He was Adonis to the masses: chiseled, handsome, affable. A distinguished son born to a famous father.

The story was raw, detailing a life of suppressed pain. The gaping wound of fatherlessness had festered, quietly infecting flesh and bone, churning throughout his childhood, adolescence, and seeping into adulthood.

The world seemed his oyster as he grew in fame and wealth, a colorful life amid bougie friends and unending lovers. But appearances are deceptive murals, painted with broad brushstrokes.

The reality was that he was a complicated, tormented man, his soul a painting dotted with tumultuousness, grief as wild and unpredictable as a storm-tossed sea. He lay shipwrecked alongside dozens of one-night passengers, lonely relationships that quenched his grief for a night but left him floundering by morning.

As the years passed, he took increasing and unusual risks, upping the ante, ravenous for something to ignite and burn hot in his chest—anything other than sorrow for his absent father.

The world gasped at his sudden, violent death—a man snuffed out in his prime.

His final years were squandered, as he dabbled in Buddhism, Islam, and Hinduism. A fruitless journey that left him wanting, wandering in circles; desperately unsatisfied.

My eyes filled as I closed my Kindle.

How tragic.

Fatherlessness, twice over.

***

Stories of battered, barren hearts abound. Oh, how every person longs to be known and cherished by their father; loved unconditionally.

That timeless, relentless ache to hear: I love you not for what you do, or who you become, or what you achieve. I love you because you are mine.

We live in a land of broken down rubble, where many fathers have chosen to abscond from their high and holy duty. Unhealed children of all ages roam the planet, stuck, their lives reciting their sorrows.

A man without a father is a man without a country.

***

Money, marriage, fame, friendships, children, health, anger, power, beauty, drink, vacations, vocations, retirement, travel—none of these things will assuage father hunger. There remains only one way to heal.

Turn wholeheartedly to God, the perfect Father.

Regardless of your earthly dad, the Lord stands ready to receive you.

God gave up his Son, sending him to die upon the cross out of the deepest love. Because of his great love, we may turn from our sin and run to the Father and, through Jesus Christ, stand redeemed, forever.

Do you see? God was pleased to wound his Son in order that we—as sons of Adam and daughters of Eve—may call him Abba.

“For Christ also suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, that he might bring us to God, being put to death in the flesh but made alive in the spirit… “(1 Peter 5:7)

This is the Father-love we are meant to pursue. Holy, unshakable, unending love, resulting in supreme peace.

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“For this reason I bow my knees before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth is named…”

Ephesians 3:14-15

I invite you to sign up for my online writing class: Write the Truth, Beautifully™

Hand to heart, writers: The magic happens when the reader says yes.

Our world needs more Christians who write well. Men and women whose words touch the crevices of their readers’ hearts, with writing that yields change, a murmured Yes to truth, written beautifully.

This June marks five years of weekly writing here at The Palest Ink, and by way of celebration, I am hosting a 3-session writing class, via Zoom.

The details

Will you join me? And invite a friend?

I hope to meet you soon!

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Gracious words are like honeycomb, sweetness to the soul and health to the body. ~ Proverbs 16:24

Our son has landed overseas and will spend the next few years as a full-time missionary.

Before he left, we recorded a conversation I believe will greatly encourage you to trust God as you go, tell, and disciple.

I am praying for you now, dear readers.

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Resources For Evangelism & Discipleship

3 Circles Video

7 Commands of Christ

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(My free monthly newsletter includes updates and prayer requests for our son and his team.)

Hey there, little man; handsome grandson of mine.

I have been thinking about the other day when we stepped off your front porch, ambled down the sloping yard to the sidewalk, and swung left. Remember? Down the tree-lined road to the corner park?

Let’s go, Nonnie! You said, arms swinging, three-and-a-half years old and full of gusto.

I carried your stuffed animal and stainless-steel thermos, while you pulled along an orange string.

It was a jolly trio: grandmother, grandson, and string—our slender companion—trailing behind like one obedient dog. You turned and marveled as it rose over dirt and pebbles, and we stopped countless times to correct the tangles and knots, inevitable in a strand some ten feet long.

During our slow-going journey, we played I Spy and discovered a cheery cluster of daffodils, prompting me to recite stanza one of Wordsworth’s I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, my feet marching to the beat. You glanced up and smiled, delighted at words deliciously new.

