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I have an announcement!

After much consideration and a lot of encouragement I decided to leave this blog behind and start a new one, in collaboration with my husband, focused on food, delicious recipes, stories, and our life together.

Please check it out and start following Our Savory Life.

Not ready to move on? Here is a little peak at what you’ll find on the new blog:

Welcome to Our Savory Life. I’m Bri but you’ll get to know me as Belle and my husband as Beau (our nicknames for each other since we started dating).

For us, cooking isn’t just about food. It’s about telling a story. It’s about inviting others into our lives. Our crazy, delicious lives. This is our savory life.

So pull up a chair. Join us as we journey through this life, with Jesus as our aim, bringing people together around a table filled with food, love, and many, many stories.

Thank you to all who followed me and journeyed with me on to Know Love. I hope you find just as much satisfaction, if not more, at Our Savory Life.


New Year’s Eve is my favorite holiday.

No really, it is.

Or so I thought. Then I started dating my beau. And he noticed a pattern (like he has so many other times since this relationship began).

Our first holiday as a couple was the Fourth of July, which I let him know was my favorite holiday. Then Thanksgiving came around and I told him it was my favorite holiday.

He thought he just misheard me about Fourth of July. Then came Christmas  Eve, which I informed him was my favorite holiday and so on.

Next in line, New Year’s Eve and I exclaimed with much joy how it was my favorite holiday. And Beau knew something was up.

“You know every holiday is your favorite, right?” He said it outright. Steady. A half smile giving him away.

“That’s not true! I love New Year’s Eve, it really is my favorite…”


“Actually, I love Thanksgiving too. Oh and Fourth of July and Christmas!!!!” I said less steady, a little worried but still beaming as I thought about all my favorite holidays.

“So, basically any day where there is an excuse for celebration and a joining of friends is your favorite?”

“Um, yes. I guess that’s about right.”

“So, I should just assume that whichever holiday is up and coming is your favorite?”

“Yes. That would be best. But baby, your birthday is my ABSOLUTE favorite. The day you were born :)”

And no, I did not just come up with that. I actually said it. Oh yes I did. Judge me. Now.

Anyway, my favorite holiday is um, today!

If you are planning on having people over or if you need to bring something, I have an extremely easy dish that will be a hit. Everyone will love you. And they’ll ask for the recipe. And love you some more. And all of a sudden you will be a shoe-in for all parties up and coming.

And if you are an introvert maybe this does not sound awesome to you. And I apologize for that.

Enter: Baked Fontina

It is so easy. So simple. It acts as a great appetizer when you have friends or family over but it is just as good for a leisurely lunch.

This recipe comes from Ina Gartin who first made it after having a similar dish at a famous New York City restaurant.

Here are some of the ingredients you will need:

There, now that's not too bad, is it?

There, now that’s not too bad, is it?

Grab your cast iron skillet. Next you will want to cube up 1 1/2 pounds of Fontina cheese. One inch cubes will do and make sure you do not use the rind. Fontina is a very creamy cheese and melts well. I found it at my local grocery store in the cheese aisle.

Add the cubed Fontina to the cast iron skillet. Then mince 1 tablespoon fresh thyme and 1 teaspoon fresh rosemary.

Now it’s time for white gold. Garlic that is. This recipe calls for 6 cloves of garlic. Now that’s a recipe you can trust.

Slice the garlic very thinly.

Six cloves of garlic? Don't mind if I do.

Six cloves of garlic? Don’t mind if I do.

And that’s about the extent of your prep work. Look at you go. You’re awesome.

Now we assemble.

Drizzle 1/4 cup olive oil all over the cheese.


Add that beautiful garlic to the cast iron skillet. Just evenly lay it all over the cheese.

Fontina, meet garlic.

Fontina, meet garlic.

Now sprinkle your fresh herbs all over the cheese. Finish it off with 1 teaspoon kosher salt and 1 teaspoon fresh cracked black pepper.

She looks so beautiful and she still has to go into the oven to get all bubbly.


Now it is time to pop her in the oven. Turn your oven to Broil and make sure your oven rack is just five inches from the broiler.

