God Made This Day

God Made This Day

“When times are good, be happy: but when times are bad, consider this: God has made the one as well as the other. Therefore, no one can discover anything about their future.” Ecclesiastes 7:14

Imagine yourself on a boat or small ship. You have sailed solo quite a distance and now are out of view of any land. All around is only water and a clear sky and the spring sun warmly shining down. The weather is perfect. The temperature is just warm enough, perhaps in the low 70s, and the water is still. From time to time small ripples wrinkle the water’s surface, but mostly it is smooth and unruffled.

You stare at the sky that surrounds you. Every way you turn, the color is the same. The sky is washed with the bright pastel blue of a cloudless day. You sit back to take it all in breathing the air. There is nothing of earth about it; no mud, no sand, no engine emissions. It smells like water, but more. You think that if bread could be baked of simply H2O it would have this aroma. It is so fresh you take one deep breath after another, which puzzles you. Rarely, if ever do you pay attention to your breathing. But in this beautiful moment you do.

You scan the sky again, starting at the zenith above you and begin to follow the palette of blue down to the horizon. The sky, a deep brushwork blue overhead, turns lighter as it meets the horizon in a whitewash of cerulean.

The water transforms the sky from its pale monochrome to a silvery mix of blue and green. Even with very little wind, the surface of the water shimmers. With the slightest breeze, tiny diamonds seem to burst and shine above the water. Your sense of awe expands.

As you take it all in over the early afternoon, you feel peaceful, calm and content. This is the life. This is what my soul needed. This is why I bring my boat out here. (Everyone knows you don’t really fish.) And in the sort of exclamation that only comes from a satisfied and solitary place, you exhale loudly, “I am so blessed!” And you are. And, even if you don’t believe in God, you still would probably use the phrase. It just seems right.

But in the moment of your reverie you feel the wind pick up a bit. Not much at first. You’ve been on the water enough times to know the calm moment was a rarity. You consider turning for shore, but you are not concerned quite yet. You want to embrace the day and inner peace you are experiencing.

You glance at the horizon again and now become concerned. The horizon has changed. Now, above the water heavy cumulus clouds are building. Rising high above the water with their flattened undercarriage, they are already dumping heavy rain and are moving toward you. No longer silver, both the sky and water are boiling into a deep and threatening gray.

The water is choppier as the waves increase. All waves have two attributes: frequency and amplitude. On the boat, you feel the frequency increase as the waves are swept along by the wind. Frequency is simply the rate at which a wave moves past a fixed location. It can also be expressed as the distance from one quest to another in a moving wave.

Amplitude refers to the height of the wave. It is measured from the trough, the lowest part of the wave, to its crest. So, a three-foot wave is one that is 36 inches from trough to crest. On the boat, not only are the waves coming more frequently, but their amplitude has increased. What once perhaps rocked your boat a bit now, with the greater force of higher waves, threatens to capsize your vessel. Your perfect day is becoming a perfect storm. A few minutes before you were saying, “I am so blessed!” Now, “Blessed” is the last word that comes to mind. (You can substitute your own.)

The Teacher in Ecclesiastes wants us to remember that life is just like that. We can go on for days with everything going right, no major disruptions, our kids obey us (or at least we think they do). We love our job, we have close friends we enjoy, our marriage is, well, a good marriage. (Which means, yes, you fight, but you work it out.) You haven’t received a speeding ticket in over a month, rush hour traffic has been unusually light, and you even have enough savings to take your kids on a vacation of a lifetime. You would say, “I am so blessed.”

The Teacher tells us to be happy during these times. Don’t feel bad when things are going well. Just like the man on the boat, drink in every good thing. Enjoy when life goes well, and the storms are afar off.

But then he asks us to consider something when things go poorly: “God has made one (day) as well as the other.” Uh oh! In other words, when things get stormy and everything you believed gets turned upside down, remember, God made that time (or season) as well. It was easy for the man in the boat when the water was still, and the sky was clear. It is easy for us when finances, family and friends, health, plans and direction all seem to work out the way we expected. It is easy to say, “I am so blessed!” Because we feel blessed. We feel blessed by positive things: quality relationships, finances in good order, etc. But we also feel blessed by negative things: no downsizing at work, very little friction in relationships, etc.

