"Back to Work"

I was mindlessly trimming the branches off the deck rail, when I saw it fall. It was perfect. Freshly completed. Intricately fashioned. A beautiful bird’s nest. Knowing the amount of tiresome toil that went into the making of it, my throat closed up and I choked back tears. The work of a mother. Often unseen. So much of it unappreciated. And on the ground at my feet, this mother’s labor lay. I could barely bare it.

Washing dishes that evening, I saw the delicate cardinal return. She jumped in the hedge and back out again. Over and over. It was beyond difficult to take in. And finally, with a heavy heart, I watched as she jumped out for the last time and flew away.

Back to work. No rest for the weary.

From one mama bird to another, I see you.

And though I worry, fret, and complain more than I care to admit, in this moment, I join you in your strong and unfailing song.

“Work is a blessing. God has so arranged the world that work is necessary, and He gives us hands and strength to do it. The enjoyment of leisure would be nothing if we had only leisure. It is the joy of work well done that enables us to enjoy rest, just as it is the experiences of hunger and thirst that make food and drink such pleasures.” 

-Elisabeth Elliot

"Battle Scars: My Gray Hair Journey"

I had just celebrated my 27th birthday. Titus was 7 months old. Just three, raw months before, my world was shattered…

My husband had passed away in December. With our baby in my arms, I entered into a realm of survival. It took weeks for me to weep. My heart was like a frozen ice cube, and though it hurt with every beat, I was running on auto pilot and gritted my teeth through the pain. Winter was suffocating that year. It was isolating. The cold drifts sent chills through my whole body and awakened me in the night with terrorizing shivers. Those first few months are a blur to me. I felt lost. My identity had been wrapped up in the relationship I had with my husband. We dated in high school and all through college. We were married for 4 and a half years. Michael and Brooke were a team. They had plans. A lifetime of them. We were going to take on the world together. But, cancer. It blew in like a hurricane. It crashed into our lives with terrifying force and busted through windows we thought were sealed shut. It flung open doors we never thought we’d see opened. It ripped the roof off our security and left us feeling vulnerable and exposed. Our deepest fears became our reality. Our dreams were severed and our future went up in flames. The stench was hard to bare at times; yet it was the only air we could breathe. So we kept trusting. We kept clinging to the promise that "one day Jesus would make all things new.” We kept fighting. And we kept breathing. Until one day, one of us stopped. My heart caught in my throat. Peace filled the room. His fight in this world was over. 

Then, spring came. It was March of 2011. The ice in my heart was thawing rapidly and the painful throbbing was increasing daily. Who am I? Who is Brooke without Michael? What is the life of a widow supposed to look like? How do I keep surviving when he didn’t? How do I raise our son without him? Will my relationship with others change? Will the sad looks from good-meaning people ever vanish? Can I just stay home and hide away forever? These questions came without answers. Even still, one thing rang true.  And this truth is what I clung to with a white knuckle grip: God is good. Always. In the peaceful calm and in the raging storm. 

I was in a hotel in Fort Worth. My niece had just been born and we were there to meet her. After I laid Titus down for his nap, I snuck quietly into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. Although it was a familiar face staring back, I didn’t recognize myself fully. My eyes seemed more sunken, lines in my face were starting to appear, and a couple of silver sparkles caught my eye from my hairline. I dug into my travel bag and pulled out a box of hair color. I had been carrying it around with me for awhile. But, it was time. Time to color the grays. It was the only way I knew how to preserve the youth I no longer felt. 

A close friend asked me how I was doing not long after Michael passed.  I answered, “In all honesty, I feel like I’m an old lady living in a 26 year olds body. I feel as though I’ve already lived a lifetime.” 

And yet, I hadn’t. I still had life to live. So, I colored my grays that day in that hotel room. I watched the brown color run off my hair and into the drain and I felt sadness. My true hair color was gone. So much had changed. So much had been lost. Grief tends to wash over a mourning soul in the strangest and most unexpected ways. It engulfs its victims and often leaves them gasping for air. 

For 10 years, I continued to color my hair. It was subconcience, really.  It was just something I did. It was what I was supposed to do, right?

But then, 2020 came. A year that made us all re-evaluate our lives. We were stuck in our homes and in our heads and the days passed into months, and the months kept coming. It was brutal at times. Scary at others. Fun and enjoyable for the most part; yet heartbreaking when news of suffering and violence spread and when sickness and death hit close to home. 

