Ode to New Leaf Church

Last week, New Leaf Church met for the final time in College Park. This lovely little church community made the courageous decision that it was time to die.

I wasn’t there; I haven’t been there for a while. The community had changed a lot since I left in 2012. It had no longer been the focal point of my returning when I visit DC. It had become a diaspora of young people moving and visions shifting and needs changing. In emails and conversations from those still there, I sense gratitude and acceptance around the ending of this place. I also know there has been some rupture, some hurt.

So I’m not sure how to receive this news.

*

I am twenty something and I arrive back home, after five years gone to college and Africa, and I am not the same; home is not the same; maybe God is not the same. I have lifelong friendships here, and these lovely people buoy me up as I adjust, but there is something missing: a community, a place that is big enough for the new me, a place to belong.

When I find it in this funny group of people called New Leaf Church, I catch myself laughing harder than I’ve laughed in a year. I catch myself feeling, sometimes, that I’ve never been more at home, never more fully understood, than in this place, with these people.

It is not true in the strictest sense, because I have been at home before: on a sleepover with girls who have known me through pimples and braces; on a starry night with blankets by a lake in Pennsylvania; in a sunlit cafeteria with bowls of rice noodles and baby corn and love through growing pains; even for a moment in a ten-thousand miles-away concrete classroom in Africa, singing with other homesick girls. I'm grateful for all. At New Leaf, though, there is something new: I am known, for the first time, as an adult. My ideas and gifts and talents are accepted and prized in new ways.

This is a kind of joy I needed. I am playing silly games in a brightly-lit living room, and I am praying fervent prayers by a candle lit at twilight on a winter Sunday, and I am creating new recipes or learning how to bike to work, taught by new roommates in a new neighborhood.

*

We are moving chairs and putting away instruments and microphones after church on Sunday evening, and they tell me that they want to start a writing group: a Friday night potluck where we can share our words. This group of nerds and me, we gather around vegetarian pizza and herbal tea and we read poems and stories and confessions, reluctantly at first but deeper as we grow. I learn to share of myself in a different way than I’ve been allowed to before—a way that fits me. Something amazing is at work. Writing group seems to invite all kinds of disparate people together into friendship, seems to welcome people who aren’t so sure about church, seems to be an authentic way to be open about our fears and our craziest creative ideas and our Jesus.

Without writing group, I don’t know if I’d have ever started my own blog once I moved away. I don’t know if I’d have ever come to believe that by being honest with a blank page, my story could matter to someone else.

At one point, the group started a blog called Resurrections. I guess it is fitting now. I can’t help but believe that New Leaf’s disbanding will not be the end of its impact.

*

In 2010, I catch my first conscious inkling that I might want to go to seminary. I have coffee with a New Leaf friend who is in seminary, and after a two-week panic of "if-I'm-going-to-do-this-I-must-do-it-NOW!" I let the thought drift away for a while.

It keeps coming back, through hospital waiting rooms and unexpected job interviews and the patient persistence of the Holy Spirit. I work in another lovely church for a while, and keep attending New Leaf in the evenings. I start thinking maybe I will really follow this inkling in my heart.

Three weeks before my wedding, four weeks before my move to a new state (which I am not looking forward to), I am signed up to preach the sermon at New Leaf, and I wrestle over it late into Saturday night and even into Sunday afternoon, never quite getting it right, revising in my head as I drive around the beltway to church. The topic is Jesus' words, “Do not worry,” so how could I really get it right, when worrying is all I do lately? I feel so inadequate, so presumptuous, to pretend to speak words from God.

I arrive a few minutes late (traffic) and I am invited to sit on a stool with a small group of people I love sitting around. The message comes to life as I speak. I am not funny but they are laughing at my jokes. I don’t have it figured out but in the discussion afterwards some insights come to light. We meditate in silence, and Jesus is here.

Afterwards, a few different people put a hand on my shoulder and tell me they see in me the gifts to be a pastor. They know I am thinking about seminary still, and they tell me to leap ahead, to go for it. On a hike a couple weeks ago, another woman in the community also affirmed me in this way. Today, here, I look around at the faces and I realize I am going to go for it. I am really going to take this leap of faith, apply to seminary, be a pastor.