Let things go bad, though, and how well do we feel blessed now? Come on, it’s just me typing this and you reading it; you can be honest. No matter how often we are trained to say, “I’m too blessed to be stressed”, we get stressed. And often for good reason. Storms can rise on open water at any moment and from anywhere. And can they in life. You lose a job. You go through a divorce. You are diagnosed with life-threatening cancer. You have medical needs that have drained all your finances. Just imagine experiencing one of those life events and exclaiming, “I am so blessed!”

But that is not what the Teacher is advising. He is not asking us to evaluate if God is in the good raise we got as well as our struggle with alcohol. He is asking us to remember that God made both days. He did not necessarily make the circumstances happen, but whatever circumstances do happen: God is in that day.

I believe this will make a difference for a lot of people. In the mid-90s I was making over $60,000 per year; more than I had made in my life. For that time our family was able to enjoy many experiences we wouldn’t have otherwise. But, consider this. While my income increased, I had friends who were out of work for years. Was God with me and not with them? Of course not. We were both functioning on “the same day.” The same day I sold $50,000 of computer equipment to a hospital a friend of mine was searching for work to support his family. But we were both in that “same day”.

I grant, when life is tough, it is really hard to say, “I am so blessed”. Here’s a clue: Don’t say it. I have just ended an entire year without earning a penny. I took early retirement for medical reasons and have been attempting to qualify for Disability Insurance. Now living with relatives, not pastoring a church, across the country from friends and a place we called home, I have found it difficult to say, “I am blessed”.

Once I considered this passage, though, I found myself able to say, “God has made this day.” Dear one, no matter what you are going through, God is with you. You may not feel “blessed”, and that is okay. Don’t let anyone put you down for that. But, if you can find a way to say, “I may not feel blessed, but I know God is with me, because He made this day just like any other,” it may bring you to a place of hope. The day everything went right? God made it. The day when your soul felt like it was boiling over? God made that one too.

God has made this day.

Only Sleeping

Only Sleeping

(“Abraham, when hope was dead within him, went on hoping in faith…” Romans 4:18a)

He had crossed the country too many times to do it again,
his feet were tired, his head was framed by every new start he
made by faith.

He traveled north when he was young to finally learn to
sell skis,
pray a little,
preach a little,
and wonder at the slow-motion snow that hung in the trees.

And, traveling south only six months in, He traded in denim and
polyester mid 70s; alone and waiting for his bride. She waited for him
while he tried to pick up electromagnetic signals from God. They wed
and fled their reception to catch Carol Burnett. He never loved anyone more,
nor deserved anyone less.

A year later, figuring God knew his language, he convinced his bride that
east was the direction
of faith this time. Oklahoma, where women never wear pants to church,
and mixed bathing is forbidden. Girls first, then boys, would take their turns
at the church camp swimming holes. He traded in suits and silk, but soon,
without deserving the position or the place, he pastored teens all the time,
and built a place where kids never wore out their welcome and
toilet paper dotted the trees.
But he had to leave. Exposed by darkness, he left the practice,
and traveled west once again.

Soundwaves are full of time and faith. Amplitude and frequency
sometimes surround a heart so ungraciously that not much matters
except tuning in to the jazz station that makes you dance, or the blues that
makes you cry. I didn’t know why hope was so divided from faith.

Yet the faith rose above the muck, and still in the Golden State,
he traded in music and youth; an assistant to a Shepherd, and a
frightened young man with a mystic’s heart. Love would dart
in and out
even when his faith was too heavy to float. He always hoped faith
would ease and erase the secret longings that lashed his thoughts
to little but fear.

He honed his craft; Christmas, Easter and Midsummer Mania. Teens and grandmas
were his closest friends. Only in an unguarded moment would he express
his inhibitions about policy, polity, severity and faith. He hardly admitted
he rarely lived up to his own expectations or hope for relief. But
the electromagnetic call drew him Northeast this time. 

Why would anyone
follow God (or any other being) to the frigid plains of North Dakota? But there,
among the Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara he found his home. He danced
every round dance,
nearly danced the jingle dress,
and prayed as Little Shell started his favorite Pow Wow of the year.
He adopted moms and sisters, brothers made him their brother. He golfed with
Musky and could never match his tan. Days were filled with joy; books lined
his schedule from first to last. Nights called him urgently; an overdose, a spirit,
a break-in. An infant’s
death. He should have stayed longer. He should have made it his home.
Whether he mistook the signals or God had other plans; he moved on
with Fort Berthold a living memorial in his heart.

