Thursday, May 10, 2018

about that village...

"It takes a village," they say.
“I have seen the village and I don’t want it raising my children!” so say some homeschool moms.
Perhaps this is why some people seem to bristle at our choice to homeschool.

We visited our old Indiana village last weekend, oh, how I miss the village. White Creek is a great village. I am so grateful to have been a part of it. Now we breeze in and out and we share memories but we are not so much a “part.” Or we are, but a different part; a moving in and out kind of part.

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

I think also of our Michigan village, and the friends we all had in that place. It was nice to be known. It was lovely to have those friends for each child, a people to call on for rides and for help with this thing and that thing.

I miss the village.
But God has removed us from villages past, and we have prayerfully chosen a new strategy.

There are many great ways to raise children. Lutheran schools are one. Homeschool is another. How blessed are we that our children will receive an experience of both.

Being around our former village did, for a moment, make the weight of that which we have chosen fall so heavily on my heart; here I am trying to do and carry that which was carried by ALL of these great people, their teachers, in years past. Who do I think I am doing this thing?  

This longing though, is it not also a longing for community? A real need for belonging, and living out the truth that we are NOT an island nor do we want to be even in homeschool? If there is more than one way to raise children well, isn’t it also true that there is more than one way to be part of a community? Our part will look different but we want to be part. But entering into community takes time, and not much has passed here. It is hard to wait for God to meet these needs.

I hope the people in our past villages know we are thankful for them; for each one who has had their fingers in the lives of our children. For us, homeschool is NOT a choice made as a rejection of community, village, church.

Homeschool, for us, is not a choice against things so much as FOR..

We're FOR reading aloud as a family, and tending a garden together, and letting that millipede inspire the next science lesson. We're for a lifestyle that lets us breathe for a season, for flexibility and travel, for leisurely morning devotions. And we're for the village here in Kentucky; we just haven't found our place in it, yet.

           We're still getting oriented in our new lifestyle- the learning curve with homeschool is huge. I read and research, I celebrate the small victories, and sometimes I take a tearful nap in the middle of the afternoon. (Hey, if they can, why can't I?)  But today we rode bikes to the park because the morning was too beautiful, and I determined to read until they wanted to stop. They didn't want to stop, even 1.5 hours later, and I love that my kids appreciate good books on a lovely spring day. We finally got distracted by a blue jay and the call of their stomachs, and we learned that math is much harder in late afternoon. 
Image may contain: 2 people, people standing, child and outdoor

God help me be thankful for the gifts that have come and gone, teach me to let them go with with gratitude as the seasons pass and to stay whole-heartedly open to the gifts that come now in this season and in this place. Continue to provide for us as you always have: friends for the children, and mentors, people we can know and love, and a place in this new village. Amen.


Tuesday, April 10, 2018

Homeschool for baboons

Home School for Baboons

You shirt is not a napkin
Your sleeve is not a kleenex
The dog is not a football
What will you do to me next?

The leash is not a lasso
Your brother is not a shield
That pancake is not a frisbee
I’ll send you to the field!

That lamp is not a swingset
The car is not a surfboard
Your bed is not a trampoline
The flute is not a sword

The trash is not your food
Bananas are not guns
The trampoline is breaking
We need another one!

I don’t care if he farted
Don’t hit him with a spoon
Mama’s getting tired of you
Acting like baboons!

Saturday, April 7, 2018

These days (Kentucky version)


These are the days (first Kentucky version.)

These are the days when spring seems to have come suddenly- moving from Michigan to Kentucky, we’ve moved away from those last long weeks of cold into the land of blooms and green (blue)grass.  We live in a neighborhood now, where magnolia trees drop their petals on the sidewalks; where parking is tight but people are friendly.

These are the days of visitors: family, friends from Indiana, and friends from Michigan have been in and out almost every week since we have been here.  These are the days when Indiana memories flood with the Michigan ones, when we feel a renewed ache for TWO places we have loved and left behind.

These are the days of feeling unable to keep up with so many long-distance friendships, of email guilt and letter guilt and phone call guilt. And yet these are the days of gratitude, when prayers for friends cover large geographical areas, and even the kids have learned to pray for “our Michigan church family and our Indiana church family and the church in all the world.”

