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BY LYNN UNGAR, MINISTER FOR LIFESPAN LEARNING, CHURCH OF THE LARGER FELLOWSHIP
To tell the truth, the ox thought it was just a little unfair. I mean, it wasn't as if they had a lot of extra room in the stable as it was. The stable already housed not only the ox, but also a cow, a horse, a donkey and a variety of chickens. Still, when you get right down to it, folks have to sleep somewhere, and so he didn't much mind moving over and leaving his stall space to the man and the woman, especially seeing as how she was so far along. Of course, he had no idea how far along until later that night. Before the ox could turn around (which there wasn't really room to do anyway), not only was there an extra man and an extra woman in the stable, there was also an extra baby. They laid him in a manger—the ox's manger—on top of the nice clean hay that the ox had intended to snack on later that night. But still, a baby is a baby, and you could hardly begrudge him a place to sleep where he was safe from careless hooves. No, the ox thought, looking back on the scene some years later, it wasn't really so bad. A bit cramped, a bit awkward, but nothing really to complain about when you thought of the cold outside. Not so bad, that is, until the next day, when the shepherds started arriving...with their sheep...and their sheepdogs, bossy things, always ordering everyone about. You couldn't, he admitted, leave them out in the cold, and they seemed so eager to see the baby, their rough faces gentle with wonder as they gazed at the little boy. But still, in retrospect, the ox supposed that one shepherd would have been quite enough, and the sheep could have stayed outside for a while. But the shepherds were folk used to being with animals in a quiet way, comfortable and unpretentious, so it could have been worse.
For instance, they could have been kings...rather like the ones who strolled in a few days later...three of them...with gifts...and camels. The ox was a patient beast, gentle and mild-mannered, but by the time he'd knocked over the myrrh trying to avoid stepping on a sheep and caught his horn on the elaborate tassels of a camel's head-gear, it was simply more than the poor ox could stand. He kicked open the stable door and bolted out into the night.
The night! It was like nothing he'd ever imagined, safe in the stable at sundown. The air was cold, and somehow thin, as if it had been stretched out into the vast spaces of the sky. And the stars! They seemed at once so close that his horns might dislodge them and so distant that his mind began to spin. One star seemed to hover above the stable, both closer and more majestically distant than all the rest. It was stunning, glorious, shimmering with what sounded, in the fevered imagination of the trembling ox, like distant bells, or an unthinkable chorus of angelic voices. The night! The stars! It was beauty like nothing he had ever known, grandeur that left him terrified and shaken. The ox tried to move back toward the safety of the stable, but he couldn't seem to get his legs to move.
The ox had no idea how long he stood there before he felt the warm touch of a hand on his neck.
"Ah, my friend," said the man they called Joseph, "so you, too, come out into the night. Could it be that even a simple beast feels as I do? Sometimes the splendor in there is more than I can stand. I find myself gazing at the child until time stands still, caught in the beauty of that new life. Why is it that when I look at him I feel like a whole new world is starting to unfold before my eyes? Does every father learn to live with such a glimpse into eternity? Sometimes it's more than this old heart can take, and I have to walk out into the simplicity of the night, for fear I will get lost in such open spaces."
The ox, being an ox, said nothing, only leaned into the comforting warmth of the man and pondered. How could it be that simplicity and glory, tight corners and vast spaces could be so strangely mixed? Did the singing that still filled him come from out in the stars or somewhere deep inside? Eventually, the man and the ox turned and headed back toward the stable. The man lay down in the straw of the ox's bed, and the ox nosed his way in so that he could look at the sleeping baby. "Why yes! I see it now." Somehow, the face of the child, even in sleep, seemed to hold love wide enough to encompass animals, shepherds, wise men and every wandering stranger. The ox had lived in the stable all his life, but until that moment he had never noticed that, through a crack in the roof, one star shone in to the stable, impossibly bright, impossibly near, impossibly distant, shining on the impossibly open face of the sleeping child.
What do we hope to pass on to our loved ones at the conclusion of our lives? This course will provide you with tools for writing a personal document which will preserve for your family the legacy of your unique life and learnings. Taught by religious educator Colleen MacDonald, this course begins January 8th, and runs for four weeks.
What do we hope to pass on to our loved ones at the conclusion of our lives? This course will provide you with tools for writing a personal document which will preserve for your family the legacy of your unique life and learnings.