Though North Dakota filled two decades, his feet slipped on the ice
more than once.
And two churches later, a hundred families later, a circle of confusion and
ferocious love swept him away like the outer winds of a hurricane. Never
had he loved a state, felt his place, felt at home, or laid cornerstones
like the way North Dakota named him among their own.

But the wires get crossed, and we trip over the cables on the pavement. West
invited us back, and into its grand Pacific North we landed on the banks of the
Columbia. From the church’s steps the seals were heard, barking for more scraps
from the fishermen. Children danced, children asked if there was potluck,
children sang inappropriate tunes, children brought the poor seeker’s heart back
to life again.

Where are you, faith, when the world explodes inside our head? Was it the long journey,
the constant tripping, the stumbling downstairs or the frightening stares of people I knew
must know what I knew about me? Or was God just done with me? Or was God at all?
A dozen years we loved a river village, over a decade the pain invaded and broke into
my brain like a hundred icy spikes on some days, and like a molten helmet of lead
on others. Never a day without fear. Never a day without my ears ringing and the
tv shouting, the dog barking and the board meetings slowing to a crawl. I could
not bear the slightest intrusion of sound, but I longed for effusive offers from
friends who heard, who knew, who learned and might bring me a coffee or
a cake or a hug or a teddy bear or a kiss on the forehead or a whole hour unspoken
and
unearned.

But the pain won.

And now we have traveled Southeast again. Texas, dry and long. A year without
a purpose. A year without a friend. A year without someone to make it right again.
Hope against hope sounds more like a handball hitting the wall. A year of walking
circles, a year of waking in pain, a year of begging for someone to hear me, truly hear me
again.

And for all I know (because I do not know, and have no idea), faith may show up when you’re
dreaming in your sleep,
or it may seep through the walls you thought were your prison,
or it may be one simple human who has no idea
what a smile can mean.

So, if you see me lying on the street devoid of faith as you know it,
still and unmoving, my mouth and face covered by the rain,
please do not worry, please do not disturb me,
and understand:
I’m only sleeping.

More Miles of Bad Road

More Miles of Bad Road

(“Therefore, I hated life because the work that was done under the sun was distressing to me. For everything is futile and a pursuit of the wind.” Ecclesiastes 2:17)

Winter roads are the worst; first it rains, then it freezes,
then the asphalt is a plate glass coffee table; nothing visible
except the bent fists of wind that throw dirty dust and snow
across the sliding surface. And we knew there were more miles
of bad road ahead.

And so, in a hurry, we slowed to a crawl. Life was frozen.
Once a river of life for swimming and picnics,
baptisms and reunions,
now as solid as a strong box. There was no
breaking in.

And so we did not stop for the view; what was there to see?
The snow turned to fog, blind as a ghost,
and the most we could do was stop two nights sooner,
brought to a halt by nothing more than vapor in the air.

We wouldn’t have cared,
but we were nearer and nearer the journey’s end
with time running out,
with pain the traffic could not see
(we would have done better to puncture a tire
and hope for a hand along the road).

But with pain higher than the clouds that dropped
winter ice,
and time slower than a glacier
we moved (or did not move) it depends on
your perspective.

It’s easier to wait near the beginning of a journey,
but near the end home is in view,
family waits for you,
friends are looking for you,
and with every hour the trip is slowed
are fewer moments and less joy with the beloved
who you hold in your heart while
you grip, knuckle-white, the steering wheel
meant to take you to a new start
at the old place
where the bed fits your frame
and the voices engrained in your mind
are the very first sounds of the morning.

The Art of Confident Humility

The Art of Confident Humility

“Too much pride brings disgrace; humility leads to honor.” Proverbs 29:23

Our daughter Sarah teaches first grade. I love hearing the stories she tells about her young students. The other day a little boy hurt his head on the playground and was taken to the office. They gave him an ice pack to put on the injury. When he went to take it back the secretary asked, “Is it better?” He replied, “The side where I put the ice feels better. But there is a bump on the other side too.” Puzzled, she asked him, “How did you get that one.” “I don’t know. Maybe when I came through the birth canal.”