Say it again, Nonnie!

So, I did.

The orange string fluttered silently, dancing as we marched—a cord to the past. I turned, quite certain I heard your Daddy’s second-grade voice chanting Wordsworth to his sister and brothers. But he was not there—no one was—only the string and the breeze at our backs.

Daffodils gave way to a dandelion posy. You crouched low and inhaled their scent. We did not rush but rather poked along. Exploring, my dear, calls for time, curiosity, and patience.

You stood and sipped iced water from your thermos, then we continued, pausing to wave and offer hello to the walking mailman whose tanned face and weathered eyes crinkled at the sight of you pulling your string.

Numerous dogs barked as we passed. We spied two cats: one, a soft calico lounging on the front porch swing, eyes closed, warm in the glow of sunshine cascading through porch railings. The other was a black and white, perched serenely on a narrow windowsill; a queen governing her kingdom.

And then you found every little boy’s treasure: a crooked stick.

Nonnie! A stick!

That looks like a fishing pole, I said.

No, a candy cane, you said.

Yes, a candy cane, I laughed.

The breeze blew our hair, and I tipped my face toward the sun and closed my eyes, reveling in God’s creation.

As we approached the corner park, you began one of our favorite games: naming God’s creation.

Sun

clouds

trees

grass

flowers

ants

cats

dogs

sticks

Houses, too, Nonnie, you added.

Well, people build houses but God makes people.

You thought about that and then added, God made the wood, though.

I nodded. Yes, because wood comes from trees. This telephone pole is made of wood.

You smacked the phone pole with your stick.

Nonnie, did God make footballs?

I laughed.

God made you and you like football! I squeezed your hand. I am so happy God made you!

Yes, you said. Because you love me.

You passed me the string so that you might dig with your stick. When your digging edged into someone’s yard, I explained that we must never do that.

You frowned and continued walking down the sidewalk, huffy. Then you placed the outer edge of your sneaker directly onto the neighbor’s lawn.

I stopped walking and waited.

You glanced back.

I spoke your name quietly and then shook my head. And then, to my surprise, you stomped on the neighbor’s grass yet again, your eyes locked with mine.

The orange string lay still behind me. I crouched low and looked straight into your beautiful eyes and thought I love you so much.

Time spun backward, and I was young, a mother in my twenties, gazing at your Daddy—my beautiful little boy–reminding him that he must learn to obey me.

I’m sorry, Nonnie, you said after a bit.

I forgive you and I love you, always and no matter what, I said. Remember this…we must always respect people’s yards.

You nodded, grinned, and said, Chase me!

So, I did. We ran the rest of the way to the corner park. You climbed the jungle gym and raced down the slide. The orange string flew along behind you.

We played in the fresh air and the exercise was good.

As the sun began to descend, we gathered up the thermos, stuffed animal, stick, and string.

It took a fair bit of time to walk the half mile home. In unison, we recited We’re Going on a Bear Hunt as you dragged the stick through the dirt inside the sidewalk’s crevices. And then we sang ourselves home, the pair of us, your sweaty little hand in mine. The orange string followed, growing dusty and tangled, but we did not mind.

//

My dearest boy,

You are young enough to hold my hand, sing silly songs, and recite poems and good books. Young enough to enjoy taking a stroll to the corner park with me and your orange string.

Spring days are magnificent, no?

And fleeting.

Orange string days will not last forever.

This I know.

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There is such vibrant beauty, a dawning of life during late March. The burst of spring as daffodils bloom and bluebirds flit. Cool mornings unfold into bright and warmer afternoons. The earth is gently awakening from its long winter nap.

How I enjoy a deep spring cleaning this time of year: baseboards, cupboards, cabinets, closets. Anything seems possible once the gray days have fled and the slanted sun shimmers into the early evening hours.

//

I am away from my desk this week, savoring extra moments with my family. This month is a tender time for my mother-heart, as we say goodbye to our son, Jacob, who is leaving for a lengthy missionary journey, and hello to our second grandbaby due next month.

Big changes all at once require a quiet spring cleaning for my soul.

So I will leave you today with a little something. An invitation to listen to a Moody Radio conversation I recently recorded and greatly enjoyed.

May it serve to encourage you to go and share the treasure of Christ with others, today, right where God has planted you.

