Favorite Part of the Day


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My favorite part of the day is around 7pm, around the time he takes his daily shower. His little brother is playing in his room, making dinosaur roars or superhero exclamations of grandeur and rescue.

My oldest child sings in the shower. And he sounds so free. He’s usually so shy or crippled by anxiety that he rarely speaks, never to strangers, barely to me. When he does it’s an outburst, a meltdown, more and more lately a threat.

But when he’s in the shower he sings like no one’s listening. Like no one’s home. Tonight he croons Alicia Keys’ “Unthinkable” and I could cry.

Around 7pm my house smells like soap and sounds like melodic joy and my child is free. His mind is clear and all that matters to him are the lyrics, the rhythms and the beats that calm his soul.

His singing mixes with his brother’s playing and for a moment I feel peace. For a moment I can write again. I can read again. I can breathe again. I am free.

It’s my favorite part of the day.

My God

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Loving him was never quite right. I could list the cliches: I spoke and he didn't listen. I showed up and he abandoned. I could cry the bitter tears of a servant with no master. But the details do not matter. He was never mine to love. Placed on a cross I'm not sure he signed up for. A cross he didn't deserve. I guess we both did our best. Him to be my god and me to be his sheep. When I lost him, I prayed my last prayer. I prayed for you. For someone I could truly worship. Someone to give all of my praise and devotion, ironically blind with all faith.

I'm okay admitting it, even if You don't agree. Your feet will be my alter, Your body, the body of christ, Your blood, his blood. You will be my God. I'll proclaim Your name like I once proclaimed his. To me it is the same. To me You mean more. Worshiping You is the purest devotion I can give. It comes without doubt, without fear. It comes with a God I believe in. I'm okay admitting it, even if You don't agree. I take joy in my sacrilege as I worship at Your feet. 

Maybe You're a vessel as some would claim. Maybe the love I hear in Your voice is his way of calling me back, keeping me through You. I won't argue if that's true. It won't change my actions, it won't redirect my following. For me, there is only You.

I won't ask for a cross, this servitude does not require You to lay down Your life. I will lay down my own. I will pick up my splintered cross and follow You. Wherever You go, I will be there, even if You lead me back to him. 

My hands will lift to You, my heart will fill with praise. My lips will declare Your name and the world will know Your glory. You will be my God, even if You don't agree. I take joy in my sacrilege as I worship at Your feet. 

The Way You Make Me Feel

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The single black mother has been laid up in bed with a crackhead, drunk as fuck and she hasn't seen her children in three days... the ones that live with her, anyway.

The way you make me feel. 

The single black mother was a loose child. She'd been fuckin' around since she was 12 and by the time she was 16 she got caught up.

The little black ho became something even worse, the single black mother.

The way you make me feel. 

The single black mother is a waitress. She works nights and drinks and her children take care of her the best they can... the ones that live with her anyway.

When the single black mother does see her children, she yells at them and beats them and makes sure they know they are festering regrets.

The way you make me feel. 

Her revolving door of boyfriends bring men that are increasingly evil.

They touch her children one by one.

Her children cry and the single black mother ignores them.

What? You've seen her in movies so you know that it's true.

The way you make me feel.

If the single black mother needs help, do not help her. Take her children away.

If the single black mother is depressed, do not help her. Take her children away. 

If the single black mother is young and has never done this before and needs patience and understanding and guidance, do not help her. Take her children away.

Save her children before they become her and create more of her. 

The way you make me feel. 

Boy Child

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Keith’s parents were some of the richest motherfuckers I’d ever met. They hosted their only son’s high school graduation party in a ballroom at the Grand Hyatt Hotel in downtown Denver. It looked like a wedding, just filled with a bunch of teenagers and old relatives that couldn’t take the noise.

I said hello to my best friend, my fellow graduate, then looked around the room for the last third of my crew.

Dante was hovering over the punch bowl when I approached him. It must have been spiked. We didn't get past "Sup" and a fist bump before I felt hands suddenly covering my eyes. 

“Guess who?” Kayla asked.

