i can't move the mountains for you.

disclaimer: this is incredibly personal, and yet oddly important.

loneliness and all,

i was stuck to the spot without a friend.
alone again.
and i hunger and i thirst, 
for some shiver, for some whispered words.
and the promise to come.
and you saw me low, 
alone again.
didn't they say that only love will win in the end?
only love, mumford and sons.

- - -

there are different kinds of loneliness, you know.
there's the loneliness that comes when you have people, but you are disconnected from them for a time.
there's the loneliness that comes with separation and gradual distancing of people.
there's the loneliness when trapped inside your own head, with no place to release your impressions.
there's the loneliness of being isolated, even when surrounded by people.
there's the loneliness of facing a circumstance so odd and unique to you.
and then.
there's the loneliness of the people you've never known, or don't know yet.

because, though they say you can't miss what you never had--

i, for one, disagree with that.

longing for dreams you've not yet known means a certain loneliness without them.

to be alone--alone with loneliness included.

sometimes trapped, sometimes isolated.

sometimes just alone.

because i don't think being alone always entails loneliness.

by no means. 

but it does sometimes.

and, you know?

i'm starting to learn and think perhaps that it's supposed to.

i think we're all meant to pass through a bout of loneliness here and there.

because loneliness shows us how much we long for connection.

because loneliness drives us to God, in whom we see that (grâce à jésus) we never walk alone.

i've been thinking about--and experiencing--all these different shades of loneliness lately.

perhaps even since graduating and my soul started to have time to catch up with me and be heard.

i'd be lying if i denied it.
my boots have been heavy with fears and loneliness.

with all the pieces of former gold that cannot stay.

the changes in which nothing changed.

all the strivings that are brought to naught.

most of all--with people of all kinds.

the men, the women, the girls, the boys.

not always, but sometimes.

i won't expound--not here, not now. perhaps not ever.

suffice it to say, it's been an odd few months.

perhaps some of the strangest of my entire life.

(WEIRD, i tell you.)

for a variety of reasons, only an insignificant portion of which that i have answers for.

isn't that faith, though?

belief in that which isn't seen,

in the incomprehensible,

in receiving guidance one step at a time.

the other day i was talking with greer,

wise woman that she is.

she said she's found an eight month pattern in her life--

it's often eight months after something occurs, 

that it will all come together and make sense.

when she'll know why she is where she is, doing what she's doing.

i can't claim any sort of regular pattern,

but i'd like to believe there will be answers someday to why.

for now, though.

i'm satisfied without why.

marching on.

doing as i must, when i must--no sooner.

letting my hands do their work where they're needed,

here a little, there a little, before retreating again into myself.

even when that means tracking back and forth through every corner of the sherwood forest.

because nothing gold can stay.

nothing sticks, nothing stays.

only here a little, there a little.

passing myself around.

because my restless soul (in every sense) never stays.

back in september, jillian sent me a brilliant email about jesus and loneliness.

don't you think jesus was lonely?

i think he was. not always. but sometimes.

in order to fully understand his full destiny--

i think that meant loneliness sometimes, let alone when on the cross.

there's a certain level of loneliness required to wrap your mind around the weight of your role.

there's a place for sorrow and heavy boots.

and the longer i live, the more i experience, and the more i see--

the more i understand how life itself serves to enhance our capacity.

our capacity to understand, our capacity to grieve.

and most of all?

our capacity to love. to see as God sees and feel as He feels.

to truly know His mind and heart.

in my moments of solitude--and even loneliness,

i've learned much about myself, of course.

but, perhaps, i'd dare say i've learned more about people.

the character of the souls around me, as well as humans at large.

especially, though--

i've learned especially much about young adults, single and married.

we're all scared.

we're all climbing mountains.

we're all striving to create something and find stable foundation holding our lives.

we're all struggling in some way or another, practically constantly.

in the business of life, we forget.

going here, going there.

this school pile of readings, this school exam.

this work project, this work training.

this church assignment, this church call.

going, going,

gone.

we're trapped in our own lives, really.

perhaps intertwined to some degree with those closest to us.

generally, though, we're trained to be selfish.

get through school.

push yourself and apply yourself in advancing in your career.

only in those quiet nighttime, morningtime moments, are we brought for a moment face-to-face.

waiting for the bus, sitting outside during lunch hour, the hazy moment before falling asleep.

or even in the midst of school or work, looking up for a split second, to see ourselves in our own respective life.

i think the most profound acquisition of eternal truth and understanding comes often in those very moments.