Taught by religious educator Colleen MacDonald, this course begins January 8th, and runs for four weeks.
We're asked to do it all the time—keep our balance in the midst of challenge and change. In this course you will learn a simple tool to look at your own life in terms of 8 dimensions of balance. Then, after becoming clearer about your personal strengths and values, you will create at least one plan to move toward your vision of balanced living. Taught by the Rev. Dr. Maureen Killoran, a UU minister and professional life coach, this course begins January 15th and runs for four weeks.
We're asked to do it all the time—keep our balance in the midst of challenge and change. In this course you will learn a simple tool to look at your own life in terms of 8 dimensions of balance. Then, after becoming clearer about your personal strengths and values, you will create at least one plan to move toward your vision of balanced living.
Taught by the Rev. Dr. Maureen Killoran, a UU minister and professional life coach, this course begins January 15th and runs for four weeks.
Each of these courses carries a $40 fee. Register by going to www.clfuu.org/learn.
BY LISA DOEGE, MINISTER, FIRST UNITARIAN CHURCH, SOUTH BEND, INDIANA
There is a story told of my brother, who, held in my mother's arms as she walked through a doorway, reached out and flicked the light switch on and then off again. Amazed by this power he never knew he had, he stared at his index finger in awe for the next several minutes.
Most of us perform that simple act dozens, hundreds of times a day. Lights go on and then off again at our command in response to our desire, and we seldom recognize the miracle. But as a people, we have never quite forgotten that there was a time when darkness was vast and deep and frightening, and our ability to command and create light in the form of fire and simple lamps and candles, limited. We have never stopped working incantations as the longest night of the year approaches. Never stopped encouraging, then celebrating, the sun's return to strength through our displays of whatever light we have at hand.
There is much to be said for the restful, calming stillness that often accompanies darkness. Indeed, just yesterday my mom helped me devise a better way of keeping the ever-present city light from shining through my bedroom windows and disturbing my sleep. There is much to be said for drawing near to one another and to our homes and resting in the darkness, gathering energy after a season of activity. There is much to be said about light and darkness and the relationship between the two and our relationship with both. But this time I want to talk about the light.
Ancient northern peoples lit bonfires to entice the sun's return—at least that's what we modern folks assume. But we know it's coming back. The newspaper tells us each morning exactly when the sun will rise and set. And yet we join the company of those who through the ages have commanded what light they had at their control to hold the night at bay, to ward off unseen creatures and forces, to assist the sun's return.
Secure in our knowledge and experience of natural law, we could just sit back and wait for the light to return. It is so often a good thing for us to let go, to recognize what we have control over and what we do not, and to respect that distinction. The imbalance of sunlight and darkness at this time of year is one of those things over which we have no control, and which we might be better off leaving to the care and rhythms of nature. But there are times, and this is one of them, when waiting for the light is not enough.
In the past couple of weeks, driving to and from church or the grocery store after dark I've been focusing on displays of holiday lights ranging from a single strand of colored bulbs twinkling in a neighbor's window to grand exhibitions visible a block away. Electric icicles twinkling from rooftops. Soaring trees covered with lights to heights that must have required quite a ladder. Hedges elegantly draped with white lights. Front porches wrapped in red, white, and blue lights. Lit Christmas trees sparkling through front windows. Trees and deer and sleighs and stars and Santa and words of greetings and peace, all created out of light, shining wherever I look in the dark of night or early morning.
It seems to me that there are more holiday lights this year. It may simply be my perception. It may be that the warm weather has allowed folks who usually procrastinate too long to get out there and hang those lights they've meant to hang every other year but never quite gotten around to it. But I think there is something more subtle and more precious at work. The darkness seems deeper this year. The unknown creatures and forces we thought we left far behind in the history of humankind seem to lurk just beyond the edge of the light, at the ready, perhaps, to do us ill, whenever the chance presents itself. We can't cause the events of September 11th to not have happened. We can't undo the subsequent bombing in Afghanistan, nor bring an end to its continuation. We can't bring an end to the war in Iraq, or replace all the lives lost in recent years to tsunami and earthquake and wind and flood. We can't forget these lessons about our vulnerability, about the limits of our control and our power. The darkness seems deeper and more frightening than it has in many years. Waiting for the light isn't enough this year. We need to create what light we can. We need the cheer, the comfort, the hope kindled by candles, Yule fires, strings of colored light.