Her high-pitched squeal was easy to recognize. I moved her hands away from my face and caught the tail end of Dante holding back a laugh. Kayla was the most popular girl in school. She had long blonde hair and enough booty to make a black girl jealous. She had a perfect face, a tight body, a tolerable personality, good grades, was head cheerleader, blah, blah, blah. Every girl hated her and every guy wanted her, but she was mine. We had been a “couple” for about six months now. According to her warped logic, as long as she kept swiping Daddy’s credit card and supplying more than half of my wardrobe, my heart and my penis belonged to her and only her. Boys will be boys and fools will be fools.

I turned and faced her.

“Hey, baby,” I said, kissing her on the lips.

“Where’ve you been? I tried calling you after your party.”

“With Denise,” would have been the wrong thing to say so I settled for, “just busy, sorry.”

“It’s okay. At least you’re here now.” She wrapped her arms around my neck, assuming her usual octopus positioning when we were around other people. Sometimes I swore she’d pee on me when other girls were around just to prove a point. 

“Mmm, you smell good,” she said. She buried her face in my neck and it felt good. My neck was my spot. Information she knew.

“Gotta smell good for you, baby, always for you.”

“Ok, love birds,” Dante interrupted, “I’ll see y’all later.”

“Bye!” Kayla chirped, bubbly as ever.

As I gave Dante a head nod, I noticed a girl just beyond his left shoulder. She had long, wavy hair and wore a tight, black dress that made her look like sex on legs. My favorite style. Her eyes were on mine and she smiled, gave me a wink. I wondered how long she was watching. I made a mental note of her gaze but gave her no physical response. I looked back down at Kayla before she followed my wandering eye.

“You want to get out of here?” she asked.

“I just got here.”

The girl in black moved towards Kayla and me. She stopped and started talking to this guy that I think was in my photography class.

“But, I have a surprise for you,” Kayla whined.

I tried to focus on the girl in front of me but, as fine as she was, new pussy always looked better than old pussy. Kayla took my left hand with her right, looked around the room, checking our limited level of privacy and slid my hand down her pants. I felt her silky smooth skin and nothing else, no granny panties, no boy shorts, no nothing.

“I shaved her clean for you, daddy,” she said, trying to whisper seductively but eventually having to speak up because the music was so loud.

Fuck. That felt good. I let my hand linger there, enjoying the fact that we could be spotted at any moment. I curled my middle finger up inside of her, making her moan before I pulled my hand out of her pants and back into my pocket.

“Damn, baby,” I exhaled, halfway speaking to her, halfway to myself. I was torn. Kayla had skills to say the least. She would do anything I asked her to do in or out of the bedroom. A week ago I told her that I wondered what she felt like completely shaved and now here she was, smooth as silk. But she was getting too clingy. A girl who would do anything for you eventually would want everything from you. I needed her to know that her pussy didn’t control me, that I wasn’t going to do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted like she did for me. Besides, the less affected I acted, the more she needed to please me.

“She feels good,” I said, keeping my voice casual.

I bent down to give her a kiss and the girl in the black dress caught my eye again. The dude from photography class was talking her ear off. She was clearly uninterested as she kept her eyes on me. I kissed Kayla but kept my eyes, unlike Kayla’s, open. I stared at the girl in the black dress as I sucked on Kayla’s tongue that was already in the back of my throat. She was standing only about ten feet away from us and I felt like she was the one I was kissing. The girl in the black dress stared at me, stared at me and bit her bottom lip. She was bold. Anyone who had any sense and a good pair of contact lenses could see what she was doing but I guess she didn’t care. The more I kissed Kayla the more the girl in the black dress bit her bottom lip, licked her top lip, and slid her fingers up and down the middle of her dress. Holy shit, she was turning me on.

“Ouch!” Kayla screamed.

My eyes darted back to the girl in front of me. She was repeatedly touching her lip and drawing back fingers smeared with blood.

“Darren! What the hell? You bit me!”  

Keith, who happened to be walking by, gave me a Please, no drama look. I gave him a head nod, letting him know I wouldn’t disrespect him like that.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Kayla, trying to calm her down.

I didn’t even notice I bit her, didn’t feel my jaw clenching, my teeth closing down on her thin lip. I was way too lost in thought.

The girl in the black dress licked her lips one last time, turned her back to me and started walking out of the room, leaving that guy from my photography class standing alone, still rambling. She reached the doorway that led to the hotel’s main lobby, pivoted to give me one last look, then left. My eyes were glued to her body and this time I couldn’t hide it.