These are the days of asking for God to help us keep our hearts open in THIS place; of battling loneliness and resentment of people with “roots,” of at least one child who has determined not to risk it again, saying “I don’t need friends anyway.”

These are no longer the days of just being “mom and the kids.” We are now “teacher and her students,” and the change is a huge one.  My checklist-making side AND my nurturing side get a constant workout.

I love it, and it makes me want to cry.

The first week I handed out “tentative” schedules, and after day one I realized I wasn’t ready to plan a whole week in advance. Tentative daily schedules followed, and even those were overruled often.  

When trampoline springs began ripping off and shooting in the air and into neighbor’s yards, we had to declare it off-limits, and the pain of that loss is acute.  But these are the days of going to the rec center, of learning to swim, dive, play racquetball, pool, and ping pong.

This house feels very small on rainy days, particularly when some are practicing piano or instruments.  Some children wear earphones just to block out the others so they can concentrate. I assure them this is a life skill that will come in handy as they grow, particularly if they end up both having children and wanting to use their brains as adults.

These are the days of silly grammar songs, nature notebooks, and a Swiss Family Robinson book club.  These are the days of dog training and walks to the library, hikes in new places, and snake identification. These are the days of writing in Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, capturing and learning about worms and salamanders, and practicing multiplication facts.

These are the days of new discoveries: the joys of audiobooks, the fishing hole at the park, the inter-library loan system, the power of an evening outing as incentive for us to finish our schoolwork. These are the days of observing just how horribly the can fight, AND how wonderfully they can love each other.

These are more days of “where’s dad? He has to be gone again?” We cheer him on from home while he studies full time and works full time and then some.  He begins his studies at 4am and camps out in the library for long hours. Working at Home Depot as a small-engine tech, he comes home home sore and dirty and tired from accomplishing so much.  Despite all that, these are still the days of early morning family devotions, when daddy steps away from his list to sit with us, to anchor us in the Most Important Things.

Those are the Words that keep us.


Show me your ways, Lord,
   teach me your paths.
Guide me in your truth and teach me,
   for you are God my Savior,
   and my hope is in you all day long.

Psalm 25


Wednesday, March 7, 2018

Here.

What is true here?
I ask this question when my head is spinning and I just need to sit in something solid.

We have bitten off a LOT. Homeschool day three is under my belt and my head is spinning. I love it, and also, it makes me want to cry. I want to fast forward to the day when I have thought through all the things and I am organized and relaxed… ok, more relaxed at least, relaxed enough to be confident and think clearly. Is that an unreasonable goal? I sure hope not. I don’t want to feel nuts quite like THIS all the time. Surely there is a better system.

But, self--  you must remember the lesson God has taught you a million times- there is no system that will fix your tendency to yell when you’re overwhelmed, or their bickering, or fix the fact that you truly are too small for this job; that you need His help and his forgiveness and forgiveness from the children, too. You don’t get to outgrow “weak and loved,” not even in a new town with a new vocation.

So many loose ends. Where will he work? Where will I work? How is any of this going to work? Will we ever be “known” here, will we find real friends? Will we ever have time to see our old friends?  And what of the kids? They need friends, too.
Under it all is this: God, you remember us, right? Have you taken us out into the wilderness to die?
Of course He hasn’t.


But I miss my old people. And there’s not enough time to call each one and catch up a bit; hardly time to send a text. We go to church and I tear up, missing them, praying for them.  I like seeing them all on facebook, but it’s also hard- seeing those pictures makes me want to eat pancakes made by the people whose voices I know and love, and hug the toddlers I knew as babies.


I’m throwing myself into homeschooling- yes, already. I know, that’s crazy, but even more crazy were those days of unstructured time in a new house with six kinds underfoot while I’m unpacking boxes they’re saying “Can we go to Indiana? Where are the batteries?  Where are the legos? I’m hungry. Can we go swimming? Where are the bikes? I’m hungry again.” We needed structure sooner than we needed that last box unpacked.