This past March, I turned 37. The month before, my husband Bryan and I celebrated our 6 year wedding anniversary. We met 7 years ago, on February 21, 2014, at an information meeting at the radio station he worked for. I had won a trip to Israel, and he was going too. Exactly one year later, we were married. In that same conference room. At that same radio station.

Bryan adopted Titus. And 3 more kiddos have been born since. Silas came in Dec of 2015, Elias came in Oct of 2017, and little Lois was born this past July (a beautiful gift in the middle of an uncertain year).  

Who am I? I ask again. I’m married…but am I also still a widow? I grieve, but can I still be happy? Should I keep my eyes forward or will they always be drawn to the rear view mirror? Will anxiety always take my breath away and leave me feeling spent and weary? Am I living my purpose? How do I live fully in the moment and breathe in and out contentment when things around me are chaotic and child rearing is difficult? Will I always lash out at the ones I love the most when things get hard?

I’ve come to realize though, that even though I’ve questioned my identity over these last 10 years, I haven’t questioned God’s. He is good. And Jesus is life. He is contentment. He is joy. When I breathe in and out His presence, I can stop striving. I can stop questioning. I can stop worrying. And I can find my security in Him. 

I made the decision to ditch the dye this past November. My reasons being: One, I don’t enjoy dying my hair. (Like. At. All.) And I’m too low maintenance to have a professional do it every month.  And two, I was super curious about what my hair color actually looked like now that more grays were present. I asked Bryan at that time what he thought. I asked him if he would be okay being married to a gray haired lady. I’m not sure his response was what I was looking for, but it was exactly what I needed to hear. He said “Aren’t I already?” After recovering from the shock of his statement, a clear realization hit me. I have gray hair. And that’s not a mistake. It is what it is. It is me. I had no idea, however, that this decision would lead me down an identity journey that would completely shake my world. 

Some may assume, when looking at my grays popping through, that I have let myself go. 

But in reality, by ditching the dye, I feel as though I’m finally finding myself. 

I’ve pestered Bryan endlessly trying to find his honest opinion about my grays. All he does, is look at me and smile and says, “Just do what makes you happy.” He is such a patient man and his life is such a gift to mine. His love makes me love deeper and fuller. And his outlook on life has changed my perspective on so many things and in so many ways. He’s literally taught me to stop and breathe deep and he reminds me daily that it’s ok to laugh and to keep things simple; for we have a simple faith in a very powerful Savior. 

Although my Enneagram 4 self may continue to question my identity and purpose, who Christ is, is most important. And He is good. Always. In the peaceful calm and in the raging storm. 

And when our hair changes from brown to gray, He is good. (And if we choose to let those grays shine, He is good. And if we choose to color our hair for our entire life, He is still good.)

Another silver sister said of her own hair journey…“I’ve been through a lot and I feel as though I’ve come out a warrior. And my hair. Well, my hair is my battle scar.”

I love that. We’re definitely warriors in this life. And we all have battle scars. 

       “My marks and scars I carry with me to be a witness for me that I have fought His battles.” John Bunyan (Pilgrim’s Progress)

"Beginning to End"

This is us. My family. 

I am married to Bryan and we have three rambunctious and extremely remarkable sons: Titus 9, Silas 4, and Elias 2. Our 4th child is actually on the way and is due in June. We found out just recently that it’s a little girl! She is going to be well loved and well protected, I'm sure.  And we couldn’t be happier!

Thinking about having another baby, I can’t help but be reminded of my last son’s birth. He was my only non-medicated birth. And it was a traumatic experience to say the least. To all of you mom’s who have rocked unmedicated births and have done them multiple times, I’m in complete awe of you. The curse that was put on Eve in the garden of Eden is REAL. Childbirth is an extremely painful experience. And even now, just thinking about it, I’m beginning to shiver!  You see, I went into the birth having a plan in my head of how everything was going to go. I felt in control. I felt at peace. I felt like I was strong and that I could do anything. However, when the pains of childbirth hit, I lost all control. I gave into the fear of the unknown and I became so tense, trying to escape the pain and somehow prevent it from getting worse. But, by doing that, I actually only made things worse. In fact, I remember raising my voice and yelling at my sweet midwife: “Something is wrong! This is not the way it’s supposed to be! This hurts too bad!” And although most of the memories from that day are a blur and muddled in my brain, the one thing that I will never forget is the still, small, confident voice of my midwife. She responded with patience and love at every outburst I threw at her: “Brooke, everything is happening the way it’s supposed to. The pain means that the baby is coming.” 