A few years ago at General Assembly I heard the children's author, Byrd Baylor, deliver the annual Fahs Lecture (named for Unitarian religious educator Sophia Lyon Fahs). Ms. Baylor read us two of her books—The Table Where Rich People Sit, and I'm in Charge of Celebrations. Before reading she spoke a little bit about writing and about living close to the land in her desert home. And she began her remarks by saying she was glad to be with us, even though it meant being away from home on the Summer Solstice. Then she laughed and said, "Nah, it's OK without me. It's the Winter Solstice I have to worry about."
I've thought about that comment each year as Winter Solstice approaches, and on the 21st I'll once again picture Byrd Baylor at home helping the sun return. I don't know what exactly she'll do. But I know she'll be outside, marking the shortest day of the year and, with a smile on her face, asking the sun to return.
It's easy, from our modern scientific perspective, to scoff at the idea of helping the sun return. It seems both a grandiose estimation of our power and importance, and a naive, primitive understanding of nature's abilities and reliability. But those are intellectual approaches to the whole affair, and we seldom live our lives at a solely intellectual level.
I once heard a World War II veteran talk about VE day. He and his shipmates watched from their ship as lights suddenly came on, all up and down the eastern seaboard, lights that had been blackened through long months of fearing air raids. It's a story that's easy to picture in my mind. If you've ever been away from the city, far away from all sources of artificial light, you remember how black the night becomes, and can imagine the dramatic symbol of the end of the war contained in those lights blinking on, one by one, until the shore was outlined in light.
I believe we all live in hope of seeing a distant and beloved shore light up in that same fashion one day. We wait for the cessation of hostilities in so many places around the world. We wait for the return of peace to our families, our communities. We wait for love to break into our lives again. We wait for depression or fear or disappointment or grief or estrangement to recede that the joy of living might shine brightly in our days again. We wait for light to dawn in our lives in so many ways. And some amount of waiting for the right time, the right circumstances is always necessary, but waiting for the light alone is never enough.
Letters to the editor, to our congressional leaders, to the President won't bring about an immediate end to military action in Iraq . Protests and marches and prayers and drumming won't stop the bloodshed in the Middle East, in Nepal, in a dozen other places around the globe.
Writing a check to the Center for the Homeless, filling our baskets for our local Neighborhood Center and AIDS Ministries/AIDS Assist, laying sod in front of Habitat for Humanity houses, will not eliminate the problems of homelessness, hunger, disease and discrimination in our community. But each of these actions, and thousands more like them, are candles lit in a vast darkness, bringing us ever closer to our noble goals.
Bereavement groups can't erase the loss of a loved one, but can and do allow light to shine again, despite the loss. Family feuds are messy, complicated, remarkably tenacious things, but a phone call, a letter, even a kind glance can begin the unraveling. Therapy and medication can help banish depression. The sun will return no sooner than the laws of the universe decree that it will.
We must be patient. But in the meantime, we can and we must create what light we can. The light of fires and candles and electric bulbs. The light of love and friendship and forgiveness. The light of justice and compassion and generosity. And so, in the words of the medieval Fra Giovanni, "at this Christmas time, I greet you...with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks and the shadows flee away."
BY JACO TEN HOVE, CO-MINISTER, PAINT BRANCH UU CHURCH, ADELPHI, MARYLAND
Ever since I took an astronomy course in 1980, taught by an infectiously excitable professor, I've been awakened to the night sky and its twinkling stars. For over 20 years now, I've been conducting informal tours of the constellations with almost anyone who will listen—and have tried to explain to folks what little I can grasp about our evolving understanding of the shape of the universe.
Meanwhile, once a year, along comes the Christmas story, featuring the star power of an impressive celestial event. Sure, there are lots of important characters in this story—various animals and angels, royalty on a mission, a poor young family in a stable, etc., but the Star of Bethlehem is what has always drawn my attention the most.
