It Was The Oldest Sound There Was.

A Moment Of Grace. There Rose Up Within Me A Profound Sense Of Being Loved. I Felt "gathered Together" And Encircled By A Presence Completely Loving, As If I Were Enveloped By The Music Of A Love Song Created Just For Me. It Was Not Overwhelming Or Even Emotional. Just A Warm Knowing That I Was In God's Loving Embrace...centered And Unified There. [love]encounters Cannot Be Analyzed, Only Shared. If You Take A Butterfly, Robert Frost Said, And Pin It Down Into A Box, You No Longer Have A Butterfly.

I Vividly Remember The Summer Of 1964 With Its Voter Registration Drives, Boiling Racial Tensions, And The Erupting Awareness Of The Cruelty Of Racism. I Was Never The Same After That Summer.

I Think Many People Need, Even Require, A Narrative Version Of Their Life. I Seem To Be One Of Them. Writing Memoir Is, In Some Ways, A Work Of Wholeness.

And When You Get Down To It, Lily, That Is The Only Purpose Grand Enough For A Human Life. Not Just To Love But To Persist In Love.

There's Release In Knowing The Truth No Matter How Anguishing It Is. You Come Finally To The Irreducible Thing, And There's Nothing Left To Do But Pick It Up And Hold It. Then, At Last, You Can Enter The Severe Mercy Of Acceptance.