And you know what? That baby did come. All 9 pounds and 2 ounces of him. And although it was extremely difficult, I  couldn’t be more thankful for that experience and for the way that the midwife put my mind and my heart and my body at ease with her confident words.

As I've been digging through the book of Revelation with my Bible Study group,  I have been reminded time and time again of those words I heard from my midwife during active labor. Often, I forget that the Bible is one complete story, from beginning to end, it’s all connected. But if we listen, as we read story after story, chapter after chapter, we can almost hear Christ speaking quietly and confidently on every page: “Everything is happening the way it’s supposed to.” And as we get closer to Revelation and pour into the last book of the Bible we can hear his voice grow louder as he says “Let the pain throughout Scripture remind you that I am coming. Let the pain that you’re experiencing in your life remind you that I am coming. I am your hope. Take heart. I have overcome the world.”

Back in 2010, my first son, Titus, was born. His birth was medicated… thank you God, for modern medicine! When the doctor first handed him to me, I was amazed at his little body. And I was captivated as I took him all in. I looked at his hands, his feet, his little face and I watched his little chest rise up and down as he took his first breaths. And I remember thinking in that moment, “God, I trust you. Only you could do this. Because you exhaled, he is able to inhale. You have given him life. You have breathed into him. How can I not trust you? You are so good. So very good.” 

But just three and a half months after that beautiful day of welcoming our son into the world, I found myself in another hospital room. Captivated by another face that I loved so very much.  

My husband of 4 and half years. At that point, he had been fighting brain cancer for 4 years and 2 months; he was diagnosed just 4 months after we were married. His body was weary from the fight. And as I watched his chest rise and fall with his last breaths…and as I watched as his heart eventually stopped beating, I just stared at his lifeless body. The only question that I had and the only prayer that I could pray was: “Why, God?  Why?” And in the moment, I heard so clearly Him whisper back: “If you can trust me with life’s first cries, then you can trust me with its final breath. If you can trust me in the beginning, you can trust me in the end.” 

As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into years and I learned to live life as a single mother and as a young widow, there were so many times that I would find myself in a puddle of tears, crying out, just like I did in the middle of labor pains: “This is not the way it’s supposed to be! Something went wrong! It hurts too bad, the pain is too great!” And over and over again our Savior would gently remind me, just like my sweet midwife: “Brooke, everything is happening the way it’s supposed to. Let this pain remind you that I am coming. And one day, for my sake, for my glory, and for your good, I will make all things new.”  He gives us that promise in Revelation chapter 21. 

And that is one of the promises I clung to then and one that  I continue to cling to now. “For if His Word had not been my delight, I would have perished in my affliction.”  

As you can see, God has not withheld his goodness from me.  He has filled my life and my heart and my home with love and laughter, and pillow fights and wrestling matches. And he has given me a husband, who has loved me in my brokenness and who has adopted my heart and my son into his life and into his heart, and I couldn’t be more thankful. We just celebrated our 5 year anniversary. And I am constantly in awe of the goodness and faithfulness of God. He doesn’t leave us in our sorrow, but meets us right where we are and continually speaks life into our brokenness and into our grief. As life has continued… in the good times, I am reminded of God's faithfulness and I’m able to smile…and in the hard moments I still cry at His feet and I cling to His promises. Because I know that if I can trust Him in the beginning, I can trust Him in the end. 

And if we can trust Him with life’s first cries, then we can trust Him with its final breath. 
And if we can trust him in Genesis, then we can trust him in Revelation.

"Left at the Cross"

"He left his blood on that cross."

I was flipping through the mail at the dining room table, and barely heard it. 

I turned to the three year old sitting beside me. "What did you say?"

"He left his blood on that cross, Mommy." 

I looked at the cartoon drawing of three crosses on his Awana Cubbies book. The middle cross. The one that Silas was pointing at, was white. Pure white.

"I don't see any blood on that cross."