This community, the one that has been my home, gives me the courage to live fully into my gifts. They echo the quiet whispers in my heart, confirming what I already hope and fear and know about my future. I am full of gratitude and love for this community, and I see how ministry can be enlivened by deep relationships; I see how I could be a pastor of a place like this.

*

What does it mean that a church where I felt home, where I felt called to ministry, where I felt affirmed in my gifts—no longer exists?

I don’t know.

What I know is I’m grateful. For the people who struck off on a risky venture and started a church in a new place, with a new idea of authentic community and spiritual depth and commitment to the poor. For the people who taught and sang and baked bread and folded chairs and made power point presentations and prayed and sent emails and offered bread and wine. For the people who kept going even when it hurt, and for the people who knew it was time to say goodbye. For the people who let me sing, the people who let me write, the people who believed in me enough to give me a wooden stool and a microphone to speak the gospel, the people who held my tears when Grandma died and danced like fools at my wedding.

New Leaf is no longer a worshiping community. But it is not a failure. It has been, and still is, a deep blessing in my life. I would not have become who I am without New Leaf.

And I know I am not the only one.

Five things I've learned from blogging

This week, I begin my seminary education at Duke. While I hope to keep writing, I don’t anticipate being able to update as frequently or to put as much time and thought into the blog as I've been doing. If you want to be alerted when I do post, you can enter your email in the "subscribe" box in the upper right hand corner of the blog to receive new posts via email (nothing else to clog your inbox, I promise). Also, feel free to explore old pieces in the "Favorite posts" tab above.

As I mark this new phase in my career and writing life, I wanted to share a few things I've learned over the past year. Last October, I started trying to share my life story and my deeper, more vulnerable reflections on the blog. I made an effort to write regularly and to share more widely. There have been ups and downs, but overall, I'm exceedingly grateful for the journey.

5. I am a better person when I write. My husband can vouch for this one. I believe this blog was one of several things that has made our second year of marriage so lovely, much smoother than the first. We learned that once or twice a week, he was going to need his extrovert night (games/friends/sports) and I was going to need my introvert night (writing stories on my laptop). Writing gave some structure and purpose to a year that sometimes felt like a holding pattern. By writing I was able to process the world, express myself, and be filled, so that I had more to give.

4. You never know who is reading your blog. This makes for some lovely surprises when you re-establish old connections with friends and neighbors. It makes for a tiny bit of concern when you go to a place where you’re not sure your expressed viewpoints will be seen favorably. It makes for awkward moments when your neighbor mentions that someone around town told her that you had a dream about having a baby, and does this mean you are pregnant?

3. You gotta remember your people. In writing, as in life, it’s so much easier to focus on what you don’t have rather than what you have. There have been moments where, after a popular post, I started dreaming of becoming "successful," getting more shares and followers, working towards publishing. I tried to redesign the blog to look more professional. I opened a Twitter account to connect with readers and writers. I networked with other bloggers through guest posts and linkups and comments in order to increase traffic. But honestly,  my stats didn’t change much.

So I stepped back. The real reasons I started this blog were much smaller. I wanted to discipline myself to write, and to share stories I hoped would matter to even just a few people. Both of those goals have been met completely. The people I started writing for—my family and friends and even Facebook acquaintances—have been so affirming and supportive. You have made me believe my gift is worthwhile. You have shown me that even when we are different, our stories can resonate. I am so thankful for you, and I write for you, the people who read, not, as illogically as it seems, for the people who don’t.

2. Vulnerability breeds vulnerability; trust breeds trust. Sharing deep thoughts and experiences is not easy, but when we open up and tell our real stories, we often find that we’re not the only one. Half the time, after I push the “publish” button, I have a couple hours of anxiety. I feel exposed and wonder if I've said too much or said the wrong thing.

But nail-biting is worth it for the chance that someone will read and taste in my words their own story and know they're not alone.

At least in part due to the blog, some folks have been willing, in return, to share their stories with me. The conversations and dialogues that have popped up in response have been a beautiful thing.

1. The things that connect us are stronger than the things that divide us. I can’t tell you how happy it makes me when I get a comment or note from someone who says, in effect, I don’t share your religion/life path/worldview, but I really relate to what you wrote about. It’s happened several times and it affirms for me the belief that if we who are different (culturally, religiously, politically) get to know each other deep down, we may find much that we share. We who are divided may become friends.

I love you all, and I am so glad we are on this journey together.