Even though Sarah teaches first grade, a kindergartner noticed her recently. Sarah had worn her hair in braids the day before and took them out for the next day, leaving her hair fluffy and a little wild. To keep it all under control she wore a headband and pushed it up over the unruly hair. The little student was heard to say, “I like Ms. Phillips’ hair today. Now she looks like a little kid like me.”

From a five-year-old, that is a compliment. If I was to tell her she “looks like a kid” she might refuse to call her father for a day or two. But, here’s the thought: Sarah’s self-confidence shines through a loving humility that others can see. Without saying too much, she has worked hard to have a positive outlook combined with a humble spirit.

I like eating out and trying new cuisines. Who is it that tells you about the special of the day? Usually the server, right? The chef doesn’t come out and brag about her creations before you have taken a bite. The server tells you about the menu and you might ask him to recommend something. “The asparagus jubilee is out of this world tonight,” he might say. (No one would say that, but I think I got your attention.)

You go ahead and order the special. You have good conversation during the meal punctuated with sips of wine and comments about the other diners. You take your time tasting each bite of this new experience and are surprised at how delicious it was. You call the server over and utter the classic words, “My compliments to the chef.”

If we reverse that scenario, and the chef comes out first, bragging about every item on the menu, there won’t be many plates coming to the window for service. She is too busy puffing her accomplishments to actually provide you with the scrumptious meal. No “compliments” to her at the end of the meal, and if she made a habit of this behavior, she might not have a job in a few days.

There is a problem I see in much of the conservative church world; we have an answer for everything. We schedule “Daniel Fasts” as if that is a Biblical mandate rather than a historical record of a particular situation. We talk about “binding the strong man” without really understanding what Jesus meant. We “take authority” over this spirit and that spirit while the poor are hungry just blocks away from our church doors.

What if we took Jesus’ words about “blessed are the meek, the poor, the peacemakers, the hungry for justice” seriously? What if we spent less time trying to make things happen in the “spirit world” and simply lived out the Spirit of Christ who indwells us? What if we humbly and daily submitted our needy and hungering hearts to the God who loves us dearly?

Here is our example: “Christ was humble. He obeyed God and even died on a cross. Then God gave Christ the highest place and honored his name above all others.” (Philippians 2:8-9) Jesus, who was truly God, didn’t make a big deal about his divinity. He gave up that standing and became like us. Why? Out of love. God, who has every reason to boast, chose humble love as the way to bring us to Him.

Your very life is not your own, it is a gift. Did you decide to have brown eyes? Was it your choice to have a brain for math? Did you create the muscles that help you dig your garden, throw a football well or wiggle your toes in the sand? Why, then, should we boast about anything?

Everything is grace, from your first breath to the life God has offered you in Christ. Everything has been given to you by the One who loves you the best. True humility recognizes this, rejoices in this and revels in wonder.

In the fourth chapter of John Jesus strikes up a conversation with a Samaritan woman at a well. He does not begin by saying, “I’m the Messiah, now worship me.” Instead, he humbly asks her for a drink. Their dialogue continues as she wonders that this Jewish man would as her, a woman five times married, for a drink of water. As she becomes more convinced of the goodness and kindness that stand before her, she calls him a prophet and asks about where people should worship.

It is only near the end of the conversation that Jesus reveals he is the Messiah. She says, “I know that the Messiah will come. He is the one we call Christ. When he comes, he will explain everything to us.”

Jesus replies, “I am that one and I am speaking to you now.”

Jesus, confident in his identity as the Messiah, did not have to boast or lead with that. Instead he created a relationship with her. He engaged in one of the deepest spiritual conversations in the gospels with an outcast woman. He neither condemned her nor puffed himself up. He led her close by showing interest in her life and her thoughts. And, as when the sun peeks through a day dark with clouds, Jesus admitted “I am that one; I am the Messiah.”

For a Christian, our maturity is measured by our likeness to Christ. It matters not if it is emotional or spiritual maturity; Jesus’ character is what determines our identity and our progress.

Our maturity is stunted if we do not stop the flow of ego. But we grow as we open our hearts to hear. Boasting and ego will cause us to be cut off from friends with whom we disagree. It can cut us off from business ideas because we think our way is the only way to do things. It will cut us off from learning because we already know how things are supposed to happen.