Kayla finally stopped touching her lip when she realized I was no longer engaged in our situation, realized my ‘I’m sorry’ was nowhere near sincere, realized I was checking out another girl. Now both Kayla and I were staring towards the exit. With all of my might I tore my gaze away from my next potential conquest and looked down at a girl who was obsessed with me. She had tears in her eyes. She said nothing, just stared deep into my eyes for a moment and then walked away.

I wasn’t fazed.

I got what I wanted without having to try. Kayla knew she was not the apple of my eye, that she could be replaced. That’s how I needed it. No commitments. No strings. She ran over to her friends that wrapped her in a blanket of pity, hugging her, stroking her hair, telling her it was okay, telling her I was an asshole, and giving me looks of death.

Once again, I went unfazed.

I turned away from that bullshit and headed for the exit. I hated to leave my boy’s party so soon but opportunities like this didn’t come up all the time. Well, they did, but still, the girl was fine...

The Usual Booth

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They sat in their usual booth at the usual place. Two booths down from where they sat on their first date. 

Tonight wasn't their second date or third or fourth. Well, at this point they weren't really dating anymore. 

He wanted attention and sex and a comfort blanket while he sorted through the emotional residue of his ex. 

He'd deny all of that, though. He was a nice guy after all. 

She wanted love and security and longevity and validation from an outside source as opposed to a mantra she repeated to herself every morning. 

She'd deny all of that, though. She was an independent woman after all. 

He smiled that smile that could move her to tears.

She moved her lips in that way that made it impossible for him to hear a word she said. 

They both tried to focus. 

She told herself before hand that she wouldn't bring it up. There'd be no talk of "What are we doing?" "Why am I here?" "What do you want from me?"

He told himself... Well, I'm not sure what he told himself. 

They ate and drank and joked with the waitress. 

He cracked jokes with that Will Smith charm.

She poured out her intellect and he drank every drop. 

He reached over the table and hovered his lips in front of hers. He killed her with anticipation. 

They kissed.

Again.

And again.

She knew there was nothing better. 

He wasn't quite sure. 

She missed being loved.

He teased her heart and she enjoyed the fatal stimulation. 

He wanted her but...

He wanted her but something...something she'd never really know. 

No matter how many times he explained it. 

She felt victim to karma. A seasoned heartbreaker herself. 

Alas.

He walked her to her car after she refused to "sit and talk" in his.

He asked to see her again. She broke her promise and asked him why...why not...why not me...why not so many things.

He spurted words but did not answer. 

They kissed again and said goodbye.

She kicked herself as she drove away and choked on the cliche caught in her throat. 

She said goodbye without him. She said goodbye for good.

Until they'd meet again. 

Skeleton

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We never speak of them but we know they're there.

All of us.

My wife.

Myself.

Our children.

They sit down with us at breakfast. 

Drape their hollowed arms around us. 

Kick up their feet of bones.

And laugh at our hollowed jokes.

When company comes, they pull up a chair.

Get cozy.

Stare in the eyes of our loved ones, daring them to speak.

Daring them to acknowledge the presence of the walking dead.

They don't.

They take our lead and remain silent, focused on the much less real human interaction. 

You don't have to look too hard for them. 

They make their presence known.

You can see their reflections in our perfectly polished furniture. 

In the dishwater in the sink.

In the faces of our children.

They do not hide.

Sometimes they lurk in corners, quiet. 

Other times they lay across our laps on the couch, unapologetic. 

And why should they apologize? 

We invite them to stay. 

Never ask them to leave.

As long as we don't have to engage, they are free to haunt us. 

Free to dance around our home. 

Free to make this home their own. 

We converse.

We smile.

Eat.

Sleep.

Laugh.

Cry.

Stay silent. 

Live.

Survive.

All in their presence.

Always in their presence.

Remaining in the home that feels more like theirs than our own.

Where else would we go?

 

Worship

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Hey, girl. Can I be more than your slave?

Can I build you an alter?

A shrine to your beauty, a throne for your soul?

Can I worship you?

 Bask in your presence and praise you in all of your glory.

 Can I wash your feet with tears of service?

Can I lay down my life for you?

Sacrifice my heart, soul and sanity for the mere chance it might make you smile.

In my midnight hour can I call on your name and find peace?

Can I believe in you whether you respond to me or not?

Can I have blind faith that you are all I'll ever need?

My beginning and my end. 