A tip: if you are making this as an appetizer for people that you are entertaining, wait to pop it in the oven until your guests arrive. It only takes about 6-10 minutes for the cheese to get all bubbly and brown and it is always fun to pull it out when your guests are standing near by! OR, if you are bringing it over to someone’s house just assemble it and wait to pop it in the oven when you get to their house.

This is what you will pull out:


YES! Now, Ina suggests you serve this with a crusty baguette. Which is a very good idea. We like to drizzle our baguette slices with olive oil and pop it into the oven under the broiler once the cheese comes out. It usually only takes about 3 minutes for it to get all golden.

Then when it comes out, rub a smidge bit of raw garlic on it (because this dish doesn’t already have enough garlic).

See? A smidge of garlic.

See? A smidge of garlic.

But we didn’t stop there. My beau arranged an awesome array of veggies to go with this cheese. We used carrots, green apples and broccoli. We have also used grapes, celery, and bell peppers in the past.

With no effort at all your set-up will look like this:


And when someone dips into the cheese, they’ll experience this:


Oh yes they will.

(Note: in my pictures you will notice my cast iron is a mere 5 inches instead of the recommended 12, that’s because I made this for lunch the day after Christmas for just the two of us! It is the perfect size for just two and I got this mini cast iron at World Market for $6.00! World Market, I’m addicted. Enough said.)

Done and done. You need to make this like yesterday. But since that isn’t going to happen, how about make it for your New Year’s Eve party?

Happy New Year’s Eve! Here’s your recipe:


  • 1 1/2 pounds Italian Fontina Val d’Aosta cheese, rind removed and 1-inch-diced
  • 1/4 cup good olive oil
  • 6 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
  • 1 tablespoon minced fresh thyme leaves
  • 1 teaspoon minced fresh rosemary leaves
  • 1 teaspoon kosher salt
  • 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
  • 1 crusty French baguette


Preheat the broiler and position the oven rack 5 inches from the heat.

Distribute the cubes of Fontina evenly in a 12-inch cast-iron pan. Drizzle on the olive oil. Combine the garlic, thyme, and rosemary and sprinkle it over the cheese and olive oil. Sprinkle with the salt and pepper and place the pan under the broiler for 6 minutes, until the cheese is melted and bubbling and starts to brown.

Serve the baked Fontina family-style-right out of the oven in the cast-iron pan with crusty chunks of bread for everyone to dip.

This will easily feed 8-10 people as an appetizer or 4-6 if served for lunch.

“I don’t know why.”

I was ready to answer the question that would come. But, I don’t know if I’d call that an answer. Which made the tears explode and burst onto the scene with more intention.

But he never came and asked, “Why are you crying?” He let me rest. He cleaned the house and went grocery shopping and let me fall into the sleep he knew I needed.

I finally did sleep. Probably because I was exhausted from my trip to Peru. But mostly because I didn’t want to think about why I was crying. I hear that’s really healthy… (note sarcasm, or call me a therapist 🙂 )

Tears bred from confusion light me up. Not with anger. With curiosity. But I did not feel like exploring that night. So I let my mind and heart be handed over to dreaming. I wanted to live, just for a few hours, behind the creases of my eye lids.

Little hands, patient but asking, appear on the stage of my life. Not as props or co-stars or backdrops but as the climax, with great purpose, acting as powerful transitions but revealed to be decisive beginnings. Everything but the ending.

I wonder how many times I escorted them off and welcomed the next scene. The next meal I was to prepare. The next pile of clothes to iron. The next floor to sweep. The next email to check.

I’m tired. But I know I’m not tired like Nicolasa who works 12 hour days to feed her children.

Who climbs a steep hill, rocks escaping from under her feet as she conquers each new step. Who carries buckets and buckets and buckets of water up the hill to her home, because water only comes through a community pump and it only comes every other day.

I’m not that kind of tired.

And then there is Naomi. My heart swollen as I watch her, a child in ever way, dressed in pink just like a little girl should be.

She clung to her mom. And her mom latched on too.

Abandoned by her husband. Left as the sole caretaker for her children. Living in a squatter district in Peru. Surrounded for miles by dust and gray sky. Like the underbelly of a donkey.

Standing in her house, I am reminded of how much I yearn for new Jerusalem for them…for myself too.

I’m ready for the water to break and for all my expectation to give birth to eyes that can look on Him who saves.