Adamantly, he said again, "Yeah, he left his blood on that cross, Mommy."

I looked again at the cross and tried not to freak at my child's morbid thinking.

After several moments, however, I was able to agree with him, "Jesus died on a cross, and although he didn't stay there, I guess his blood did." 

He suffered. He bled. He died. He experienced pain, heartache, injustice, and great loss. Yet, when he died, it all stayed behind. His blood was left on the cross. 

The scars remained, but the pain was a memory. The blood was washed away with the rain. It ran down the mountain and pooled by the accuser's feet. Though it soaked the wooden cross and stained the rocks it dripped on, it was no longer causing our Savior pain. Its existence served as a reminder. A reminder of the greatest sacrifice. A reminder to the people of God that although pain is sure, it is also temporary; and that although life is full, it is also fleeting. His death gives us life and His life gives us hope.

And His blood, the blood that was left on the cross, gives us the greatest gift of all. Redemption from sin and the promise of eternal life. 

Eternal life. Where tear stained pillows don't exist and there are no brown bags to breath into. Where addictions, depression, and panic attacks can't live and where anger, frustration, evil, and crime don't prevail.

There is definitely power in the blood that was left at the cross.

Thanks for the reminder, little buddy...

"A Mother's Song"

“Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.” Romans 12:12

Last Tuesday, my 6 month old, Elias, had a surgical procedure done. He was so happy when we brought him into the hospital room; full of smiles. As the nurse took him from my arms and turned to walk out the door, he continued to smile at me over her shoulder. I followed them to the doorway and watched as they walked away. Soon, that happy face disappeared through the OR doors and I was left standing there. My infant son didn’t know what was coming and I couldn’t prepare him. I had to just let him go. 

I am his mom. Yet in that moment, I couldn’t protect him. And in the days that followed, as his body worked to recover from the surgery, I couldn’t take away the pain. I so wanted to, but I couldn’t. His body had to heal and I had no control over it. 

So I held him, I rocked him, and I prayed for him.

I prayed for him like my mother prayed for me when as a young wife, my husband was diagnosed with brain cancer, just four months after we were married. I prayed like my mother in law prayed for her son, my husband. His name was Michael. He fought hard, for four and half years. He remained full of faith through it all. His courage and his boldness for Christ, in midst of the pain, made a lasting impact on the people around him. I know for a fact that our mothers prayed for us during that time. They prayed without ceasing. They prayed scripture over us. They spoke truth to us. And by the grace of God, we were able to stand when everything around us was crumbling. 

I prayed for my son, like my grandma prayed for her son, my dad. He was diagnosed with leukemia just 2 and half years after my husband was diagnosed. He too fought hard, for 9 months. He fought till death; full of faith. And the lives that were changed because of the way he lived and gave God glory through his cancer, are too many to count. And I know, that his mom was on her knees for him through it all.

The outcome isn’t always easy. And the pain is real. But our God is a loving God. He is a Sovereign Savior and He is the ultimate comforter. 

He gives peace to the fearful. Rest to the weary.

He comforts those who mourn. And he gives strength to the weak.

He hears the cries of his children and he abides in the prayers of his people. 

And the prayers of a praying mother are powerful. 

Elias’ procedure was minor. The pain was temporary. But his surgery reminded me, once again, that I have no control over this life. And although I can love and care for my 3 kids to the best of my ability, I cannot protect them from the pain of this world.

But I know who can.

And so I pray for them. 

I pray that Jesus would be their everything. The one they turn to when life gets hard. Who they praise when they're overcome by gratitude. Who they seek when they need answers. Who they long for when they need fulfillment. I pray they run to His feet for forgiveness, that they find hope in the scriptures, and peace in His presence. 

I pray for them like my mom prayed for me.

From childhood to adulthood. She prayed.

When I was a newlywed till I became a young widow. She prayed.

My oldest son, Titus Michael was born just 3 months before his dad died and a year after his grandpa died. Titus means “giant.” According to science, he shouldn’t be here. But he is. His life has been a huge comfort to our family and is a daily testament to God’s faithfulness. 

I was a single mom, unsure of what the future held…and my mom prayed. 