more than that.

these are the moments that remind of reality: things as they really are.

and in many aspects, that realization is one of dread or horror.

has struggle, loneliness, and sadness always been so prevalent?

i'd like to hope, on one hand, that it has.

but i fear, it hasn't.

this mental struggle in striving to stay afloat in the process of becoming--

it can be suffocating.

so many striving, 

so many alone.

so many climbing their own respective mountains.

the best and worst thing about my soul is my ability to see. 

it's magical, really. i know.

but it's heavy too--a double-edged sword.

i think, sometimes, i see too much.

but these eyes of mine don't ever close, though i wish sometimes they would.

and sometimes. lately, especially.

i see the grasp of satan all around.

all his attempts to crush me and all of us.

because no one ever talks about how satan knows us too.

and so he persists.

suffocating. squelching.

people i know, people i don't.

their life ambitions, their self-esteem, their marriages, their hopes.

filling with fear, blocking vision, and leaving in the dark.

in a time of such radical uncertainty,

it's a wonder we don't fall more in all our attempts to fly.

you know what one of my favorite scriptures is concerning the nature of God?

(aside from moses 7. obviously.)

james 1:17--

every good gift and every perfect gift is from above,

and cometh down from the Father of lights,

with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.

the Father of lights, you know?

because there's reason to look up, despite the abyss below.

in lev nikolaevich tolstoy's chronicle of his own faith crisis, a confession,

he concludes with retelling a dream, a beautiful dream that says this is it--

he's lying on a bed, but begins to fall towards an abyss below:

I could not even make out whether I saw anything there below, in that bottomless abyss over which I was hanging and whiter I was being drawn. My heart contracted, and I experienced horror. To look thither was terrible. If I looked thither I felt that I should at once slip from the last support and perish. And I did not look. But not to look was still worse, for I thought of what would happen to me directly I fell from the last support. And I felt that from fear I was losing my last supports, and that my back was slowly slipping lower and lower. Another moment and I should drop off. And then it occurred to me that this cannot be real. It is a dream. Wake up! I try to arouse myself but cannot do so. What am I to do? What am I to do? I ask myself, and look upwards. Above, there is also an infinite space. I look into the immensity of sky and try to forget about the immensity below, and I really do forget it. The immensity below repels and frightens me; the immensity above attracts and strengthens me. I am still supported above the abyss by the last supports that have not yet slipped from under me; I know that I am hanging, but I look only upwards and my fear passes.

there's always an abyss.

there's always loneliness.

there's always mountains to climb.

what way do we look?

above, there is an infinite space.

i look into the immensity of sky

and try to forget about the immensity below,

and i really do forget it.

the immensity below repels and frightens me;

the immensity above attracts and strengthens me.

look up. it's always better to look up.

only then will fear pass.

- - -

cold is the water--

it freezes your already cold mind.

and death is at your doorstep.

and it will steal your innocence,

but it will not steal your substance.

but you are not alone in this.

and you are not alone in this.

as brothers [and sisters] we will stand,

and we'll hold your hand. 

timshel, mumford and sons.

- - -

because in that true loneliness that we all must pass through--

the kind that gnaws and rips through your soul--

what more can we do, than simply be?

i can't move the mountains for you,

but i will stand and hold your hand.

as you climb your ladder to the stars.*

*reference to mumford's timshel, which is actually a reference to john steinbeck's east of eden.

my slc. | nine and nine.

a new country lay open before me: there were no fences in those days,

and i could choose my own way over the grass uplands, trusting the pony to get me home again.

sometimes i followed the sunflower-bordered roads.

fuchs told me that the sunflowers were introduced into that country by the mormons;

that at the time of the persecution when they left missouri and struck out

into the wilderness to find a place where they could worship God in their own way,

the members of the first exploring party, crossing the plains to utah,

scattered sunflower seeds as they went. the next summer,

when the long trains of wagons came through with all the women and children,

they had a sunflower trail to follow.

i believe that botanists do not confirm jake's story but,

insist that the sunflower was native to those plains.

nevertheless, that legend has stuck in my mind,

and sunflower-bordered roads always seem to me the roads to freedom.