With practice

The daily examen is a prayer exercise developed by St. Ignatius of Loyola. I like its structure (you will see I need it) and how it engenders gratitude and openness. The following is a composite of a few weeks of not-exactly-daily-but-making-a-run-at-it prayer during my summer pastoral internship.

i. Become aware of the presence of God.

You are here, God. Always. If I am a success or a failure. If I remember the kid's name or not. If I sit in a circle of belonging or pace the hall crying. You are here.

(I need to take my medicine before bed. I should definitely set two alarms. Oh no, my phone is dead, I better go plug it in to use as a backup alarm. Why couldn’t I get up this morning? Okay, where was I?)

ii. Review the day with gratitude. Pay attention to the senses.

I woke feeling rested. (Well, I overslept, wasted time, rushed into my meeting late.)

I ate farm-fresh eggs, strawberry preserves, kale chips and watermelon. (I ate half a loaf of chocolate pumpkin bread. I have no restraint. I don’t exercise much here; I feel lazy. I am not treating my body well. But I digress.)

(Why is it so hard to remember my day? I’m not living mindfully and prayerfully into each moment. Social media is destroying my brain. Maybe I should cut myself off. But I have put so much work into my blog!)

Oh! I had a lovely dinner with someone from church. I am grateful for simple hospitality.

I got wonderful news from a dear friend. (I got sad news from another. I haven’t reached out enough.)

iii. Pay attention to your emotions. What is God saying through your anger, or boredom, or contentment?

On my visit to the shut-ins, I felt compassion, empathy. Caring for the outsiders is a good place for me. Maybe all we need to become more loving is to seek out places where love is needed.

Why do I feel anxious and unfocused? I am in transition, but you are with me. You will help me take each step when it is time. Maybe if I were exercising, it would help relieve some worry. (For that, I’d have to get up earlier, though.) Or maybe I should make a to-do list each morning to better organize my day.

But these are self-help tactics. Prayer isn’t self-help. What do you want to say to me, God?

Oh. 

Prayer.

This is why I need to pray, to start and end my day in silence. I worry less when I ground myself in you. 

When I know I am loved and gifted and meant for something beautiful.

Wow.

Good point.

Thanks.

iv. Look toward tomorrow.

I will pray again tomorrow. My prayer will continue to be interrupted by unrelated, sometimes destructive thoughts. But with practice, I can feel myself being changed. (Very slowly. Maybe.)

Seeing her beautiful

On this day, I have been given an invitation. Today I open a box in my memory, dig through the clutter, and find her somewhere in the corner. I find the girl I once was, bring her out into the light. She is like a precious stone, and in the light I turn her and turn her, noting the shimmer and sparkle on each side, the light reflected in different hues, complex and deep and lovely.

I am not accustomed to seeing her this way. I rather think of her as scuffed up, gaudy, trying too hard, awkward, showy. But this month I honor myself too, and I try to see her beautiful.

Photo by TVZ Design

*

At age five, she came home from school and pronounced, “There is a writing contest and I am going to win.” She shoveled in her spaghetti at the dinner table and assured her parents, “I am the best on my soccer team.” She sang solos at church and at school without a waver in her voice.

She became student council president in sixth grade. By this time she was beginning to notice other girls getting big-chested, getting boyfriends, shaving their legs. Hers legs were still hairy and her clothes were still hand-me-downs. Her social confidence was beginning to fade. But she didn’t let it stop her. She ran for president, and she won.

That Christmas, she received from her grandmother a small wooden gavel, which was inscribed, “President Katie.” It was reason enough to declare, for the rest of that year, that she was going to be the first woman president of the United States.

I cannot deny that she has a bit of ego, a love for power. But today I look beyond it and see more in her. I see the confidence and joy and courage that comes from being loved, and being unafraid. I see independence and creativity and unselfconsciousness about sharing her gifts.

*

She lay on the floor next to a stack of Sweet Valley Twins books, with her ear pressed to the small clock radio and the volume way down. It was past her bedtime, but she had to catch the “Hot 9 at 9” which she recorded in her book almost every night, to stay up with the latest music.

Lately, though, she liked country music, the sad twangy love songs about loneliness. They were great for belting in the shower. To cover this embarrassing musical interest, she made up white lies about the CDs she was receiving for Christmas, insisting there was some Backstreet Boys and Will Smith among them.