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I am grateful for this recent review of my second book, Deep Roots, Good Fruit.

Sign up to receive my monthly newsletter—the Good, the True, & the Beautiful—the place where I link to my favorite things.

Let those be thy choicest companions who have made Christ their chief companion.

~Thomas Brooks

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I remember my earliest friendships in elementary school, relationships sparked from being tossed together during recess and afternoon playdates. We did not choose friendship per se—our comradery simply happened. Little drama and lots of fun dangling upside down from the jungle gyms, playing hopscotch, and dizzying ourselves on the playground’s merry-go-round. For years we more or less played alongside each other.

And then, in fifth grade, I left my chums behind and entered private school.

This new school was tiny, meaning friendships were visible and competitive. A wave of pressure arose to have a best friend, and pronto. One girl dangled the term best friend before me, a bright carrot swinging from a moving stick. She slipped me notes during history class, a daring stunt at the teacher’s back, diminutive pencil sketches of posies, horses, and rabbits, and sentences with multiple choice options.

Does Charlie have a crush on:

a) Missy

b) Suzy

c) Amy

Circle the answer.

One ho-hum day she passed me a different sort of note, informing me that she was going to choose a best friend. The race was on, said she, between Kelly (a girl from another school) and me.

What seems silly now—I assure you—did not seem silly then, as I sat at my desk, chewing my Ticonderoga # 2 pencil, wilting inside that old stuffy classroom with its temperamental heating system and heavy doors. I toyed with the pewter buttons on my blue cardigan sweater as my face burned hot.

Oh, how I longed to be chosen.

The next few days were unpleasant, even as my friend floated about, unperturbed, jubilant in fact, enjoying the crescendo of suspense. There was power in making me wait.

Would she choose me?

Finally the jig was up.

I’m sorry, Kris, but I chose Kelly.

She tossed me another note, which I opened slowly, my heart pounding.

Want to be my second-place friend?

Circle Yes or No.

I blinked hard and slowly spun a thin circle around yes, adding a smiley heart for good measure. If I had been seasoned and secure, I would have discerned that her overt insistence in calling me Kris, a nickname she knew I despised, was terribly unkind. Certainly not the words of a friend, blatantly scorching an open wound.

We were not friends, in the truest sense of the word. Just classmates, seated side by side. There was no give and take, our relationship was a one-way street going her way.

This entire will she choose me incident was a knife in my young heart, an ache furthering my unspoken mission to become a pretzel, twisting myself to be whatever others wanted. It would take years and a heap of heartache for me to realize that the deepest desire of my heart, to be chosen, had already happened.

God had chosen me.

Once I grasped this truth, everything changed.

//

The finest example of genuine friendship is the ancient account recorded in 1 Samuel. The bond between Jonathan and David.

If ever there was an improbable friendship, this was it.

Jonathan’s father, King Saul, hated David, and was determined to kill him. While the King of Israel was consumed with envy due to David’s success and dazzling popularity among the people, Jonathan, prince and heir to the throne, was consumed with reverence and fear of God.

The Bible tells us, in aching simplicity, that Jonathan’s soul was knit to David’s, and he loved him as his own soul.

Knit.

Isn’t that a picture? Interwoven, gentle strength.

Jonathan relinquished his right to the throne, giving David his cloak, sword, and belt, because of his humble recognition of truth: his friend was God’s choice for future king.

Can you imagine? An heir by blood, honorably stepping aside out of supreme devotion to God and love for his best friend?

I believe Jonathan was one of the godliest men in all of Scripture.

He forfeited not only his royal standing, but his life for his friend, alerting David to every one of the King’s wicked, murderous, schemes. Saul grew so enraged by his son’s devotion to David that he attempted to spear Jonathan.

Even so, Jonathan’s loyalty remained unwavering, as he protected David. His friendship was a roaring fire kindled by humility, selflessness, and honor, seeking David’s good above his own, a posture born of security in God. The world and its ways fell to the wayside.

Jonathan could not be bought by power, pride, or prestige. He was God’s man.

His covenantal love was an earthly foreshadowing of Christ’s love for his own people, a love unto death.