A few years later, I won a radio giveaway trip to Israel, and it was there that I met my husband Bryan. We were married a year later. 10 months after that, Silas Isaac was born. Isaac means “laughter.” And every time I hear him laugh, I’m reminded that joy really does come from sorrow and laughter from pain. Elias John was born this past October. John is my dads name and means “God’s gracious gift.” And thats what he is to me, a gracious gift from a loving father. 

My mom’s name is Janet. Her name means “God’s gracious gift” as well. And what a tremendous gift she has been to me and to the whole family. 

To have a praying mother. There is no greater blessing. 

Female vocal artist, Bethany Dillon, wrote  about her children:

“You’re the best song I’ll ever write, and I pray you’ll hear Jesus in it when you’re older.”

I have heard Jesus clearly in my mother’s song. 

He is the reason that we sing, the reason that we live, the reason that we pray. He’s the reason we have breath, the reason we have salvation, and the only hope we have of heaven. 

May we never loose sight of that truth; may we never stop praying. May our life song proclaim Jesus to our children and to those around us. Because one day, we will leave this unpredictable and often painful world and we will enter into a kingdom that can never be shaken. Praise God!

Mother's Day 2018
(Titus-7, Silas-2, Elias-6mo)

"Lead me to the Rock"

Over time you move on.

And once you've moved on, 

you're over the one/s you’ve lost.

A part of me wishes these words were true. 

For if they were, the aching would cease. 

The breath would catch. The tears would vanish. 

But if that were so, the memories would be gone. The precious memories would be lost forever. If there were no feelings attached to the memories, what good are they? Just facts in your brain. A past to file away. 

Without the ache…there is no real. The constant ache keeps the blood pumping through the veins of your heart. It keeps the memories alive. It keeps them warm. A warmth that provides comfort in the icy, bitter, and extremely cold storms of grief. 

The storms. We all go through them. Their talked about in the media, their highlighted in reality shows, and their depicted in the movies and on sitcoms quite dramatically. In fact, I  chuckled (and shed a few tears) more than once while watching the new Gilmore Girls. Their individual responses to grief was heart wrenching…and even relatable at times. For example, the refined Emily Gilmore started wearing jeans; something she would never be caught dead doing before. She stayed in bed longer than she ever had and was completely fine with an entire maid’s family moving in. Her whole perspective changed and the way she related with people became entirely different. She stopped doing things just because she had always done them and she started seeing people, not for who they portrayed themselves to be, but for who they really were. She had a wall sized picture of her late husband in her living room and acted as if it was normal, even though she knew good and well it wasn’t. And then, she put her comfortable and very familiar home up for sale to move to a place completely different. She wanted to see the stars. To hear the ocean. To find herself yet again, or possibly, for the very first time. Death changes you. Grief destroys you. Not always in a negative way, though. It shapes you. It molds you. It gives you new lenses to see the world in a whole new way. 

Your heart aches. But your life continues. 

So how do you live? How do you breathe? How does one function in the present when memories surface from the past moment by moment? 

You smile.

You cry.

You laugh.

You weep.

You smile. At concerts; when an acoustic guitar is played. When you see a fool jamming to music in his car. When you see a facial expression that resembles his. When you see his favorite football team score on TV. When you see a dark green Dodge truck or hear his voice sing on your playlist. When you see a chocolate orange at the drug store or pass a package of zebra cakes in the grocery store line. When you slip on your moccasins, read his favorite verse, hear the praise song “Come ye Sinners,”  or witness a sunset. You smile.

You cry. When the hard memories arise. Those times you regret. The words spoken in anger; the way you tore him down just to make yourself look better. When you let his adorable quirkiness embarrass you or his passion for people stir jealousy within you. The times you condemned him in your heart, like David’s wife, during unrefined worship. When you walk through a hospital, smell the all too familiar smells, or hear the beeping from an IV pole. When you see a scar on another’s head or hear the words chemotherapy, brain surgery, or white blood counts. When someone quizzically and innocently asks of your 6 year old son, “where in the world does he get his blonde hair?” When you just want to pick up the phone and call your dad, just to hear his voice, or run into his arms when the pain gets to be too much. When you see others hurting, devastated by losses of their own. You cry. 

You laugh. When you walk past a frisbee golf course. When you think of the way he wouldn’t kiss a dolphin on your honeymoon or how he rolled down a hill in college (on purpose) after drinking a gallon of milk. When you come across a picture of him dancing at prom. When you see your son flying off the porch of your house for no apparent reason and then remember someone else jumping off the porch of a three story dormitory…for no apparent reason. When you notice that you are “killing” pancakes with the spatula after you flip them (to make sure their done, of course) just like your dad did. You laugh. 