( some people have a thing for ferry boats. 

i have a thing for quaint and charming homes. somanyhearteyes. )

i was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins,

and i did not want to be anything more. i was entirely happy.

perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire,

whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge.

at any rate, that is happiness;

to be dissolved into something complete and great.

when it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep.

willa cather, my ántonia (both quotes.)

inspired by this lovely space.

to love. чего-то неопределённого.

one.

on the last day of class last week, my professor ended by having us watch this and then this.

and in these faces and places used as representations of all places and faces, i was overcome.

because in them, i saw ukraine. certain faces, certain places.

they looked of ukraine.

and i was engulfed in love as well as perplexing wonder.

these pieces of the world that are so much of who i am.

these faces i know and faces i don't--the idea of them itself.

and i wondered.

how is it possible to love something so unquantifiable--like a country or a people--so much?

what does that look like?

this overwhelming surge, that makes you want to embrace it all.

to love so fully something as impossible to materially visualize or quantify as a country--a people?

deep in my soul, i yearn for ukraine.

this all-encompassing divine kind of love.

how is it possible?

guilt to peace, despair to hope.

in some ways, those very four feelings perfectly sum my entire mission.

they perfectly sum one of the most profound lessons i did learn.

the value of hope, and that peace is a choice.

hoping in people, finding peace, and gifting hope and peace together.

how is it possible?

благодаря Ему.

it's been one year today since i came home.

one year since i said goodbye and parted ways with a nation and people that have my heart.

i adore them with all that i am, and i miss them with all that i am.

i miss the way they talk, i miss their mannerisms and language.

i miss talking with them and hearing their stories.

i miss specific people, yes. but i also miss them collectively too.

the very way i love them: specifically and collectively.

and i miss opening them up.

opening them like eggs.

eggs that look made of titanium steel, but are really just covered in tinfoil.

my people.

i went to the temple today.

i reflected on this year.

in some ways, my circumstances have changed very little in this time.

and yet.

everything is different.

i am different, even from the sister who walked off that plane.

my life is different, and my life is moving.

and we all know how my mission gave me an obsession with movement and change.

that divine restlessness, as my ma would say.

i've spent this whole year learning millions more reasons than i ever imagined for my gratitude.

because ukraine is everything.

those people, those lessons, that life.

being completely consumed in every moment of every day in the work of Him.

being completely consumed in every moment of every day in the needs of others.

i love God.

i used to get a little annoyed when people would say just that--because what does that even mean?

but now, i really know. and i have no other words besides those.

i've been so filled with recognition recently of how much i love Him.

even though there's no real way to fully express that in mortal words.

there are a lot of reasons.

but also,

i'm not really sure i could give you one definitive answer.

i just do.

i love Him. and i love Jesus.

for God so loved [emily], that he sent her to ukraine.

my heart was hollowed out and broken,

but filled again with nothing but the purest love and wisdom.

more than that--with understanding.

and for that opportunity to be his servant for that time,

to love and know his children the way He does?

i will forever gratefully praise His name.

because where God is, there is home.

universal university.

the thing i love about university life and education, as well as this phase of life in general, is the way everything is questioned. the way new ideas are brought into your world. new ideas, new perspectives, new lives. the way you begin thinking about something you'd never even considered before. new questions. new pieces of mysteries of the universe to resolve. like walking into a freshman biology class and actually considering evolution and what that means for the first time. discussions and dialogues about the world we live in as it was, is, and will someday be.

found here.

that's what i love about university.

yesterday i had my last first day of traditional education. the first day of my last year as an undergraduate college student. let's take a little moment to examine this little journey, shall we? i can't believe that it's been five years. five years since i first moved to this provo land.

it always starts with so many general education courses. but if i'm honest. i think that's the beautiful part of university. the way you study and come to be familiar with so many microcosms within the university itself. that freshman biology and political science, or anthropology and music civilization. plus so many more.

when i started i was a psychology major, but didn't really have any clue what i wanted to do. then i fiercely considered anthropology before concluding i'd never be able to get a job in that. before ultimately somehow landing in communication disorders and finding it to be just right. so maybe it requires a master's degree. did you know, i was in sixth grade when i decided that i wanted to get a master's degree? sixth grade.

there once was a time when i was minoring in french. aha. then i went to romania and learned romanian instead. then when i came back to french it was a real struggle. and then i went on a mission russian-speaking and all hope was lost regarding french academics, despite the fact that i only had two courses left in the minor. and that's the story of how i began double majoring in russian.

i went to school summer term after my freshman year because i couldn't find a job. turns out i couldn't find a job so that i could go to romania. because the next summer, that's exactly what i did. perhaps one of the best decisions i've ever made in my entire life. then another academic year passed by, in the midst of which in put in my papers and received a mission call. that call to ukraine. the call.

i never truly anticipated serving a mission and deferring school in the middle of it, let alone deferring at a point when i had only one semester left. but, as we all know: life rarely, if ever, goes exactly as anticipated. but that's exactly what i did. and that year and a half in ukraine in addition to what i already had learned in romania taught me a thing or two or two thousand about the big picture and this great big world, as well as the place we each hold within it. so then when i came back, suddenly the world seemed bigger than just this small square of academics. because the world became my campus.