My kids are awesome people- it has been fun to rediscover this. I get to see them lean on each other, especially in those socially difficult situations--  being the weird new family rollerskating with the Lutheran School where nobody relaly knows who we are or how we got invited. (Dana invited us, for the record.)  They fight hard, but they love well, and it is so good that they have each other during this huge change.
Homeschooling makes me come alive almost like writing does. I get excited about schedules, goals, organizing systems. I love hearing their stories! It turns out the boy who gives us the most fodder for stories is also great at writing them. And I LOVE reading to a captive audience, especiallly when we stumble on an unfamiliar word and we get to define it and put it on our board for future enjoyment. The words! I love them.
They also drive me nuts, those words, especially the ones that say “Where are the markers?” and “How do I print again?” and “Do I have to practice my piano?” and “Can you help me with this for a second?” (times a hundred)  and “Mom can you come here for a second?” and “Marcus just called me an idiot!”
I miss silence, and afternoons with Rainy.


I read this to the kids at breakfast today, and we’re all trying to be like Marcus in the snow, receiving today’s blessings and not letting our souls go chasing after those things not given.  We mostly fail, and yet, God is enough.


What is true here?
The there was a special choral performance at church tonight. Resting in the words, in the stabilizing truth of this poem by St. Teresa of Avila


Let nothing disturb you, Let nothing frighten you,
All things pass away: God never changes.
Patience obtains all things.
He who has God Finds he lacks nothing; God is enough.

Sunday, February 25, 2018

love. today.

My shoulders are soggy from the loving tears cried on them- the hugs, the gifts, the food, the words- we are leaving this place saturated with the love of God’s people. We are exhausted, loved, grateful.

Our kids are learning how to grieve in public. I guess this is a good thing? My daughters were comforted by women they hardly know as they all hug-cried in the bathroom. My son begged to go home when the tears finally came for him- I didn’t let him, and he soldiered on- and tears turned to distraction, food and fun with his friends one more time.  Let them lift you up, son. Let them love you while you’re here.

When the tears come, some run towards others, some hide.  I think those who have someone to hug also have someone to hold them up at times like this:  God’s grace through human arms. I hope my kids are learning this. I felt this, all day long.

“Maybe the love gets in easier when the heart’s broke open,” says Ann Voskamp, and I think she’s on to something.  It is hard to live with an open heart at times like this. But I do not regret it for a moment.  It was a battle, everyone- my heart broke leaving Indiana to come here. The temptation to make it a fortress of concrete was strong- but God didn’t let me pour the concrete, and I’m glad He didn’t.

We were spared the  kidney stone crisis on this Sunday, and God upheld my beloved so that he finished well. I love being married to this man, even on days like this.  It is a special talent, to be able to preach in a way that you speak to the grief we share as a church family, without making it all about oneself- pointing to Christ, giving all of us hope in His love.  His voice shook, his love for St. Peter’s poured out his eyes and made all of our eyes run. 
As if that wasn’t bad enough! At the end of the service, as he prayed and bowed with his brother-pastor Alex one last time, they hugged before they walked down separate aisles, before they parted in body (but not in spirit.)

Surely the Lord is in this place.
As heart-wrenching as this day was, I end it with gratitude, and with hope. Grief shared gives us a chance to love each other in new ways. As we face our powerlessness over the passage of time and the sovereign plans of God, we are humbled, yet strengthened as we look to God for comfort and help.

“The LORD watch between you and me, when we are out of one another’s sight.” Genesis 31:9
Keep your hearts open, dear friends in Christ, to God and to each other.  And thank you- to all of you who shared your hearts with us.
With love,
Emily

Thursday, February 22, 2018

the time is short

I’ve been spending much time lately just tracing over the memories of our life here. I know the sadness of this season’s end will eventually be replaced by the gratefulness to have had at all. But I also know how to sit heavy with the weight of never-agains, how to linger in the rocking chair (and on the volleyball court, and in the sanctuary, and in my garden, and everywhere else these days!)
Tears that mourn the never-agains will turn to tears of gratitude. 
Eventually.
"Nothing in this life lasts forever." How this sentence seems to be shouted in my ears all day, every day! How many lasts have gone by and I didn’t even notice? Who came to our last cookout? What sprouts broke the ground first last spring? When was my last field trip with the kids?  Did I take any pictures of our last zoo trip, our last boat ride?
Sometimes the seasons change imperceptibly; sometimes suddenly. This change seems so sudden it is almost violent. There is not enough time left for lingering and remembering and all the just-one-more-times I want to do things.
It reminds me of the time I said goodbye to my husband went he left for Iraq. There wasn’t enough time then, either, and even the time he did have had to be shared with others who loved him. I remember trying to enjoy every moment, trying almost to stock up on him, as if I could just fill myself up with enough of him so as to make the parting less painful. Just one more kiss, just one more quiet moment, and then I’ll be satisfied, and I’ll willingly let him go.
That didn’t happen, and it won’t happen this time, either. It will not be my feelings that determine when it’s time to move on. It will be the date on the calendar. It will come too quickly, before I can get every one-more-time in. I won’t be ready, and I won’t have enough of Michigan to satisfy me for a lifetime, to make me let go cheerfully.
The seasons change, and I cannot stop it. And so, I linger. I try not to demand more than I’ve been given; I try to take each day for the gift that it is, and I try to trust God with the future. 
But it’s hard. 
I’m sad. 
So for now, I'm lingering a bit with the people and the places I love. I'm letting myself think about the never-agains, and I'm taking the time to put pictures in an album. And when the kids cry, I stop packing to give a hug, and I say it again, "It's ok to be sad."