Jonathan and Saul died in a battle against the Philistines, and David’s grief was overwhelming. The love, respect, and devotion encompassing their friendship did not cease with death. David went on to show immeasurable kindness to Mephibosheth, the son of Jonathan, giving the land of his grandfather to him, and offering him a permanent seat at his royal dinner table.

This account raises the friendship bar, does it not? Many scoff and jest at the deep love between these two men of ancient times, but I consider it powerful. A true devotion. God’s blueprint for enduring friendship.

//

Are you aware that you are not meant to be friends with anyone or everyone?

Perhaps you will find this little mantra helpful:

Be kind to all and friends with some.

Our souls are not meant for haphazard knitting. In fact, God instructs us to choose our friends thoughtfully, judiciously, and with great care. We must practice discernment.

The righteous choose their friends carefully. (Proverbs 12:26)

May we resist slipping into elementary thinking, casually tossing around the word friendship, using it lightly; indiscriminately.

//

There are many dear women I pray for, care for, talk to, and serve. But only a few are friends.

Authentic friendships are strong as bone and proven over time.

These special ones love me enough to ask hard questions, pray for my marriage, my husband, my children, their spouses, and my grandchildren. We have cried together, laughed together, and endured the hard and rocky places. They have shielded me from those seeking to harm, and have been a Jonathan by my side. They have seen me at my worst and corrected and uplifted me. They have rejoiced in my victories, and bent low with me in my sorrows. Our relationships are a back and forth commitment, a two-way street. I have an unspoken place at their table, and vice versa.

We are for each other. Our hearts are knit.

But even so, know this: Jesus is dearest, and Chief of my heart.

I ponder Him now, fully God and fully man. I consider the many ways he was kind to all and friends with some while walking the dusty road called earth. He ministered to his chosen twelve, invested more deeply into Peter, James, and John, and seemed closest to John. (John 13:23)

I have learned this: the deep friendships you crave will not flourish until your heart is first satisfied in Christ. Until then, friendship will be a dangling carrot, a dead-end road, and an idol burning in your heart.

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A true friend is closer than a brother. (Proverbs 18:24)

A true friend is not a friend of the world. (James 4:4)

A true friend will not gossip. (Proverbs 16:28, Proverbs 17:9)

A true friend is rare. (Proverbs 20:6)

A true friend will speak the truth in love. (Proverbs 27:5-6)

A true friend will give godly advice. (Proverbs 27:9)

A true friend will stick by you in hard times. (Proverbs 17:17)

A true friend is not one easily angered. (Proverbs 22:24-25)

A true friend desires your good more than their own. (Philippians 2:3-4)

Bad company corrupts. (1 Corinthians 15:33)

A month ago, we awoke to the prettiest snowfall: fluffy flakes descending and glistening in the morning sun. It was Saturday, my normal day to rest, but instead, I was playing catch-up after an eventful week.

I charged Alexa to find a playlist of relaxing instrumentals while I filled my coffee mug to the brim with vanilla roast and padded to my office in my favorite slippers.

Twenty minutes in, my husband appeared in the doorframe.

I think we should go sledding, he said.

I had not once considered it. In fact, the last time we had gone sledding was three years ago, a lively trio including our daughter.

So, I tucked my favorite pen inside my desk drawer and rose to find my winter boots. We ventured outdoors, creating fresh tracks through the wispy blanket of snow.

What fun! Two fifty-somethings trudging hilltop with one red sled, taking turns amid a cluster of skinny teenagers. The two of us must have seemed ancient and ridiculous in their youthful eyes…but never mind. Throwing caution (and perception) to the wind, we laughed as the wind nipped our noses.

After I zipped down the long hill, the sled gradually slowed. I stood and turned, looking up while shielding my eyes from the sun’s glare. My husband now seemed like a speck atop the hill.

A hill that suddenly resembled a mountain.

I weighed my options. If I raced up I would likely trip and plunge into a snowdrift. If I remained rooted to the earth, paralyzed by the rigorous climb, I would never reach the summit.

Festina lente, I thought.

Make haste slowly.

So I inhaled and with determination began, one boot in front of the other, and scaled the hill, our plastic sled bouncing lightly behind me.

After what seemed like many moons I reached the top, dazed and breathless, but happy. I handed the sled’s rope to my husband, who hunkered down and after one mighty push blazed down the slope, pumping his fist the entire way.

I laughed aloud.