(in the midst there's been what seems like numberless amounts of roommates, what actually is numberless expanses of new experience, and numberless lessons learned that are shaping and molding me into who i am and who i'm becoming.)

so now here i am, beginning my final year. not counting romania, that's seven full semesters, three terms so far. with two more full semesters to go. i'm doubling in russian now, and that's what god has given me to fill my life with purpose in the interim between that last semester that i left and in all those months before graduate school. because isn't that the point all along and what we ought to be learning? to fill our lives with purpose, to fill them with the things that matter most. because all this universal knowledge is what gives us understanding. all this knowledge is what lends to empathy. to greater understanding of the human condition. and that is what it's all about.

and as they say grandpa hales always said,

life is measured by new experiences.

here's to one last oldish kind of new experience before the new begins again.
here's to learning in order that we may go forth serving.

(and you'll never hear me admit it, but i've found sometimes i really do love this byu place.)

huit. opt. восемь. 8.

and the walls kept tumbling down in the city that we love.

great clouds roll over the hills bringing darkness from above.

but if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

and if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like you've been here before?

song of the day: pompeii, bastille.

sister pharis and me, just a couple days before leaving ukraine.
you can only a little bit see our nametags if you look closely.

eight.

today makes eight months since i returned home from ukraine.

i sort of kind of lost track of months after awhile after getting past four,

and i wouldn't want to be that obnoxious human that always seems to be counting something.

but recently i realized that in the past year, i've been in america longer than i've been in ukraine.

and something about that realization scares me a little bit.

eight is my favorite number, did you know?

well, it is.

when i'd been on a mission for eight months, i wrote a manifesto of sorts.

all the reasons i loved my mission, because i was a leeetle disenchanted at the time.

well. i'm not going to write a whole list of things to love about life in the past eight months.

but rather, i share that which is most important at this moment.

because in this month eight is when i'm now realizing.

anyone remember this?

(at the beginning of the year, when i'd just barely arrived from ukraine?)

i didn't know what to make of anything.

but resolved to make a place a home.

i knew a whole new year was before me, and i hadn't a clue what it may hold.

well. at the very least, this week i finally saw and realized:

i've made myself a home.

right here in this place and this life.

surrounded by some people i love, some people i like, some people i don't.

but all of everything carries with it a sense of calm and familiarity.

familiarity even with that which isn't routine.

i've found my skin, found my place in my little circle of the world.

and. i've built a home.

so here's to those eight months of construction.

here's to being home.

(and if you're wondering about the status of the ukrainian land at the moment.

well. that. i just can't even talk about. there's nothing good to be said.

so i'll say nothing at all.)

one man's eden.

Eden is that old-fashioned House

We dwell in every day,

Without suspecting our abode

Until we drive away.

Emily Dickinson, Eden is that old-fashioned House

there's this painting i stumbled upon a few months ago in an obscure hallway in the library. one that looks like many others: a landscape of a small town in what looks like rural utah. there's some cows and what looks like a barn, some modest cottages and a steeple in the distance. all of which sits comfortably at the base of some blueish and green rocky mountains. it doesn't have to be utah. it could be the scene from a train of romanian countryside. maybe ukrainian. or perhaps it is just right nearby, just outside of park city, or maybe the path to idaho. we've likely seen such a scene a million times, really. each with its own variation.

i've seen such paintings time and time again and while they are beautiful, most would typically be passed by without great fanfare. without even a second glance. but here i am, telling you all about this one painting, patterned after so many others.

because. i can't get the title out of my head.