I’m waiting for a dusty, corroded mirror to crash taking with it the scales on my eyes and every former thing. I spent my time on earth straining to look through it. Catching glimpses. Being formed by quick impressions.

How can I not always yearn for it? For the mirror to give and burst and produce an opening to Him. The object of my faith. The fulfillment of my love.

I want Him to come back. I want Him to wipe my tears away. But I want to watch Him wipe Naomi’s tears away too. And I want Him to turn to me and thank me for wiping away her tears in the waiting.

Did I wipe away her tears?

I watched her and I prayed in my heart, “Jesus, please come back. Please. Please. Please. Please come back.”

But I know He is patient toward us. Steady. Loving. Waiting.

And I know until then He has someone to wipe away her tears and his tears. All their tears. I know that one of those someone’s is me.

“And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘Behold the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” Revelation 21:2-4

The days emerge without regret, in innocence.
Coated thick with His love, new mercies.
I wake-up energetically to greet it; this cunning little day.
Introduce myself, “Today I’ll do my living in you. In your hours. In your space.”

All the moments and the memories; the harshness and inconclusiveness of the days pound on my heart. Provoking. Cyclical.

I always know His name.

The days are evil…I hear.

So, He secures my undivided devotion. My focus stays steady.

I see myself apart from Him…I am weak, uncouth, unstable.

Then He shows me in Him; wonderfully made.

Holy as He is holy.
Capable of love.
Capable to bring Him delight.

Peace reigns in with each day; He lets me understand His will a little more.

Then there was February 8. Another day I greeted, “I will know You and Your goodness in this day.”

In this day, He had a miraculous kind of surprise…his name is, Jeremy.

After my roommate Meredith and my dear friend Emily (rock stars that they are) helped him plot and plan – at 9:15 am my eyes greeted him as did my whole being when I flung myself into his arms. He had made the trek from Florida into Compassion’s building.

In this day I understood, a little bit more, His unrelenting goodness. And He chose His son, Jeremy. A man well acquainted with His heart to expose such mysteries within me.

Then the whisper in my heart as I am trying (and not succeeding) to take it all in, “I came that you might know me too although, my journey was quite longer.”

It is a strange thing when one day, over a course of weeks or perhaps months, even years, all of a sudden a desire, through fruition and an outstretched Arm, has a name. The desire has a personality. It has green eyes and a strong grip. It has a steady voice and it has a love for the Lord that quiets your heart. “It” is actually a “he” and he is Jeremy.

Seemingly and so suddenly the prayer is no longer the receipt of the desire but for the wisdom and ability to walk well with the desire, this man. To honor the Lord for He has lavished kindness on me in His grace. To obey His voice for His sovereignty is on display.

Through this all, the posture of my heart remains resolved in what I have always wanted to be:

To be a woman who brings to my Lord the sacrifice of worship through obedience. To understand His will and to trust Him. To know Him.

In the grand and shinning truth of Love I have come to know that all the attacks and doubts and past hurts seem so very weak and insignificant. My heart is strengthened by knowing the Lord, to know His love.

And so now, a new journey and a new name; living inside my heart – a world of brilliance and grace and strength. A man who honors the King.

Jeremy, hello.

Montague's ParlorSweet coconut tickles my nose as it floats away from my teacup.

Black tea at Montague’s. Welcome to my Sunday.

The sun is sneaky bright this afternoon. Like she threw off winter and is making her own path.

This day culminates into defiance (the sun refusing the season) and my heart watches. Makes me want to defy something too; usually my perceptions. I know I can’t come close to dreaming as big as He can.

Unimaginable, it’s the signature of His will. Love, the path He leads me on as He takes me through the story.

The purpose of this post is to point you somewhere else. I heard a sermon the other day (podcast it!) from Mark Driscoll of Mars Hill Church in Seattle called Trial: Suffer to Worship.  (You can click on this link and then click “Audio only” or you can go to iTunes, search Mark Driscoll and then you can download the sermon for free).

It was truly challenging to listen to and now the Holy Spirit is busy at work as He establishes and reproofs me to make me a woman holy as Jesus is holy.