//

The topic had been assigned, and I sat still, ruminating, watching the cursor blink rhythmically.

On the corner of my desk lay a three-by-five index card with my to-do list.

What if I work double time, and get everything done today? I mused.

So I went for it, permitting myself a scant two hours to write the entire article, determined to devote the rest of my workday to plowing through the remainder of my tasks.

I sprouted ears and became the rabbit of Aesop’s fable, hopping, racing, flying down too many trails, and after a couple of hours, I had penned a passable essay within the allotted word count.

I had not, however, reached the summit. The piece lacked warmth and personality. Heart and soul had evaporated in my haste.

And that is when I remembered a promise I once made, a silent pledge never to hit publish or send on words carelessly cobbled together– sentences yielding a bland, microwaved dinner.

How much grander to slowly, tenderly, peel, slice, braise, and season the ingredients, creating a rich, sumptuous stew of story–setting the mixture stovetop, setting the knob on low, and inviting the meaning and understanding to marinate–bubbling and simmering for days.

Festina lente.

//

At my office desk sits a miniature glass turtle, a cherished reminder that slow and steady, in the end, is rather lovely.

Aesop’s tortoise won the race, didn’t he?

My personal work, whether writing, teaching, tutoring, or cleaning houses, profits from a slow, steady burn, rather than a sizzling flash in the pan.

In this loco world, a culture obsessed with speed, I aim to choose the road less traveled, to make haste slowly, seeking to finish well.

Jesus finished well, accomplishing his Father’s will, while moving forward with calm resolve.

In fact, I cannot think of one instance in the Bible when Jesus rushed. His plate was full of Kingdom work, and he ministered to many. Christ was undeniably on mission, withdrawing only to pray and rest. Never once does Scripture indicate that our Savior scurried frantically from task to task. (Neither did he live passively, with lazy indifference.) His life was busy and purposeful.

He made haste with calm and measured surety.

The supreme example of diligence.

Festina lente.

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The plans of the diligent lead surely to abundance, but everyone who is hasty comes only to poverty.

(Proverbs 21:5)

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As a Christian walking through life’s inevitable storms, are you able to peacefully rest in the knowledge that God is always working, always good, and forever kind?

I invite you to listen in as writer, speaker, and podcaster Shannon Popkin and I discuss the Spirit’s fruit of kindness in the life of every believer, as well as the unusual kindness the Apostle Paul received in the middle of a tempest.

God is kind.

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Sign up for my monthly newsletter here.

The building is stuffy and reeks of urine and lethargy as the elderly lie bedridden beneath crumpled sheets.

Nonetheless, like moths to a flame, we happily return.

It goes like this: for the past fourteen months, in the busyness of hectic schedules, the pair of us, two middle-aged women who happen to be friends, carve out an afternoon, the words: Secret Service splashed across our day planners.

One of us offers to drive, and we chatter as we go, listening, counseling, tearing up, and laughing, swapping sermon notes and stories. We dive down down down, into the wondrous depths of the Bible, astonished by the ways God’s Word forms our daily lives.

This is our pact: as long as we have breath in our lungs, we refuse to retire from eternal work. This common passion unites us, a fire burning hot in our bones: taking the Gospel to the least of these.

As we arrive at the facility we pause to pray.

Please, Heavenly Father, give us soft and tender hearts. And courage to speak the truth in love.

I root around in my bag and pluck a piece of gum from the jumbo pack, curling the soft, minty stick between my teeth, a potent remedy for staving off the nausea that rises upon entering hallways stained by the noxious odor of death.

//

Lest you imagine that I am some do-gooder, a woman who has perfected these afternoons of Secret Service, having crucified all selfishness, or that I have been graced a blank calendar to do whatever-it-is-that-suits-my-fancy, know this: nothing could be further from the truth.

In fact, I always have a reasonable excuse to forgo local missions.

Always.

My day planner is stuffed. Fuller than I prefer. In further transparency, I struggle to accept the current demands in this season of life.

In fact, just last week I moaned to my husband about my lack of time, my lack of resources, and my relentless schedule.

Too much outpouring, Jon, all at once, I sighed, zinging calendar commitments toward him like bullets from a firing squad.

This is not sustainable, I might have whimpered, eyebrows rising as I stood in our kitchen, browning meat for the sauce.