As a rational Unitarian Universalist, I determined early on that it was probably somebody's imaginative rendering of either a single bright star or perhaps a conjunction of a star and a bright planet. Bright and dramatic stars are worth pursuing, certainly. But what I want to tell you about is actually one of the dimmest sights we can see with the unaided eye. In order to see this spot, because it is so faint, one must use a viewing technique almost like the one used for those "Magic Eye" pictures—where if you defocus your vision just right you can see an otherwise hidden shape or image. Seeing this faint spot requires something called "averted vision." By using averted vision, we look near but not directly at a desired but dim object, and lo, it appears in our peripheral vision. Stare right at it and you can't see it, but avert your gaze just a bit and it can be seen off center.
Telescopes can see much, much farther than our naked eye can, of course. The farthest we could normally see without such aid is about 75,000 light years, reaching to the far edge of our Milky Way galaxy. From that edge, now imagine two million more light years of basically emptyspace before the object of my affection comes into view. That's about 25 times farther out into deep space, which is where our neighbor galaxy Andromeda is. It continues to be a highlight of each summer for me when I can locate—and point out to others—this special, tiny, dim, meaningful spot of immense power, throbbing with 200 billion stars.
The averted vision thing has taught me that you can find value in looking from an altered angle—shifting your gaze slightly and staying open to what might emerge in your wider periphery.
It's that way with the Christmas story, for me at least. There's this all-but-admittedly fictional tale we tell each year, and of course it doesn't hold up under scrutiny. From the direct, frontal, literal view the truer, deeper definition eludes us. If big, obvious parts of it don't work for us—anymore or ever—we might choose to look away altogether.
But I enjoy applying averted vision to Christmas. I turn my gaze, even slightly, from the orthodox, the commercialized, the trivialized aspects. I look past or around the thin pieces that can obscure a more subtle and humane spirit, one that breathes life into and through this season.
I intentionally cross my eyes and defocus my vision so I can see an otherwise hidden shape or image embedded in the traditional portrayals. I look off center, beyond the literal, and I see an enduring story with characters—various animals and angels, royalty on a mission, a poor young family in a manger, and a Star of Bethlehem that was maybe more brilliant then than now.
In the darkness of this time of year, may we center ourselves—off-center as appropriate—and rise up to follow the stars of our own powerful perception. As the Christmas story unfolds all around us once again, may we honor the deeper truths and beauties it speaks of in language we all translate through our own lenses. May we raise our sights and not just look at the wonderful bright lights, but also see farther and deeper into the heart of things infinite and eternal.
BY CLARKE DEWEY WELLS, MINISTER EMERITUS, UU CONGREGATION OF LAKELAND, FLORIDA
Messiahs I have known from my earliest years in the holy land of Michigan: surely Tom Harmon, Hank Greenberg, Gene Kelly, Shakespeare, Sir Galahad, Lincoln. Certainly Errol Flynn descending as mythic avatar in Robin Hood, the Sea Hawk, Marshall of Dodge City, Captain Courtney of the Royal Flying Corps.
I've also met the Messiah in female forms: Judith in the Bible who drove a tent spike into the ear canal of a bad guy, and Sappho and Mae West and Marlene Dietrich ("I don't believe in a God and if it does exist it's crazy.") My patriarchal and macho prejudices about women, their timidity, lack of adventuresomeness and short reach of imagination, were early on permanently jolted by these powerful presences.
And now it's another Advent and preparation for the arrival of another Messiah. Although he's not the only one, baby Jesus is an absolute winner in my book: a kid out of Nazareth who turned the world upside down, who told parables that still ravish my ears, so simple and mysterious, so carefree and caring, so subversive and conserving, a messiah who shines even today like a silver salver in the sun. I'll prepare room for him, this Mr. Wonderful, Mighty God, King of Kings, Prince of Peace.
I bet he danced as good as Kelly and batted like Greenberg; I bet Sappho would make poems for him; I bet, if there's a heaven, he's flying in a Spad, with Courtney's white silk scarf around his neck trailing from the cockpit behind him, I bet he's shooting down every Nazi in sight.
I bet he's swapping jokes with Mae West and she tells him to peel her a grape; I bet he's at the Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap drinking sack with Will and telling him to lay off the adjectives; I bet he's Galahad and Lincoln telling Douglas one more time, "Slavery is wrong"; I bet he's punting the ball back to Harmon on the green fields. I bet he's saying to all of us at Advent, "Look around you, lo, there, here, the realm of God—it's present, it's at hand, it's breaking in, take it, take it, it's yours; you who have walked in the darkness, look, look, a great light!"