Most of all, it can cut us off from the Holy Spirit, because our experience is more important than what She actually wants to do within us. Boastfulness is loud. The work of God’s Spirit is quiet and must be heard with an open and receptive heart.

Learn the art of confident humility. Simply go about the business of doing good in the world, representing the grace you have received from Christ. Leave the bragging and boastfulness to others.

More Time on the Ground

More Time on the Ground

(“Or you think nothing of the riches of his goodness, patience, and longsuffering? And remember not how it is that the kindness of God leads you to repentance?” Romans 2:4)

Take it like a man; as if he can.
Splayed out like a mud pie after rain
he begins his story with dripping explanation.

It was all I could do to wipe the darkness away.

They made their plans to make him strong.
They knew what was wrong and why, then
interpreted
his every moved like inspectors with magnifying glasses,
never seeing both of his eyes crying at the same time.
He offered few excuses.

Time has been longer and steeper than I planned.

Hunt like us, shoot like us, shout like us, grunt like us;
as if he was made that way.
He loved numbers as much as they did, but loved the
mountains more.

There was more stumbling than I wanted; more time on the ground.

They gave him chance after chance, enhanced their techniques
to pull all the darkness out of the man. They stood him up white-
faced
and patted him down in public.

There was more sin than you knew, but I sinned less than you thought.

Once he went years without a phone call, without a smile or the
embrace of men. Twice he wished it would never happen again.
And crowds froze him to the spot while he scourged the scars
that remained and reminded him why he deserved
to be alone.

Some days I checked the mail more than once.

His heart had ached from adolescence. He longed for the
glance, the gaze, that welcomes everything. And sometimes
he saw it when it wasn’t there. And sometimes, blinded by the sting,
he would not partake of the table offered him.

Do you know something about me that will make you turn away?

All he wants is to be held by love, like tea in a prewarmed cup.

If I was Cold

If I was Cold

(“…that is, that we may be mutually comforted by one another’s faith, both yours and mine.” Romans 1:12)

If I was cold, would you give  me your blanket;
If I was alone, would you send me a card?
If I was homeless, would you give me a bed;
Or just offer a comb to brush my balding head?

If I was far, would you pay for my airfare;
If my sister died, would you send me roses?
If I was destitute, would you raise the funds;
Or put your phone on mute while worship music hums?

Pouring, a pitcher of sweet sangria,
weren’t your throats assuaged;
Painting, a portrait of peaceful solace,
weren’t your tears wiped away?
Sitting, a hospice of slow departure,
weren’t your breaths sanctified;
Praying, a moment of candle and incense,
weren’t your pleas respected?

Now I am thirsty where the rivers do not run,
I am weeping in the rain, for the sun.
I am dying, though not like everyone,
I am praying for an invitation that more
than mouths a prayer, but raises a hand,
a letter, a paragraph, a long note that sounds
across the continent; that calls us home.

I am isolated, would you help me come home;
I am grieving, would you cover me with your wings?
I am boxed in, would you offer me a great river to swim;
I am confused; where are the friends, the fellows,
the brothers and sisters,

Who all know where I am.

The Extinction of Flattery

The Extinction of Flattery

(“Many plans are in the human heart, but the advice of the Lord will endure.” Proverbs 19:21)

There is more flint in our hearts than we know,
and I admit my own stony intrusions.
Encrusted upon our purest plans
are every whim and whisper we have impolitely shouted
or secretly hidden under muddy fields in fear.

You proclaimed what would come to pass,
told the man he would win election,
You proclaimed it was God’s command,
God’s purpose, God’s eternal plan.
But the election came and went, as all do,
and the fellow you uttered you confidence over,
fell far flat of your prophecy.
You told him, didn’t you?
You emboldened him, didn’t you?
But, you were wrong, weren’t you?

There is more me in my ministry than I like to admit,
more desire for notice, more smiles from past beneficiaries
who received such benefit that we knew it must be god (with
my name in parenthesis, but still spoken, please.)

But you proclaimed a yes that became a no. You
loved the center, you loved the words you thought were
fool proof;
but we are the fools, the fragile, the clowns who fall over
our shoes.
So, when yes was no, did you go to the fellow and confess
that you somehow got it wrong? That you spoke too soon?
That your ego was a big as the rest of ours, and it ballooned at
just the wrong moment?

Doors sometimes close without another window opening.
Mountains sometimes remain after long seasons of praying.
Miles separate the wish from fulfillment and trials dam the river
we swore would flow forever.