Can I proclaim to the world that you are my truth, my way and my light?

Can I worship you?

Enter your presence and cry tears of joy, tears of love, tears of unshakable faith.

Can I bear your cross around my neck and let the world know I would die for you?

Can I expect nothing from you?

Can I surrender when you won't?

Can I smile when you leave me? Laugh when you forsake me? Dance when you break me?

Can I thank you for the trials and tribulations you gift me?

For the lessons in unconditional love.

Please, baby, please can I worship you?

Will you be my God? Will you sit in my sky and feed off of my praise?

When my praises go up, will your blessings come down? Can I keep honoring you when they don’t?

You know what, girl? Never mind.

I shouldn’t ask your permission. I apologize. I’m sorry to bother you. I ask nothing of you.

Because the truth is, I’m going to worship you.

Whether you want me to or not.

Whether you punish me for it or not.

Whether I’m punishing myself or not.

I’m going to worship you.

A God so great simply can’t go ignored.

 

 

A Christmas Wish

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Life is a trip, ain't it? The ups and downs, the highs,the lows, the low low low lows. In the midst of my whatever, all I can hope for, all I can pray for, all I can wish for is not my own blessings but yours. Well, what the hell... mine too.

I wish you peace.

I wish you stillness.

I wish you comfort.

I wish you understanding and acceptance. 

I wish you unspeakable joys.

I wish you therapy.

I wish you the laughter of children.

I wish you laughter from your own belly.

I wish you healing. 

I wish you soft touches and open hearts.

I wish you good food.

I wish you pride in your own unquestionable beauty.

I wish you self-love.

I wish you dancing. 

I wish you patience, knowing it's a process, all of it.

I wish you love, not only more than you expected, but more than you ever dreamed possible. Love overflowing to the point it scares you.

Then I wish you more stillness, acceptance of the love. 

I wish you peace, love, blessings and even a miracle or two. 

Because you are worth it.

You, yes you, you deserve it.

From my heart to yours, Merry Christmas and a joyous and bountiful New Year. 

 

The Farmhouse

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The small crack in the window let in enough snow-covered air to cool down the humid kitchen. She had one loaf of bread in the oven and was kneading a second. He built this kitchen just for her. She baked in it every weekend just for him. 

She tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear when she heard the front door. He was back with more firewood. More cool air from outside came in with him. He walked into the kitchen, stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She stopped her work, closed her eyes and inhaled him. He smelled like trees and snow and the deepest, darkest nights. 

The farmhouse was a soft yellow on the outside, with a kitchen of the same color. Those were her only requests all those years ago. The rest was up to him. He used a mix of oaks, maples and pines. He included a breakfast nook, a fireplace and a room just for her when she wanted to read. 

Twenty years had passed. Twenty Christmases. Forty birthdays. Fifty-two weekends of escape, even if only for dinner. This place was their own. No children. No friends or relatives. Just the two of them. 

He built it for her and she loved him in it, endlessly.

She put the second loaf in the oven while he hung up his coat. 

A fresh fire was lit and they snuggled in their established places by the fire. 

Her head nuzzled into his chest, in its usual position. She listened to his heartbeat and smelled his sweater that had hints of cedar and smoke. The heartbeat was slower than usual. She knew to treasure it. Knew it wouldn't last forever.

He ran his fingers through her hair. Inhaled its hints of coconut and lavender. He kissed her head, knowing he would not always have that chance. He studied each strand of her hair, wished he could memorize each one. Wished he could imprint each strand into his memory to keep with him until the end. He inhaled her again and pulled her in closer. 

The fire heated their bodies, stilled their minds as they lost themselves in the flames. The smell of fresh bread blended with the burning wood, surrounding them. They let the elements take over their senses, if only for a moment. 

This would be their last night by the fire. Their last trip to the farmhouse. Their last embrace. They held each other and fought to record the moment. To hold it tight and never forget. Each smell. Each sound. Each touch. He'd fight to hold on. She'd fight to never let go, to always remember. 

"I love you."

"Forever."

Black Queen Fools Gold

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A remix of something from before...

You wear your black queens like expensive-looking accessories. You take true gold, wrap it in fool, sell it at a discounted price and rap, “Baby please don’t cry. You got to keep your head up”. You keep one by your side, one in your bed, one in your phone, her friend on your mind. You want them tall, you want them thick, you want them stylish but most importantly willing to take that dick.