Evening and morning, sunset and dawning,
Wealth, peace and gladness, comfort in sadness,
These are Thy works; all the glory be Thine!
Times without number, awake or in slumber,
Thine eye observes us, from danger preserves us,
Causing Thy mercy upon us to shine.

Father, O hear me, pardon and spare me;
Calm all my terrors, blot out my errors,
That by Thine eyes they may no more be scanned.
Order my goings, direct all my doings;
As it may please Thee retain or release me;
All I commit to Thy fatherly hand.

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

sad expectant waiting

As I pack up boxes and the shelves become empty, I am faced with unsettled feelings. In part, it’s the disruption of our order, of the rhythm here we have come to know and to love. But worse than packing is the way my calendar empties. Pee Wee basketball: Delete. Car show and sock hop: Delete. Talent show, baseball, adult volleyball: delete, delete, delete.
Delete, and wait on God to fill with who-knows-what. Will I have a niche there? What will it look like? (Peace, daughter. Wait.)


What people don’t understand, I imagine, is that the very things that make it hard to leave St. Peter’s- those are the things that also comfort me and give me the strength to move forward trusting God’s provision.


When we came here, it was also quick and jolting to all of us, and yet, we knew it was the right thing to do. Many people didn’t understand, and the goodbyes were wrenching. We left behind so many things that we loved: the house, the location, the people!  And I had a niche there, too- with my mom friends, serving coffee amidst the chaos of my home, with groups of women who knew how to pray with each other and discuss the most important things together every single week.
It was a season of grief, but also of joyful surprise, as I watched God rearrange and provide in our lives over and again when we came here.  He gave us a new home to love, new friends, new adventures. He showed us that there are a million different ways to live the Christian life well here in the city, and we got to see new sides of His work in the many vocations around us.
Eventually, He even gave me a niche here: a totally different one than before, but one I have poured myself into with the strength God provides.  And I have been blessed in this pouring out: blessed to have so many dear ones (children and adults) who make saying goodbye so very hard.


I quote my husband’s words here:
“As a called servant of a congregation we are never sure what God's plans are for us. The temptation, after serving in the ministry for over ten years, is to insulate oneself and your family so that when ... God moves you elsewhere it won't hurt you or the family as bad as if you let people into your hearts and lives. With God's help, I have always tried to love and be loved by God's people freely and honestly, without putting up walls. You all have seeped into the very fabric of my being in the way that only family can.”
Yes, these dear people have seeped in, and that’s why leaving hurts so bad. But I don’t regret it. I am glad they are in my hearts, even though it means suffering now. I may have been tempted to shield myself better if I had known… and so, I am glad I didn’t know.  Because friends in Christ ARE friends for eternity, and though it pains us to part, we know we will be reunited...in God’s timing.
As I worried to a friend about how people would take the news last week, she said, “Won’t anyone understand?”  I doubted, and said, “I am not sure they can understand. I think, the best I can hope for, is that some will still love us- even not understanding.” Oh, that is a lot to ask- more than I have to give in similar situations.  And yet God is working this grace in many people we love around here, and for that, we are so grateful.
The Sunday before we told everyone, Josh was sick in bed with kidney stones. I snuck over to church at 8am for communion.