But there is a long road, sometimes solitary, most times narrow,
that edges us toward the extinction of flattery. There is a road,
a royal one,
that follows the wadis through the barren and red striations
of rock and sand laid down ages ago.

Today a door closed. No one proclaimed it, no one laid hands
on me
at all.

But the road still calls (though today I can venture only this scrawl)
and I’ll claim correctness less often with some help I hope,
lay my soul down in peace.

When We Were Homeless

When We Were Homeless

(“We struggled along the coast with great difficulty and finally arrived at Fair Havens.” Acts 27:8)

The ocean sounded like a broken banjo,
and the beach struck every chord.
The wind was turning in ¾ time
around the rocks, opening and closing the
grey theater curtain clouds.

And the entire time memory burned;
not yesterday,
nor the hours before the millennium,
but of days when buskers played flute
on Huntington Beach.

I would love to sing with you again my friend,
or dance like we knew what we were doing.
I would love to stop and stay the afternoon,
and into the evening to listen to
the seals barking in the distance.

But I’m indigent (did I mention that?) I’m upended,
sometimes laid flat. We used to bury each other in the beach,
and make
mermaid tails or
weightlifter forearms,
our heads barely above the sand.

But I am homeless (did you notice that?) not for long,
but not short enough. Did it occur to anyone roaming with us,
to ask
how to keep us
nearer the beaches?
Were their heads below the trembling

Sand?

Today the ocean is like an empty orchestra hall,
chairs askew, black curtains framed by sleepy fog.
Today the beach is cross-continent, and the piano sits silent
with a lock upon the keyboard cover.
I am the audience and not a player. There are too few to
perform for anymore.

But the ocean may call me back from the how close I’ve come
to composing destitution; to the tide pools, the schools of children
scatting the sweetest jazz at the closing bell.

There are still others whose only memory of occupied beaches
is a brittle sand dollar and a piece of grey driftwood that looks like
a broken trombone.

When Events Converge Upon a Week

When Events Converge Upon a Week

(“Fools will be punished for their proud words, but the words of the wise will protect them.” Proverbs 14:3)

Just a week ago I said goodbye to my
beloved raven-haired sister. Her, with the native
cheeks,
dark eyes,
and voice that commanded attention.
Oh youngest of us, why were you first to go?
She, with a love as large as the world.

This week I shall exit the tribe I’ve been allied with
for forty years. Early I believed nearly everything I read.
Early I danced in tongues and let visions capture my wrongs.
Early I sang the love songs, and maranatha songs, in circles we thought
the whole world understood.

But in the middle I stumbled mightily with few arms to catch me
and I fell right into the only hands that could hold me; the fingers of
grace. My tribe was divided. So, I took a drive with a decade friend
who cried with me over the hardship. And he never stopped the car
to make me walk back across the frozen landscape.
Another, four decades my senior, knew my worst, and called me first
and center and last, until his last breath escaped his jolly body that
that filled Oklahoma space like Santa Claus offering you a choice
at every altar call.
But others cross-examined me, accused me, used me, and now no more know
my name.

But I do not exit for these reasons, Indeed, they are reasons for my stubborn soul
to say. But that same soul has made a journey it began before I knew. And now,
seeing cheers for charlatans and few ears for discussion, I have become an
ally
to those who felt rallied against by muzzles trained upon their most sensitive
tears and tastes.

This week is nearly a year since I retired from shepherding people I love,
people loved, people imagined by God before the worlds began. A dozen
years I spent on the banks of the Columbia, leading with love, pouring out
grace
from a tap that never ran dry. And my health nearly died, but I tried; crawl,
sing or stutter, to utter new to the old; mercy to the sold; comfort to the unfolded
hearts that gushed when touched ever so carefully.

And now, pain is my only companions, save a few friends who step in an out
of this muddy river I’m isolated in. And I fear I’ve said too much, I’ve spoken too soon,
I’ve gone too far, I’ve laid open my wounds;

I fear I’ve frightened those I love the best. I fear I’ve heightened the anxiety
of friends I cared to calm. So, sometimes, ever so slowly,
I sink beneath the murky current, wishing I could hold my breath for
at least 20 minutes
and friends would forget my failures and just remember
affection is all this heart ever needed to heal.