I felt awful for complaining and later prayed and repented of my griping.

My about-face was swift as the Lord kindly brought to mind Corrie and Betsie Ten Boom, sisters once jailed in Ravensbrück, middle-aged women who repeatedly shared the Gospel while suffering in this Nazi prison camp. If two, middle-aged Dutch women, once huddled and freezing in threadbare rags, starving, mistreated, and forced to work inhumane hours were willing to share the Gospel and risk further torture, who am I to whine?

Proverbs 10:5 says:

He who gathers in summer is a prudent son, but he who sleeps in harvest is a son who brings shame.

I run my finger slowly across the verses once, twice, and again, remembering an old-fashioned phrase that rights my wandering heart:

Make hay while the sun shines.

We are called to intentionally share the truth of Jesus now before he returns.

//

So, my friend and I keep returning to this forsaken place, holding each other accountable, making hay while the sun shines. We leave uplifted and exhilarated, knowing we are pleasing God by sharing his Son.

Christ is with us, leading the way.

What a privilege to travel the rooms full of shattered bodies and minds, listening to stories and sorrows and garbled, nonsensical words strung together. We read the Bible and pray as we clasp veiny hands and cradle aching hearts. My friend pulls a pair of reading glasses from a stash she keeps in her shoulder bag, a gift that perpetually yields startled, happy grins. I can see!

We speak clearly, and in unadorned speech: the misery born of sin, the about-face of repentance, and the beauty of Christ–crucified and risen to redeem those given to him by the Father. Every visit is a touch different; never as tidy as one might imagine. Regardless, our mission remains fixed.

We have come to scatter Gospel seeds and ask the Lord to bring dead bones to life.

Our visits have been met with curiosity and warmth, resistance and disgust. Not everyone is a fan of Truth, and some have even denied us permission to pray over them. One might guess that elderly, feeble men and women, languishing in a hospital bed would respond with relief and delight at the hope of salvation offered through Jesus.

But the hard truth is that poverty, illness, old age, and looming death (in and of themselves) do not produce heart transformation. Neither do riches, good health, or youth.

Heart change is a work of God.

My friend and I have watched, stunned, as turbulent responses to the Gospel rise in a terrifying, mighty crescendo, on vivid display in those dingy, overheated rooms as infirmed stiff-arm Christ. It cuts my heart, to see Corinthians 2:16 play out in real-time:

But thanks be to God, who in Christ always leads us in triumphal procession, and through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of him everywhere. For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing, to one a fragrance from death to death, to the other a fragrance from life to life. Who is sufficient for these things? For we are not, like so many, peddlers of God’s word, but as men of sincerity, as commissioned by God, in the sight of God we speak in Christ.

My comfort is this: God is sovereign in everything, including salvation. So, we continue to labor and trust him.

//

No one is promised tomorrow.

But we do have this moment, a precious gift, this sliver in time.

Take a moment to genuinely reflect. Are you joyfully sharing the Gospel or have you grown lackadaisical? Do you unapologetically love comfort to the degree that you religiously sink into your cushioned chair, scrolling the stock market, news, and social media, while skipping face-to-face Gospel sharing? Do you make decisions primarily based on ease? Are you passively refusing to deny yourself anything in order to meet spiritual needs?

Or perhaps you are terribly busy doing good things but have forgotten the purpose and pleasure of sharing the Good News?

As my husband often says, Jesus gave us The Great Commission, not The Great Suggestion.

It’s time to get going.

I invite you to rise and go, sharing the truth with people in your locale. Image-bearers who are aching, in need of Christ.

How sad for any Christian to fritter away golden days on trivial pursuits; how beautiful, how prudent to go and share the goodness of Christ Jesus today.

I pray you will link arms with a Christian friend and get to it. Yes, you might feel uncomfortable or nervous at first, but over time it will become more natural and even fun.

How precious to know that God is near and will gift you with words. The results are in his hands.

God has placed us on planet Earth to know him, adore him, and make him known.

So go ahead and make hay.

While there is still time.

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And he said to them, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” – Matthew 4:19

I invite you to sign up to receive my free monthly newsletter.

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Today, I happily invite you inside the world of our oldest son, whose days are filled to the brim with Kingdom work. May his story encourage and embolden you to go and serve others well.

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Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends.

-John 15:13