On her school notebooks she had scribbled, “I <3 Lance Bass” in unnaturally floofy letters. When she wrote notes to stick into the vents in her friends’ lockers, she wrote her “e’s” like backwards threes because she’d noticed other girls doing it that way.

I usually see that girl and wince at how hard she tried, for how very long, to fit into a crowd. Today I notice also her longing to be relevant, her ability to observe and adapt to a culture, the real connections that she forged. I notice that some of the floofy-lettered notes were about God, some were attempts to reconcile friends, and some were written to the unpopular, overweight girl in her homeroom.

*

It was lunchtime at the high school, and she was sitting at the table, slowly picking each item out of her lunchbox, as the usual dialogue played out in her head.

- Fold your hands and pray, you can do it.

- No, it will only make them uncomfortable.

- Don’t be ashamed of your faith.

- They are going to think I’m so weird. They don’t understand.

She was in the school library at seven-thirty, showered and changed after morning swim practice. She sat with her friends at the table, studying. The Bible was in her backpack, and she willed herself to take it out—a bold witness, a display of unashamed faith. If only it was easier to be a Christian in this world. One day she drummed up her courage, and took it out of the backpack, and opened it, there on the table in full view. But of course she didn’t read it, only glanced around for ten minutes at all the other students in the library, sure they must be watching, waiting to pounce.

I know better now, that it’s not a war, that we are all really on the same side, trying to figure life out, trying to find grace in this world. The girl I was then thought this was a battle, and she wasn’t prepared to fight it. I am glad she wasn’t prepared, because maybe then she’d still be fighting, fighting when it is better to sing, and hold hands. Looking at her now, I see that despite her fears, she was singing and holding hands, and she must have done something right, because girls from that time are still some of her closest friends.

*

Today I turn her and turn her in the light. I see her and love her.

And I see also this: gratitude for the processes that formed her. For the love and opportunities that made her fearless and confident; for the family that encouraged her to notice the unpopular girl in homeroom and the hungry people in the world; for the loneliness that gave her compassion and cultivated her spirit. There are many girls who never get that love, who are never told they could be president, or who never believe it.

She is one lucky girl.

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This post was written with inspiration from the Story Sessions prompt for international women’s day. This was a fun one to write about. You can find more stories like this or write your own over at the link-up by clicking here.

Visit my “Honoring Women’s stories” project for more stories of different women.

The grace of the ordinary

It is a mopey snow day and since it is approximately my fourth in a row, I have been withering away all day in our small apartment, failing to work up the energy to clean the house or drive to a coffee shop to write or read. I slept till eleven and I have been eating chocolate chip cookies and playing online all day.

My husband knows this, because when he comes home I am only just rising to start making spaghetti.

So later on, after another dinner-by-Netflix and a quick phone call from my friend, as we relax into our evening reading, he is surprised when I tell him.

“I am happy,” I say.

“Are you sure?” he asks after a moment. He knows it is a big thing for me to say, after the last sixteen months. He is still skeptical that I am happy with him, ever since I aired my disappointments to the whole internet.

“Yes,” I insist.

Four months ago when I wrote about our first year of marriage, when I began to air it out, I held it out in front of me and I saw that it was actually quite ordinary. I saw that we had passed through some tears and challenges and landed on our feet. People responded to the piece, and I saw that I was not alone—that it is never an easy task, making two lives one.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I tell him.

I have been giggling, for one thing. I am laughing again at the kind of jokes and stories that I once thought were funny, and then didn’t think were funny for a tearful, too-serious year. Also, I don’t lie awake thinking can-i-really-do-this-for-the-rest-of-my-life. Also, when he asks me what is wrong I talk, instead of stifling a scream and bottling the emotions I can’t even begin to understand.

“I know we still fight sometimes, but it all feels lighter.”

He is looking at me, listening, and his eyes are the same deep brown eyes that have received so much of my story, my love, my honesty, my anger, my joy.

“And I have come to love the small things about our life together.”

“You mean like watching Netflix and cooking dinner and drinking wine?”

“Smaller,” I say.

The day to day things, the moment to moment things. Kisses on the cheek. Whispers for no reason. The tone we use when we talk. Coming home together after a night out. Car trips with my feet on the dash as we discuss everything from vocal resonance to twitter culture to spiritual growth. Resting my arms on his feet as we sit at opposite ends of the couch, reading. Looking over at him and thinking, here we are.

