primitive but creative cooking skill. Trial and error is my harsh mistress. If further illustration is needed, know that the first time I made chorizo I didn't realize I was expected to remove the plastic casing before eating it -- not even after I ate it. It was only after the second time I cooked the spicy Mexican pork sausage that I accidentally discovered how much better it tasted sans plastic. One might say I am an impressive cook, in a sense. My extended family surely realizes this indirectly. Every time I sup with parents or siblings I probably resemble an unusually unrestrained Muslim at nightfall during the fasting month of Ramadan or someone celebrating the end of a hunger strike. Thankfully my kin tolerate the hearty appetite of this easily satisfied "connoisseur" of pleasantly edible foods. May God be praised for the undeserved gift of a loving family. Priest transfers planned My spiritual family is undergoing changes now and in the future. Native Maderan John Shearer, a member of the Oblates of Saint Joseph (OSJ), graduated from St. John's (Catholic) Seminary in May and was ordained a priest at St. Joachim Church on Friday evening. He will be celebrating his first Masses as a priest this weekend in Madera, California. He will not long remain in his hometown however. I had the providential opportunity to speak with visiting priest Rev. John Warburton, OSJ, on Thursday afternoon, and he was kind enough to fill me in on other developments for his congregation of priests and brothers and their ministry. These stem from a major change for the Oblates of Saint Joseph this spring. On March 14, the congregation's Our Lady of Sorrows province in Pennsylvania and Saint Joseph Guardian of the Redeemer province in California became unified as one Holy Spouses USA province. Due to personnel shortages in both provinces, the challenge faced by new leadership was to "consolidate for the sake of renewal and growth," Warburton said. "Its our policy to move personnel regularly, approximately every six years... shaped by circumstance," he explained. But "this was the time to make a major shuffle." Consequently, local pastor Rev. Carlos Esquivel of Madera and the newly minted Rev. Shearer will be assigned to Pittston, Pa. Warburton, a former OSJ provincial and previously associate pastor in Madera in the 1980s, will return as pastor. Joining him will be Rev. Shaji Athipozhi. Rev. Gustavo Lopez of Hollywood will remain stationed in Madera. Rev. Sergio Perez will be reassigned from Madera to Mount Saint Joseph in Loomis, near Sacramento. Perez will direct the Marello Youth Center and serve as vocational director for the West. Shearer will minister as vocational director for the East. In Madera, these changes will begin August 18 with priestly transfers in and out. In the autumn, Rev. James Catalano, a former pastor of St. Joachim Church, will return to his former parish as a semi-retired priest. Catalano celebrated his 50th anniversary as a priest and 60th as an OSJ member on March 19. The 'new' pastor For those unfamiliar with Warburton, the incoming pastor of St. Joachim Church is a familiar face for many local Catholics middle-aged and older. As a precocious child, I published an interview with him in September 1984, not long after his first arrival in Madera, in my monthly typewritten and mimeographed three to four page "newspaper" -- the Kid's Chronicle. Below are excerpts. Q: What's your full name? A: My full name is John Collister Warburton. John means "Yahweh is gracious" or "God's gift." Collister is my maternal grandfather's last name... Warburton is my paternal grandfather's last name. Both Warburton and Collister are very English names. Q: What were your first impressions upon arriving? A: I can describe my first impressions of Madera in two words -- friendly and welcoming. Q: Where were you schooled to be a priest? A: I went to Santa Clara University for two years and received a Bachelor of Arts degree in philosophy. I majored in theology for four years at the Dominican School of Philosophy and Theology in Berkeley. Q: Is it hard work to be a priest? A: Only when I forget that the Lord is with me. By John Rieping | All rights reserved | Published 18 May 2013 in The Madera Tribune
I've been driving more than usual this past week. Paradoxically I've done so because I'm not good at it and many insist only practice can improve my skill. A week ago I tackled my longest solo trek ever -- past Duarte, Los Angeles and Pomona (California). My one-day round trip went far better than I or others expected, especially on the L.A. freeway. I attribute that to the helpfulness of my GPS device, which navigated on my behalf. Instead of deciphering a map as I drove, I could focus on steering my sub-compact car safely in the congested stop-and-go traffic. A guide is such a precious gift when journeying on unknown paths. Perhaps tired out by my wanderings, I slept in a little several times this week. As weekday Mass is only available locally at 7 and 8 a.m., my sleepiness spurred me to attend later Masses in nearby Fresno instead. Afterwards I visited parts of Fresno to see what glimpses of the past remained. With family history and a stranger's advice to lead me, I stumbled upon the Fresno Betsuin Buddhist Temple, which is only a block away from where my grandfather operated a Chinatown grocery store in the 1940s. Barbershops, a classic shoe store, restaurants and other businesses remain, but the lively personality the area displayed has diminished with age I suspect. I walked on Trinity Street where my grandfather tried again with another little store and where St. Alphonsus (of Liguori) Church still rises high, flanked by equally tall palm trees as they all face historic Kearney Boulevard, which itself is lined with similar trees for 20 miles. Decades ago, three convents graced that street and a Catholic school thrived a block away. Now it is a charter school, albeit with statues of saints still looking down from one outside wall. The nuns are long gone. Few Catholics remain in the formerly Italian, then Mexican and now African-American neighborhood. After a noon Mass another day at the ornate St. John's Cathedral, a public exposition of the Eucharist caught me by surprise. I joined a motley crowd of Catholics, young and old, in prayer and song before the demands of work pulled me away. No priest kept watch or presided, so those there followed a heartfelt liturgy of their own. The lack of clerical guidance was missed, but a tiny Asian lady filled that void. Within the next hour or so, I listened to the spontaneous preaching of that woman, who had a strong faith and enthusiasm for God; I talked and prayed with an alcoholic and addict, sober for years, who wanted intercession and encouragement to persevere in the daily struggle; I winced at singing that defied any theories of harmony known to humanity. Yet it was admirable and lovely that so many sang to God regardless of such concerns. Before I left, I learned that a Passionist priest and writer of 16 books, Rev. Cedric Pisegna, would finish up a three-day parish mission elsewhere on the next day, Wednesday. Helpful guidance indeed. So the following morning I ended up at St. Anthony of Padua Church in its Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel. There Pisegna, who has a show on the Eternal Word Television Network and a local network, celebrated Mass and preached on prayer. With jests and true stories, he affirmed that God hears our prayers and miracles do happen in response to them. But then he addressed a common lament: what about those long-term prayers that seem unanswered? In these cases, he proposed, it may be that the greater work of God's grace is taking place in our own selves rather than in the circumstance or loved one for whom we pray. In such situations, he urged acceptance of God's providence without losing hope and becoming resigned. We must trust that God is working in us and through us. An airline passenger once watched in shock, Pisegna joked, as an angry stranger harassed a baggage handler for roughly treating a suitcase. The worker endured this with such calm and dignity that the observer complimented him for his professionalism. The employee replied, "It was easy to take his abuse, because I knew that man would be going to Florida and his bag will be headed to Milwaukee." Acceptance of a situation doesn't mean one must despair of future remedy. On Pentecost Sunday this weekend, some Christians will celebrate the coming of the Holy Spirit. Let us give thanks for that gift of divine guidance and far more. |
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