Mark Dirscoll makes the case that when a Christian suffers there is an opportunity to truly examine ourselves, an opportunity to become better worshippers. He states,

Suffering is an amazing opportunity in which we get to know:

  • where our hope truly is
  • where our identity is ultimately fashioned
  • who our real God is

I won’t steal the Holy Spirit’s resounding movement, I am sure He has some message for your heart, maybe different than the one He had for me when I listened to the message. If you have a moment please listen to it and let me know your thoughts. Hopefully, and soon, I will expand more on what my heart knows of this lesson.

To close, this was heavy to listen to only because it clear that the life of a Christian truly is one marked by suffering. More so, a crescendo of praise is to ensue in this time as opposed to what the world has for us, a heart of despair.

In this I rejoice: my heart will not settle. It will not become as some form of concrete laid down and left to dry. I am, inwardly, churned and shaken. Cracked and broken. The mark of Love, oh how severe! How magnificent! Thrashed within, praise throughout.

P9270095Insert inspirational thought here: _____
Insert understanding and peace and that brilliant, “Oh yeah. Okay. I can do this” moment here:____

Where my heart rejects deception and presses forward. Seeking life, reacting to Truth. Moving freely in His grace.

The quieting of His love.
Humming to His song.
Pursuing Love that conquers and pushes out fear…my failure.

You’re dancing in that white dress, child. No condemnation. No impurity. No unrighteousness.

The weight of weakness seeping into my heart. Saturating me with its heavy ideas. Saddling my life. The mind. My movement. Then in the quiet, “Oh daughter, your faith…it is more precious than gold.”

I heard when Love calls your name, you lose yourself.

Sometimes I throw things:
my expired speculations that brew in desperation, in quiet caves, in dark gardens.
chains so corroded and mutilated.
my love, because I heard she has wings.

I want:
my brown hair back.
what illuminates my hazel eyes.
freckles that dust my face.

To vomit:
the tongue that stabs.
lies that paralyze.
the murky film which veils the eyes and ruptures the heart.

I have heard everything is rubbish in light of knowing Him. Everything. If only to hear His voice more clearly, to understand the steadiness of His gaze.

And then there was October. That month which tries to find its place. In it I knew the Lord. The blanket of His love and caress of His words. He says to me, “Know me.” He says to me, “Watch me.”

There is the response, the psalm, the submission.

The barren woman says, “There is none holy like the Lord; there is none besides You; there is no rock like our God” (2 Samuel 2:2-3).

The desolate and humbled king proclaims, “…and He does according to His will among the host of heaven and among the inhabitants of the earth; and none can stay His hand or say to Him, What have You done?” (Daniel 4:35)

He who lost everything cries out, “I know that You can do all things and that no purpose of Yours can be thwarted” (Job 42:2).

The slain Lamb testifies, “Not my will, but Yours, be done” (Luke 22:42).

And the weary daughter who Loves the Father teaches her heart, “Only You Lord, I only desire to receive from Your hands.”

So then there is life and living and love.
There is beauty that defies the billboards of our misconceptions and collapses what the world asks us to hunger for.

To be a woman who fears the Lord.
To know a man who honors the King.

Brianne Michelle.
Weaves in and out of tears. Stalks joy. Loves neighbor. Knows Father.
Welcomes November…

She masters her cage.

She masters her cage.

There was a poem throwing itself around in my blood.

Something about a bird and a cage.

Ah, yes! Don’t they all work birds into their masterpieces, their sonnets?

I don’t care. Sometimes a poem finds you out and it’s about something borrowed, something blue. Perhaps we should hand the skepticism of our own minds over to the depleting work of rigor mortis. Just be honest. Just write.

I told her she was free.
Re-mastered the lock, dissolved the key.

“Don’t be stubborn, you’ve not had a good home.”
Her heart kept a boring tempo – an unkempt metronome.

Occupy the space in the sky!
I’m giving you a voice, another try.
Lift yrslf with the flaking dead skin.
Transcend the roof of my home. Be bold – know no whim.

She shuffles her claws in linear motion.
Neither phased nor impressed with my clean notion.
Opens her cracked beak
And violently speaks,

“I’ve only known this rusted tin and you, always watching me.
Now you loftily proclaim I’m released from gravity?”

In an attempt to explain,
“Bird of my house, don’t be alarmed. I bring wisdom from above.
This is not some trick, this is love.”