You weep. When you realize your son will never know his “Daddy Michael” or your kids their “Papa John” this side of heaven. When you are overcome by the gravity of the loss you have experienced. When you see his parents longing for their son. When you see your mom longing for her husband; her soulmate. When you miss the life you once lived and the people you once loved. When you wrestle with the affects of those losses and battle the emotions that come in all sorts of waves; threatening to suffocate you at any moment. When you want to live fully in the present so desperately,  but feel like you're constantly fighting to stay out of the deep, dark, painful pit of the past. When you are overcome by the gratitude of Jesus and His sacrifice on the cross. When you realize that without Christ, we are lost forever, doomed for destruction. When you realize that people you love don’t know Him personally and that they will never know the joys that salvation in Him can bring. You weep. 

For “what cannot be said, shall be wept.”

And yet, in the pain. 

In the aches. 

Because of Christ,

we continue to live.

He is our joy. He is our hope. He is our provider. He is our comfort.

We stand, because He is strong.

We sing, because He sings over us.

We love, because He first loved us.

We may never be “over the ones we’ve lost,” 

but praise God,

because He lives…

so can we.

“Occasionally, weep deeply over the life you hoped would be. Grieve the losses. Then wash your face. Trust God. And embrace the life you have.” -John Piper

And the life I have is good.

Oh, so very good. 

“…when my heart is faint; Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.”

 Psalm 61:2

"Love is the Same"

On Tuesday night, my eyes were glued to the TV. I watched as Texas lit up. I continued to watch. And then Missouri did the same. Bright red. 

The map continued to bleed as I watched the other states get their color. Both colors, the color of blood. Blue, pumping with oxygen, and red, poured out as if flowing from an open wound. It was hard to watch. I had to catch my breath a few times as the election coverage muddled through the results. The people were shocked. The world was stunned. Hearts stopped and the blood continued. It pumped and poured over America. The entire country affected. The world watching. It’s people frozen in disbelief.

How could love not win? 

This is the question that keeps getting asked. In the newsrooms, on the morning shows, in the classrooms, and on our couches. Love. It lost. How could that be possible?

And it devastates me. 

I was born into a red state, and my roots run deep there. My love for rodeos, the sunshine, and wide open spaces is an affect of that rearing and my Texas drawl slurs words that others find amusing...and often confusing. I am a conservative to my core and I have more Bibles in my house than most hotels have in all their rooms combined. 

But, I love.

I grew up riding horses, I swam in dirty ponds, and I spent most of my childhood barefoot. I was in church every time the doors were open and my family even sang Amazing Grace around a campfire a time or two. 

But, we love. 

I grew up in a red state, and still to this day, I live in a red state. 

But, I love.

My family loves. My conservative family loves...and always will love. Some would even say, “their hearts are the size of Texas.”

I also have family that grew up in a blue state. My husband, for one. He grew up in the Northwest. His roots run deep there. His memories alive there.

But, he loves.

And his family loves.

So how can we, as Americans, who all bleed the same blood, whose hearts all pound with the same force, 

hate each other?

Just because we are different? Just because we live in different states? Just because we have different convictions. Different beliefs? 

I don’t agree with some lifestyles. Some don’t agree with mine. But we can still love. 

For Christ came to seek and to save the lost. Without love, we are ALL lost. The world is hopeless without peace. Without forgiveness. Without hope for today. Hope for tomorrow. And hope for eternity. Without love, Christ’s perfect love, we are hopeless. Lost forever. Doomed for destruction. Every single one of us. Red or Blue. 

But because HE bled. We can live. 

No matter who you are. Or what lifestyle you lead. Or where you reside. Or how you live this one life you’ve been given.

He died for YOU. He died for me.

He lives for YOU. He lives for me.

He loves YOU. He loves me.

Love still lives. 

No matter who sits in office. 

No matter what our world comes to. 

Love will prevail. 

Jesus is still on His throne. 

And just like Titus wrote in his writer’s notebook today,

though life is different in St.Louis,

“love is the same.” 

So be encouraged, dear friends.

Love has won.