Pastor Garber was preaching about sickness and God’s relief of it; I prayed for Josh, and for this man preaching who has become a dear brother to us.  My heart hurts; I try not to make eye contact with anyone. But pastor, he knows, and I know he is grieved.  He is broken; but I go up to communion, and there, he gives me Jesus. And I am broken, taking Jesus. Jesus broken for me.  And I think how this is church; broken people sharing Jesus even in their brokenness- this is what church does. It is good, Lord, to be here.


On my calendar, and here at St. Peter’s, there are empty spots: Delete, delete, delete. My chair where I used to greet people at the ECC in the morning: delete. The office where Pastor Cook always had an ear to lend: delete. The backyard at the parsonage next door with constant junk from a mess of kids: delete.
We are leaving holes as we leave, and we have no choice but to trust God to fill them.
The same God who is rearranging our lives is rearranging things at St. Peters. Dear brothers and sisters, join us in sad but expectant waiting!
Peace, children. Wait. Our God knows how to care for you.
Wait and see- He will take care of you!


"I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord
   in the land of the living!
Wait for the Lord;
   be strong, and let your heart take courage;
   wait for the Lord!" (Psalm 27)
Father may all your children keep on sharing the love you give, even with hearts broke open wide... Jesus, comfort your people, feed and uphold your church, and provide for all your children both near and far, until that day when you call us all home to be together with you in eternity.

Sunday, February 11, 2018

these are the days of upheaval...

These are the days of big feelings.

That feeling when you realize it's all gift, and sometimes He takes gifts back, or exchanges them for others;

That feeling when you realize (again) that you have control over nothing, nothing that truly matters;

That feeling when your heart bursts with both grief and excitement, and they both just keep getting stronger;

That feeling when you unsettle the world of the children, and some shoot off fireworks of questions with excitement, while others curl up on the ground in a ball of sadness and fear;

That feeling when you trust and pray and commend yourself to God and you still just can't fall asleep;

That feeling when you realize your future is only as steadfast as the love of the Father for His children.

That feeling when God makes it clear: it’s time to move.

I walk in the kitchen; the lilly has bloomed. “It figures,” I think. The flower blooms right before we have to leave. Just like Seth’s friend -- the sixth grader who has never once spoken a word to his classmates (save one) his entire time at our school, last week he participated in the all school spelling bee! And his lips were unloosed and he spoke to Seth and to everyone, and we all got to taste a bit of the miracle that comes after years of loving loving-patience.  
We were blessed to see the first bloom… but we do not get to see the full coming of spring.
I am sad about the flower. I’ll have to give it to somebody. I wonder if the raspberries I planted will feed anybody but the birds. And the lilac bushes! It grieves me to leave them.
There are goodbye notes to write. I consider writing, “I feel like if we had more time together we would have been really good friends...”  But instead I try to be encouraging and thankful for the gifts that God did give.

“He was made for this.” this thought surfaced sometimes against my will as we deliberated. I think I knew it from the begining, but it took longer to accept it.  People prayed for us as we went down to Kentucky to check things out. “Are we praying you stay?” somebody asked me. “Just pray for clarity.” “Did God make it clear last time?” someone else asked. “Yes he did.” I admitted that even as I doubted He would in this case. The unsettled waiting is so hard.
We drive down, deliberating all the way. The details make my head spin- things are moving too quickly.
The land begins to change. I’m not used to all these mountains. (“Hills,” he says. “They get much bigger.”)  I'm used to living where it's flat. When it's flat you can see where you are, you can get your bearings more easily. I find myself turned around, queasy, and always wondering what’s down that winding path.
There will be no steamrolling over nature here.
Here, I remember I am a creature, and my place in tis world is small. What else can you do on a winding Kentucky road but consent to descend and ascend as the path unfolds?

And somehow, along the way, God works that consent in my heart.   I should have known He would
He was made for this. God is making the way plain. Alright Lord, alright. I consent.
The truth of it is, I’m sad to go. I’m grieved to watch everything that makes up my “normal” be taken away by the hand of God- again! Didn’t we just do this!  Why don’t we get to have roots like so many other people do?  But we dont get to claim people forever, or places, or niches. None of us do. This seems to be a loud and constant lesson of our lives.
And yet, it helps that we have done this before. Because I know this God who takes things away a little better this time.  He takes, but He gives courage. He takes, but gives strength and clarity. He takes, but gives friends to comfort in grief and remind us of HIs goodness and promises.
And though I can’t see it now, I know that even as He is taking away from our lives with His right hand, He is also preparing good things for us with His left.