Then the cage dissipates.
The bird gone, a fake.

A Voice deep inside,
“That bird is not real, the bird is a lie.
In her parables you hide.
In her bleak feathers you confide.”

“You march around, so confidently.
You search for your cage. You seek modestly.”

“Child! You have wings yet you stumble on feet.
Woman! The cage was never your home. You live in me.”

“I bring bright shiny lights from above.
This is no trick. I am Love.”

“In the backdoors and attics of your mind you retreat.
But open your veins, accept a new beat.
You know my voice
You are my sheep.”

“Call me your Love. I’m not just some Sir.
You are beautiful. You’re not just some bird.”


Eh, well…my words, unfettered. Amateur, I know. But I was honest.

Sometimes late at night I go to sleep and think about how much of me I didn’t let be me and how much of me I let Him release. He kisses my cheek, whispers me to sleep, “Freedom you’re given. My daughter, you’ve been set free.”

Fall leavesMy favorite season is fall.

File that right next to, “loves birthday cake ice cream” and “usually writes with a candle lit.”

The clouds are touching the ground tonight. They blur the city lights and announce to the people as they blow by, “Fall is here.”

It’s October 5th and winter is not wasting her time. In the midst of it all, the pumpkin picking and the festive arrangements being laid on doorsteps, there is me. Pacing the corridors of my mind. Slamming closed doors to overworked thoughts, opening them again, then on again with the slamming.

Last fall did not meet me with the joy I usually know.

October 2008 was truly a difficult month for me. I happened upon one of those dreadful nights where my heart blistered and cracked then fell out by way of my mouth, my nose, my eyes.

The details of that night won’t leave me. There is a very specific desire I stammered around and then spoke out loud. I still hope, as much as I did that night, that my words entered heaven with urgency.

This past year of time with Him has been marked by what I let fall from me and into His hands last October, our conversations frequently coming back to “that night last fall”. It’s not referred to as anything else; we both know which conversation is being addressed.

Words fail us in those moments; that’s just how it is. And so much of me failed too. The strength I believed I had, the vibrant trust I was sure was weaved throughout my being. All of a sudden brokenness had a night and a date and a time.

This past September was spent stepping lightly in each day, as I knew October was coming again. And it’s here; I’m in it…an anniversary of sorts.

It seems that my heart was scalped and for 365 days the Lord has continued to poke and prod around. And what a most horrific way to heal a wound! But I hear it’s best to get all the shrapnel out before you close the patient back up.

Through this all there is a bitterness that knows my name and asks for my attention.

“But let us not grow weary!” He beckons my mind, my soul, my heart. Bitterness and disbelief may pound on my desires and ask for me to flirt with them but the Lover does not fool around with such small requests. He asks for my life, in its entirety.

So my eyes stay on Him and He teaches me to love. To be a woman that loves and loves Him and loves well.

Yesterday I made a choice: to embrace October. But not just to embrace this month, to embrace the sovereign Lord within October.

My heart has seen a love that creates a new man. Love that can transform what we only thought could be tweaked.

With my heart I pronounce a toast, “Here’s to the prodding, the exposing and the sorrow that will birth life. To the walking forward every day in His love as it is He who raises the woman up to be able to say, ‘I want what you want Lord.'”

At times, it seems too much but there is always His faint voice, “In who else’s hands would you place this.”

And always the steady answer of my heart, “Only Yours Lord. Only in Your hands.”

“Open up my door Lord, to whatever makes me love you more.” – mewithoutYou

“Lord, I give You permission to cut.” -Catherine Hilger


Paris Je T'aime - a loved indie. This scene is what my lie feels like to me.

Paris Je T'aime - a loved indie. This scene is what "you're so easy to leave" feels like to me.

I can recall to mind without any uncertainty my first break up and how it felt.

So can my parents, my sister, my brother and I’m also sure the neighbor who heard as my heartache was swallowed in the moon, me and all my sobs. The night went on and many slept but I knew no such reprieve.

Seems dramatic when I think back on it. But isn’t it always when we’re talking about love unkempt? Or what we thought love was. Or what we thought love could be.

This is not a story of bitterness.
Or a story of prolonged brokenness.