You want their hair natural as each one of HER coils confirms your contributions to the struggle.  You want their minds open but not too open, you want their mouths shut, you want their souls silenced because the songs they sing do nothing but reveal your hypocrisy. You will tell your black queen why she is magical. You will tell your black queen what makes her beautiful. You will praise any reflection of yourself that you see in her and destroy the rest. You will define her, you will adorn her, you will display her. You will fluff her fro and cloth her skin and paint her lips with sticks of silence. Her mouth is to only open at night. Her mouth is to only open at night.

There will be those rare minds of black queens you cannot ignore. Their brilliance doesn’t ask for permission to speak. You do not make them giggle and coo. You know her britches are too big for you. You know she can out-smart you, out-wit you, out-run you, doesn’t give a shit about you. She sees through your bullshit, refuses to deal with that shit, and shakes her head, praying for whomever decided to sit next to you. These are the women you would never call more than a friend as you refuse to fuck what frightens you. Your ego, your dick, your weakness make sure you stay too steps away, never getting too close to the woman that sees you. Her intellect five times greater than your smarts. Your ego five times greater than her intellect, so she must be ignored, pushed down, deemed angry, dripping in PMS. The threat to the ego must be abolished because we all know niggas are sensitive about their shit.

Am I your black queen when you sing my praises in public only to hand-deliver my quelled self-esteem behind these doors of fake love? Am I your black queen when you fuck me and forget me, when you impregnate me and leave me, when I’ve been treated better by white men?

My black is mine. My pussy is mine, neither available for you to define. I have no desire to participate in the hotep orgy of blanketed ideals that will never truly consider the complexity of my individuality, that cannot see me beyond my brown skin and pink pussy. I have no time for the contradictions of the conscious brothas that will march for me, chant for me, protest in my name but still haven’t learned to respect ME, to love ME, only the idea of me, only the part of me that looks like him. Who can't accept a black woman who doesn't believe in god, who isn't searching for her king, who actually doesn't give a fuck if you text her back or not. Am I supposed to want you? Am I supposed to need you? You, who can see me only as a housewife or a ho? Permitting me to be a slut or a queen with no in between.

I am not your black queen, please remove this crown of thorns. I am not your black ho, please remove this scarlet letter of hypocrisy. I do not need you to teach me how to love myself, respect myself, honor myself, when you clearly aren't equipped for the job your goddamn self. 

I am not Mary, the mother of God or Mary Magdalene, the sinner begging for the black man's pardon. You cannot paint me as a housewife. You cannot paint me as a ho. I've snatched that paintbrush and created a homeowner who fucks whomever she desires regardless of their race, class, sex or gender. My bed does not discriminate like your whack-ass doctrine. 

I am not your queen. I am no daughter of God. I am the daughter of a man named Dick and a woman named Jane. I am perfectly ordinary. I am confident. I am self-conscious. I am happy. I am sad. I deserve respect. I demand respect. I will never stop demanding respect. I am an angry black woman with a pretty, pretty smile. I am just fine without you. 

Don’t call me queen when you don’t take the time to truly learn who the fuck I am.   

When the Giggle Goes

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It's one of the first things they notice. 

One of the first traits they complement.

The giggle.

My giggle.  

"Damn girl, that giggle is so cute."

"So adorable."

"Too goddamn adorable."

"You keep giggling like that, gonna mess around and make me want to do things to you."

The higher the pitch, the better.

The more I giggle like an innocent schoolgirl in response to their manly bravado, the harder their dicks get. 

I could stop the giggle.

Never tease them with the sound of voluntary submission, executed with ease and a smile.

But, shit. I'm just as guilty.

Their manly bravado turns me on, makes me coo and wiggle. And when I'm feeling flirtatious, that's the laugh that escapes my lips.

But then it comes. It always comes.

The time when the giggle goes. 

When my cooing is replaced with feminist diatribes of truth and self-respect. 

When the giggle goes and the questions come. 

When the giggle goes and challenge comes.

Pushback comes. 

Opinions come. Opinions that differ from theirs arrive and stay and don't back down. 

That's when they run. Chuck up the deuces and continue on their trek towards the next giggling cutie. 

I let them go.

But those that stay?

Well, that's a different story. 

When my giggle goes and the depth creeps in...