BY JANE RZEPKA, SENIOR MINISTER, CHURCH OF THE LARGER FELLOWSHIP
'Tis the season. And in spite of the simplicity of the Epiphany story, the messages inherent in gift-giving can get muddled. I'm under the impression that even when all involved are pretty healthy emotionally, and they love each other, the ritual of giving and receiving presents isn't always all wonder and joy. I know that for many, exchanging presents at holiday-time is an unreflective breeze, and for others the exercise is an anxious one fraught with mystery and peril. Why?
1. Receiving a gift can raise questions about one's identity.
What kind of present did you get? Who do they think you are? Are you being thought of as a boring old-fashioned relative? A best friend? A lowly employee? A sophisticated intellectual with expensive tastes? Potential dating material? Did you receive champagne glasses, furnace filters, novelties to hang from your rear view mirror, roller blades, doilies?
You receive a tie as a gift and everyone knows you never wear ties? Somebody wants you to turn into a person who wears ties. You are a proud Unitarian Universalist, you open a beautifully wrapped gift from your sister—it's the Book of Mormon—you are quite certain that your sister would like you to be a Mormon like her. Your office mate watches you read Stephen King every chance you get and for the holidays she gets you Steven Hawking—you've got somebody close by who wants you to turn from a horror fan to a cosmologist.
The holidays are a time to feel proud and sure of who you are. Don't let what's under the tree or by the Menorah disturb your balance.
2. Gifts can raise questions about one's relationships.
What might the gift say about the relationship between the giver and the receiver? Indeed, studies show that presents often do symbolize the relationship.
When I first arrived at my office in my former congregation, the owner of one of the local funeral homes left me two live lobsters. What would you guess he meant by that? Did he think if he welcomed me in this way that he and I would be friends? Was he trying to scare me by putting two live clawing crustaceans in my office? Did he think I looked hungry? Of course not. Clearly the funeral director would welcome any referrals that might come his way.
But say, just for fun, that my parents had sent the lobsters. In that case I would have imagined that because my parents love me, they wanted to surprise me by treating me to something unexpected and nice. However, some would say that by sending lobsters, my parents were showing their disappointment that I don't earn enough money to buy a lot of lobsters on my own. Or by sending lobsters, they could be telling me it's high time I grew up and learned to eat seafood. Or by sending lobsters they could point out that the presents I send them are unimaginative, cheap and ridiculous.
When receiving presents that you think carry a hidden message, don't speculate. Ask. Most of the time, a present is simply a present.
3. Reciprocity can be tricky.
Theoretically, gift giving is voluntary. But if you give a present to someone, chances are good that that person will feel enormous internal pressure to reciprocate in some way. That's how most cultures work.
There is a story about an isolated settlement on Victoria Island in about 1850. Commander Robert McClure wrapped a scarf around the neck of a young woman who appeared to be suffering from the cold. She reacted by becoming upset and gesturing that she had nothing to give in return. Finally, in painful desperation, she drew her small child from her hood, where she was keeping him warm, and offered him to Commander McClure in order to fulfill her social obligation. When she learned that Commander McClure expected her to keep both the child and the scarf, she was amazed.
You send a coloring book and crayons for a child's sixth birthday; they send your child a Game Boy when her birthday rolls around. So when the kids turn seven, you send a PlayStation 2; they send a jar of bubbles. Who knows what's going on? Maybe complicated symbolic messages and power plays, maybe innocent attempts at doing the right thing, maybe spontaneous acts of generosity, maybe somebody just doesn't have time to pay attention.
I am convinced that giving and receiving gifts sometimes can be difficult because our customs are not uniform, our emotions are not always clear, and our ability to interpret the symbolism involved—if it is there at all—is more an art than a science. I would only say that direct communication is often a help, that emotional clarity when exchanging gifts increases the chances of an appropriate response, and that upon receiving a gift, one does well to choose the happiest, healthiest, and most gracious of the possible responses to it.
After all, it's only stuff! To receive with joy and good spirit, feet firmly on the ground, in an attitude of simple, spoken gratitude, can help to make the holidays merry and bright.