It is almost like falling in love again. It is different than the first time, of course—not wild and limitless in a dewy meadow with stars above, not feeling like I am going to jump out of my skin with joy and possibility. More like going for a walk in the winter and then sitting by a fire, sleepy, late at night. Strong, peaceful, and warm. Safe.

I know in reality, this life we have is anything but safe. I know we are still very young, still on the very early stages of this journey. There is danger ahead: the danger of being angry or broke or sleep-deprived or isolated. The danger of wanting different things. The danger of pain or sickness or loss.

But we are building a strong foundation. I can feel it. Much of this foundation came before we got here, from the love of our family and friends, from the beauty of our meeting when we did, from the unending patience of God. And here we are, building on it day by day with tiny blocks of spaghetti and hi and what-can-i-do-for you, and I am grateful for perseverance and guidance and the grace of the ordinary—all the things that have brought us this far.

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Today I am linking up with Kirsten Oliphant's "Not So (Small) Stories" to connect with other writers and work on craft. Click below to see more about the series or join in!

For Papa

Three of my four grandparents died in the fall. This year, my first without any of them present, it seems an appropriate time to remember each of them and their gifts to my life. Today’s post is one I wrote about three years ago, for Howard Biggs.

I’m twenty-four now and I’ve never learned to play Clair de Lune properly. I’ve mostly dropped piano, but I played through Debussy’s lullaby today thinking of you. There in your living room, “resting your eyes” as I played Bach and Mozart, were you listening? I was so young, I never knew what was beneath those eyes. At the end you’d always ask “Have you learned Clair de Lune?”
 

At eighty you were still strong enough to mow the church lawn; at eighty-five you kept the smile on your warm face, jovial and generous as Santa Claus. After all, it was your handwriting every year: Dear Katie and Michael, Thank you for the milk and cookies. Ho ho ho. You sat in your chair holding your “King of the Remote” pillow and patted us our heads when we performed our original plays for you. Michael was your little buddy; I, your soccer star.

I didn’t miss you so much, being too young to know you. I read from Matthew at your memorial service and watched them place your ashes in a box in the sanctuary wall, to remain in God’s house. Eleven years old, I joined in extolling with the multitudes your faithfulness to God and community. Then Michael and I fashioned Halloween costumes from your closet (“old man” and “old woman”) and went trick-or-treating in your neighborhood.

The next summer at camp, my friend Kim’s grandma died, and everyone started crying about their own losses. I lay in my bed for an hour at rest period, working myself into tears over you because I wanted to be part of the crowd, to be comforted. After rest period one girl came and asked me what was wrong. I’m sorry I used you.

Grandma tells me stories over sandwiches at Panera now, stories of college during World War II or the racial sentiments in 1920s small-town Nebraska. I’d like to eat a sandwich with you, to learn what was beneath your accepting smile. I’d like to know more about the faith at the source of the prayer you always spoke before Grandma’s roast beef dinner--“Bless these gifts to us and us to Thy service, and may we ever be mindful of the blessings Thou has bestowed upon us.” Most of all, I’d like to play for you a little Debussy.

Resurrection day

Gordon Cosby, who was minister of a church  in Washington DC called Church of the Savior, died this spring, just before Easter. A few days ago, I started watching a DVD of Gordon's memorial service. One story, told by Killian Noe, stuck with me: When Gordon was an army chaplain in World War II, he saw many die. One day he found himself staring down at the dead body of his best friend, Tom. Gordon recounted, "At first I was overcome with despair and the senseless waste of my friend's life. Suddenly something exhilarating broke into that darkness and the atmosphere around us seemed charged with life. I felt excitement and sensed limitlessness. I knew I had touched that eternal realm of divine love into which my friend had fully entered, and in that moment I envied him."

The first time I heard a Gordon Cosby sermon, his voice reminded me a little of my grandfather's. Like Gordon, Grandfather grew up in the south. Grandfather's faith, too, was shaped by the war. Grandfather never seemed to worry or carry anxiety, but in my experience lived in a constant state of gratitude, joy, and trust. He was the most generous person I've ever met. He reveled in the good things in life, singing and dancing and playing tennis and walking until near the end. He had no fear of death, no desire to prolong his life past when it was time to go.