There are certain men that don't run. 

They don't roll their eyes. 

They lay down that male bravado and engage me as an equal, a worthy and welcomed opponent and teammate in the battle of wits.

Well, let's just say that's when the panties drop. 

The giggle goes.

It always goes. 

But for the right ones, the real ones, it's always sure to return. 

A Day in the Life of a Girl Who Just Broke Up With Her Boyfriend

6:00am: Stare at alarm clock.

6:30am: Turn alarm off.

6:45am: Cry.

7:00am: Cry in shower.

8:30am: Arrive at work.

9:30am: Mentally arrive at work.

10:00am: Eat cold pizza.

10:45am: Pretend to pay attention to boss.

11:00am: Start texting ex.

11:00am: Save self and delete text before sending.

11:15am: Read old text messages from ex.

11:18am: Kick yourself for every bad thing you said to him.

11:22am: Kick yourself for the even worse things you never got a chance to say to him because fuck him.

12:00pm: Eat more cold pizza.

12:22pm: Listen to coworker talk about her perfect boyfriend.

12:25pm: Refrain from killing coworker.

1:00pm: Attend meeting.

1:15pm: Think about all the dick you can have.

1:22pm: Roll your eyes because you don't even want no dick right now.

1:39pm: Realize it's crazy that you don't even want no dick.

1:44pm: Accept the fact that you'll be alone forever. 

2:00pm: Wonder what the fuck that meeting was just about.

2:15pm: Cry in bathroom stall as quietly as possible. 

3:00pm: Eat two Snickers bars and stalk ex on social media.

3:15pm: Regret the fuck out of your decision.

3:22pm: Remind yourself that you did the right thing. 

3:40pm: Eat third Snickers bar...try not to puke.

4:00pm: Delete his number from your phone.

4:00pm: Reprogram his number that you know by heart into your phone.

4:30pm: More social media stalking.

5:15pm: Arrive home, wonder how you got there.

5:52pm: Check text messages.

5:53pm: Check voicemails.

6:00pm: Order pizza.

6:01pm: Think about cancelling pizza order and going to yoga instead.

6:48pm: Eat delivered pizza.

7:00pm: Start more social media stalking.

7:00pm: Realize you've been blocked from all social media.

7:01pm: Cuss him the fuck out in your head.

7:04pm: Cry to friends about it and listen to their advice telling you it's for the best and time to move on.

7:30pm: Decide friends are idiots and obsess over the blocking instead.

8:00pm: Obsess over everything.

8:15pm: White wine.

9:00pm: Red wine.

9:15pm: Rum.

9:30pm: Check and see if you're still blocked. You are.

9:15pm: Consider blocking his number as it's the only power you have left.

9:16pm: Question why you need this power. 

9:17pm: Beat yourself up for every flaw you possess including beating yourself up too much.

9:30pm: Remind yourself that you're the one that broke up with him and for great reason.

9:50pm: Question who the fuck gave you authority over your life and allowed you to define "great reason".

10:00pm: Get really tired of yourself. 

10:14pm: Get really tired in general.

10:33pm: Pee, then sit on the toilet for thirty minutes convincing yourself this is it. Peeing is now the greatest feeling you'll ever experience again. 

10:55pm: Go to bed.

11:43pm: Go to sleep.

Rinse. Repeat for two more weeks. Hopefully only two more weeks. Good luck to you.

The Least of These

He promises. 

She promises. 

He puts his faith in her. 

She hopes for their future. 

He loves her in ways he never thought possible. 

She loves him through the fear. 

Promises.

Faith.

Hope.

Love.

But sometimes it seems. 

Sometimes it seems the least of these is love.

He follows his path.

She follows her dreams.

They work.

They work. 

They work. 

They still love. 

But the least of these is love.

He promises to stay.

She promises to change. 

He promises to help. 

Because he loves her. 

He loves her and she loves him. 

But the least of these is love. 

He considers his future. 

She can't get over her past. 

They promise to love. 

They proclaim faith. 

They proclaim hope. 

They proclaim love. 

But the least of these is love.

Love is steadfast. 

Love is sure. 

Love will hold you. Guide you. 

They proclaim. 

She sacrifices for her children. 

He respects decisions made. 

And through it all.

Through every hope. 

Every faith. 

Every stirring. 

The least of these.

The least of these is love.