That particular story (the first break-up) was one of a certain sound and certain beat my heart made when I first started to believe that I was easy to leave.

“Bri Michelle, you’re so easy to leave.”

The growing takes time because youth works against us. Understanding Father’s love takes time. Coming to the place of the very sincere agreement, “My desire is to know Christ, I count all else as rubbish” takes dying. And of course…that takes time.

And the years go by. The sound of the beat of my heart changes.
Some notes stay the course, other harmonies incorporated, a new chord learned, a crescendo dropped. It all morphs and contorts – moving to the wave of the Conductor’s hand.

People will leave. We know it so well.
People will run. Because of fear, because of inability to commit, because of confusion…

It is a very strange thing when we allow Father to truly establish our heart’s in His truth. All of a sudden, the lies begin to look very small and weak. Grand Love moves mountains and those lies were only able to skip a few stones.

Flash-forward: Six years after this break-up and after many other stories that looked like the confirmation, “You are easy to leave”, I heard Him.

His assurance that He will never leave me. I’ve heard it before in a very watered down state. The repetition of this truth threatened any real understanding from emerging. But now…

 “Bri Michelle, how can I leave you? How can I give you up? ”

The slightest hum of Truth can dismantle and dissolve the lies we thought forever slashed us and took away our character, even our ability to love.

This I call to mind: the lies never saw me. They don’t know me. Truth sees me, knows me. Truth created me. And in a most holy and severe moment Truth marched to the cross and because of this I will never know separation from Love.

In my lifetime I will hear many people say, “Goodbye” or, “I choose to leave you” and I am sure I will say it too (is it not that there is a time and a season for everything?)

Yet my hope is in this: I will never hear those words from His mouth, He will never abandon.

Hosea 11:8-9

“How can I give you up, Ephraim? 
How can I hand you over, Israel? 
How can I treat you like Admah? 
How can I make you like Zeboiim? 
My heart is changed within me; all my compassion is aroused.

I will not carry out my fierce anger, nor will I turn and devastate Ephraim.
For I am God, and not man – the Holy One among you.”

My sweet Jesus, thank you for loving me…and not leaving me. -Selah.


So much to say…

And the burden of all the words and thoughts threatens my vulnerability.

It is all a very complicated kind of striving: To maintain a soft heart preceded by hope and trust. Yet I know sincere and devote relationships will flourish, there will be life and living and knowing.

My words find their dedication in the King…even the words I wish faith could banish. Those words marked with doubt, those words marred by the world, the words that steep apart from His character. 

It is a mysterious thing to trust and love Him, even though we have not seen Him. So it is a miracle, this faith. This Him inside of us. His pursuit keeps me close and, though grossly frustrated with it at times, my writing is the gateway – my response to His initiative…

These past months I’ve written a lot but while the writing has not been a problem, creativity continues to dodge my every page. Which makes the writing less eloquent but probably more articulate. And in the end it has ushered me even deeper into the way of the Lord.

I once read a piece of advice from a writer, “Keep writing, everyday. Always. Even when you don’t have anything to write, write about that.” 

So I keep writing for Him, to Him and in the process I am deciphered.

At times, and most sporadically I come back to this blog and say, oh yes…yes, I write to people at times. Tonight is one of those nights (I nearly forgot my login and password. And have you noticed? This is a new blog).

If I might share some of the things I have written in my absence:

March 3, 2009

Beauty interrupts me.
Hello Beauty.
I would not be so welcoming of any other distraction (or maybe it is me that is the distraction?)

You loosen the static words, mundane and sticking to my heart.
They wage the war of complacency with their words, “This is the way it is and it’s like this.”
Provoking me to navigate through my tragedy (or as my dear friend Seth once stated, maybe it is a comedy).

Yesterday was meek. Not even like a day.
Some kind of shy attempt to produce time and space for us to do our living in. Then this morning I woke up, remnants of yesterday burrowing in my heart.
How awkward those days when I don’t feel real. There are too many unknowns and so much waiting to be running around and doing. So life feels like some kind of upside down dream.

He wounds me with Truth. Because truly, there is a time when the clinging and the trusting and the obedience of faith must be this very beautiful and fierce firmness. Perhaps it is that first shinning moment when you know Love knows you and Love loves you.

Read the rest of this entry »

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