After a few months of sickness and a general slowing down, last week it became clear to us that Grandfather was nearing his end. He passed in and out of consciousness and after Tuesday evening, he could not eat. His heart and kidneys were failing and he was in some pain.

This morning I woke up at 9:30am. I felt that I needed to pray for Grandfather to go and be with God. Around 10 am I sat down and prayed for several minutes. Then I went on to church with John. I was giving the children's sermon, based on "rejoicing in the Lord." "Even when sad things happen to us," I told the kids, "there are always good things from God, reasons to rejoice." We practiced naming good gifts. I almost said, "for example, my grandfather is very sick right now, and it is sad. but I am so joyful and thankful for his life, and that he will soon get to be with God." I decided against it, thinking maybe it was too heavy for a 3-minute children's moment. When I returned to my seat, I checked my phone. I had one voice mail. I was pretty sure I knew what it was. I left the service to listen to the message, which was from my dad. Grandfather had died just before 11:00am. I returned to the service feeling a fullness--it was fitting that he should go right at the time of day he had always gone to worship the Lord on Sundays.

The church service went on and at the end, we shared communion together. Honestly, communion is this weird thing that I've never really understood, where Christians eat bread and drink wine and somehow mystically share in the body and blood of Jesus, which he gave up for us to have life. It is also a symbol of unity, because as we eat and drink we are united in the body of Christ with all believers past and present and future. Today as I took my bread and wine I knew I was sharing in the love of God with Grandfather, Grandma, and so many others who have gone before. We were all celebrating together, in that realm of divine love. It moved me to tears, and people came to comfort me. But they were tears of joy.

Thank you notes

I finally just finished writing all the thank you notes from my wedding gifts. Although it gets tedious, and although it probably didn't need to take me two and a half months, I was trying to remember with each sentence, each card, each envelope, that it is truly a blessing to have had so many wonderful people in my life that it takes me ten weeks to thank all of them.

Everyone's gifts, from handmade and heartfelt to generously-given cash and gift cards, were beautiful.

But there were two gifts touched me in particular. Both were from old friends of my mother who I've not seen in years. Neither of them were invited to the wedding.

One was from a family who took care of me in the 1980s. In the letter, they explained that they took me home on Sunday mornings after the early church service and took care of me while my mother played the organ and my father sang in the choir. My mother says they never let her pay them for babysitting. Apparently they would often make waffles for Sunday brunch, and were amazed at the amount that I, as a two-year-old, could eat. I have no memory of any of this, and I've only seen them a handful of times since we moved in 1989. But when they heard that I was getting married, they all decided I should have my own waffle iron complete with their long-tested waffle recipe.

The other was a simple gift of an apron and dish cloths from an old French couple who befriended my mother when she was a college student studying in Aix-en-Provence, in southern France. She has stayed in touch with them since the 1970s, and when our family lived in Paris for a year from 1989-1990, we visited them often in their country home. Over the years, their grandchildren would come to stay with us for a couple months in the summer, and a few years ago my brother stayed with them to practice his French. I myself never went, though our family returned to France and visited their home in 1996.

I was happy and touched to receive their gift in the mail a few weeks before the wedding. Then the day before the wedding, in the middle of a crazy day of assembling flowers and putting together lunch for the 15 people who were at our house helping/visiting, the phone rang. I answered. It was Charles, the old man. He told me in a mixture of French and English, how happy he was for me and that he wished me the greatest joy and blessings on my wedding day, that he was praying for us, that he knew God's love would sustain us. I bumbled some thank-yous, understanding his French but unable to respond, and returned to the kitchen where my bridesmaids had finished making lunch. As I sat down at the kitchen table, I couldn't stop crying. I was very emotional that day for many reasons, but nonetheless I was completely surprised at my own reaction to a man I hadn't seen in fifteen years and didn't know very well. I didn't know why his call had touched me so.

At some point in the midst of all these thank-you notes, it clicked.. I have been blessed by the love of many wonderful people throughout my life. There are many special people who have been in my life since childhood, or high school, or college. Hopefully they'll be in my life a long time. But the blessings started before that. There are people who've been in my mother's life for decades. And people who have loved her since 1972 love me, too. At my birth I was already surrounded by the love that my parents had cultivated and given throughout their lives. It's an ever-expanding, international community of friendship and generosity and love, and I was overcome by it.