How do you feel about waiting? If you're like most people—kids especially—it's probably one of your least favorite things to do. I was certainly glad when my daughter learned to tell time, so that when she was waiting for a friend to come over, or a party to start, I didn't have to answer the question "How much longer?" every minute and a half. Let's face it, there are an awful lot of things in life that require waiting: waiting for your turn on the swings, or at bat; waiting for your birthday to come; waiting for your parents to be ready to leave the house; waiting for a friend to call; waiting for vacation to come, or school to start. Parents say to their kids: "Hold your horses!" and kids say to their parents: "Are we there yet?"
For most people, waiting is just something you struggle to get through until you reach the good part—whatever it is you were waiting for. Which is why it seems kind of surprising that this season brings us a month-long holiday which is all about waiting. It's called Advent, and in the Christian church, especially the Roman Catholic church, Advent is celebrated as the time of waiting for Christmas.
Weird, right? Why would you have a holiday about waiting for a holiday? Especially when people really hate waiting? I think to understand Advent, you have to think about waiting in a different way. Usually we think about waiting as being like waiting in line for a roller coaster at the amusement park. You inch forward, trying to look up ahead to see when you're going to get there and what it's going to be like, feeling a little bit excited and a little bit scared and maybe a lot bored. But I think the waiting that is celebrated during Advent is more like waiting for a baby to be born—which makes sense, since Advent is about looking toward the birth of the baby Jesus at Christmas.
When a family is waiting for a baby to be born, they know there is no way to rush the process—if all goes well, a baby is going to take about nine months to be ready to come out, and that's just what you expect. You don't necessarily want to rush the process, because there's so much to do to get ready. You might get a special room prepared for the baby, with a crib and decorations that a little one would enjoy. You would want to get diapers, and baby clothes, and a baby bath and a car seat and a stroller and baby toys and…well, there seems to be a lot of stuff that goes with babies. But at the same time that you're getting all the things ready, there's a lot of getting ready inside yourself that goes on. You might spend a lot of time daydreaming, imagining what it's going to be like to be a parent or a brother or sister. You might need time to talk about ways that you are afraid that things are going to change, and to imagine the fun things you'll do together as the baby grows up. You might even start thinking about big stuff like what kind of world this baby is going to be born into, and how you could make it a safer or kinder or more beautiful place for this new person to live in.
The waiting that is the Advent holiday is that kind of waiting—a kind of paying attention, a kind of getting ready for the baby Jesus who grew up to teach people about love and generosity and forgiveness and justice. Which is why many families this time of year will follow the practice of lighting the candles of the Advent wreath. Advent starts four Sundays before Christmas (December 3rd this year), and each of those Sundays has a special candle that sits inside a wreath of greenery. There are three purple candles, and one rose (or pink) one. The first Sunday of Advent you light the first candle, which stands for Hope, and you share readings or thoughts or prayers or reflections on the topic of hope. The second Sunday you light both the first (Hope) candle, and the second purple candle, which stands for Peace, and you share on the topic of peace. The third Sunday you light the first two purple candles and then the rose candle, which stands for Joy, which would be the topic of your reflections. Then the fourth Sunday you light all the candles, including the third purple one, which stands for Love, and you share your thoughts or readings about love.
With this ritual and time of reflection, waiting for Christmas might just feel a little more like the tender time of waiting for a baby, rather than just the anticipation of opening a bunch of presents—which, like the roller coaster ride, is really exciting for a very short while, and then kind of a let down. By taking a little time to think and feel and breathe, you might just put yourself in the mood for hope, peace, joy and love, which is just the way to welcome any baby, whether born more than 2000 years ago or just yesterday.
BY MARK BELLETINI, SENIOR MINISTER, FIRST UU CHURCH OF COLUMBUS, OHIO
The miracle is not that oil lasts, but that our hope lasts, despite disappointment. Barukh atah, tiqvah! Blest are you, hope!
The miracle is not that fire illumines, but that we grow brighter. Barukh atah, zohar! Blest are you, brightness!
The miracle is not that people tell ancient stories, but that people dare to live their own stories. Barukh atah, midrashim! Blest are you, stories!
The miracle is not that tyranny is resisted, but that resistance recreates us into new beings. Barukh atah, khadash. Blest are you, new being.
The miracle is not that courage exists, but that courage does not, every time, have to ball itself into a fist... Barukh atah, khayil Blest are you, courage.
Last updated January 14, 2007
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