Our future is only as stable as the steadfast love of the Father for His children.
Steadily unsteady, we move ahead.

Pastor Cook’s last Sunday will be Feb 25, and then we will move to Louisville, KY so that he can finish his PHD in Christian Preaching.

Your prayers for us during this transition are much appreciated.

Please also pray for our St. Peter’s church family who, much against their will, are riding this rollercoaster with us.  May God provide abundantly in our absence for His dear people here, and surround them with reminders of His faithfulness.

Wednesday, January 24, 2018

these days (4)

These are the days...
Image may contain: dog, fire and indoor
Of dogs sleeping by the fireplace like furry kindred spirits, exhausted from the noise and barking of little boys.

Of hosting my millionth sleepover, but it’s the little ones very first, and I get to rock their worlds with homemade nachos and cheese and milkshakes.

Of teenage girls giggling, sneaking hidden candy in the girls’ bedroom and talking about crushes while perfecting secret handshakes.

Of last minute deadlines (“I promise I’ll plan ahead next time”) and late-night Coke so the kid can finish those final pages; and “Mom can you help me with Algebra?” so I try but oh those wheels turn slowly when you haven’t used them in 20 years.  These are the days of little boys asking “How many steps do you have today?” and helping me meet my goal- sometimes, by dancing with me, or rollerblading, sometimes, by stealing my fitbit and running around the house taking turns until they have earned 25,000 steps or more!

These are the days of fighting over who gets to sit in front and “what can I feed them for second dinner?” and last minute birthday gifts for friends. These days the younger two will do extra chores for a gumball, but the older kids expect actual dollars, slurpees, or technology privileges. These days they go to bed when they get tired and if I’m too tired to tuck them in, they tuck me in instead and they remember to turn out the lights.  But they still ask me to kiss them goodnight and I do it because there’s a last time for everything and this might be it.

These are days of mom on repeat: Did you practice your piano and brush your teeth and did someone feed the dogs?  And can you bring me my phone to work because I forgot it again, or my oatmeal, or my charger? And they laugh because adulting is hard and even mom doesn’t have it figured out, but we work as a team and somehow we hobble along and everyone gets where they need to be. These days are peppered with fighting and fun, and these days end with prayers and forgiveness and grace and exhaustion.

These are the days of praying he can make it through one more meeting;  of trying to stay up until he gets home so he can have someone to lean on, and not always making it. These are the days of 5:15 am alarms and bleary-eyed family devotions and opening the ECC and trying to be cheerful before I’ve finished my first cup of coffee.  These are the days of scheduling family time for hospital visits and funerals; of being emptied all the way out and miraculously filled again by His Body broken and given for us like water in the desert.

These are the days of trying to keep a soft heart in a world that feels like concrete and cynicism and bitterness; of keeping my eyes peeled for hope and growth, and God asking us to trust even if we can’t see Him working.  These are the days of praying for a weary pastor-heart while thanking God that he can meet me for lunch and we still love talking about books we’re reading and Big Ideas.

These are the days of winter isolation and longing for connection; of gratitude that the internet can connect hearts of friends across distance.

These are the days of important conversations along the way, of pouring into their minds and praying they learn to think critically and guard against evil and falsehood. These are the days of discussing quotes and literature at the dinner table, and marvelling at the growth in their minds for about 2 seconds, and then someone farts or spills and even the oldest thinks farts are funny.

These are the days of blasting “Just Dance” in the living room; of loud piano, flute, and trombones blaring; of trying hard to find a quiet place to practice multiplication tables or spelling words; of wondering if it’s all too much for them, for me! When out of the blue somebody starts praying that we have another baby and you realize you’ve passed on a crazy affinity for loud messy big love.

These are the days of asking Siri “What does this food do for my body?” and trying to care about the answer.  These are the days when the scary flu virus is going around; daddy tells them at the dinner table how some even healthy kids have died from it; and the littlest one suddenly has a sore throat and a desperate need for a hug.

These are the days when we remember our times are in God’s hands, and when we pray with a little extra desperation “Guide us waking, O Lord, and guard us sleeping, that awake we may watch with Christ, and asleep we may rest in peace.”
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