One Man's Eden

i've been thinking about the concept of eden a lot lately. which also could be termed as, thinking of the concept of home. it's this obsession of sorts that i have with this idea.

this is a place where i don't feel alone.

this is a place where i feel at home.

song of the day: to build a home, the cinematic orchestra.

a few years ago, google had this ad when they first came out with google plus and the new idea of video chatroom hangouts. a commercial featuring snippets of conversations among people connecting with loved ones from afar via video. connections. the fostering of relationships, the reinforcement of relationships. each was just a small snapshot into a home. (and sometimes it made me want to almost think about shedding a tear.)

home: a place of residence / social unit formed by a family living together / a familiar or usual setting / congenial environment / place of origin.

at home: relaxed and comfortable / at ease / in harmony with the surroundings / on familiar ground

home is a place where people know the intricacies of one another, even if time and distance mean that they don't know the daily details anymore. home means being together, regardless of what you may be doing. it means talking about a little of everything, just because you can--including a small pause while the almost-two-year-old screams out a few words, or even just a pause to watch them nibble at a potato wedge and observe you. being together just to be, sometimes sitting around in occasionally-interrupted silence. home is built around people related and people that love, or maybe just people related by love. home is the place and people that are still there as you come and go from your wanderings.

because i have in me a restlessness. a need to wander.

i don't have a home right now--i haven't for quite sometime. i have pieces of homes where i can temporarily visit, yes. but none to call my own. none that belong to me. sometimes it's hard to feel like this transitory student/apartment/single living isn't temporary. i often feel as though it's all i've ever known.

is this home? is this what i must learn to believe in? (home, beauty and the beast)

you see, honey, i saw love. you see, it came to me. it put its face up to my face so i could see.

see, honey, i am not some broken thing. i do not lay here in the dark waiting for thee.

no, my heart is gold. my feet are light. and i am racing out on the desert plains all night. (song for zula, phosphorescent)

sometimes i see home. sometimes life experiences bring edenhomelove to my face so that i may see. and sometimes i get homesick for a home that once was or one that doesn't exist yet. home is a feeling, not a place. home is where one is most at harmony. home is where one finds the purest contentment on familiar ground. home can be anywhere. home is something you build.

this is home, to build a home.

often the purest forms of our own eden that we ever find, we never notice until we've already driven away.

eden. being still within the presence of god. home.

to a certain extent, we each define our own old-fashioned house. being still within the presence of god, in harmony with surroundings, and at ease--that looks different on everyone. one man's eden is not another's. and yet. finding a similar eden is how we build connections. this is how we build a home.

what does your edenhome look like?

the words i can't write.

i spent 2013 in ukraine. all of it.

i keep waiting to be able to fully process my mission. i haven't.
maybe i don't know where to begin.

what will i do in 2014?
what will 2014 bring with him?
change, as every year does.

coming home from a mission is really hard.
finding peace with ukraine is really hard.
returning to this world is really hard.
what makes it hard, you ask?

well.

i don't know.


i feel. numb.
i feel like elizabeth bennett, staring into the mirror in the night as the world swirls around her.
and yet. i feel everything.
sometimes i just have to sit and cry for a little bit.
sometimes i ignore everything and sit, dumbfounded that my reality is reality.

i miss ukraine. i miss my mission. and yet, i fulfilled my mission. i don't in any way want to go back to it. there is a time and season for everything, and my time there was done. i could feel it in the air as the end came, feel myself edged out. my time there is over. i did all i was meant to do. i loved my mission, even though i didn't love every single moment. but i'm in love with what it gave me. what it made me. i'm not going to live in the past. i'm going to live in right now. but what is that?

satan works the hardest on all good things. especially on all things related to missions and missionaries.
i was stripped from a home.
what is home?
home is a lifestyle.
home is a feeling.
home is a mindset.
home is a community that surrounds you in love and understanding one for another.
home. is ukraine.
home. was ukraine.
home was being a missionary.
home was that life lived on a higher plane, removed from the world and her naggings.

my solace:
if you get lost, you can always be found.
i'm going to make a new home.
but. to make a new one, it means an old one is left behind. in the past.
and for that, i mourn.

in this new year,
i'm going to make a home, wherever i may be.
i'm going to trust god. hold to all the lessons i learned as his hands in ukraine.
i'm going to have faith. faith and trust. those are the real lessons i learned. the lessons xtz, cold mountain, makeevka, obedinyoni, saltovka, and cold mountain again taught. those places with their people--they taught as i taught. myself came as i lost her in teaching. not in teaching, but in loving, in listening, in fulfilling his will above my own. that is where lessons come.
i'm going to learn from every experience. view every last moment as meaningful.
i'm going to be me. i'm going to become. i'm going to be the me he needs me to be.

my mission is a treasure in my heart i'll have forever.
the relationships built there will forever be a shared bond, even if moments are fleeting and can't be captured.
that's the point.
embrace the moment.
in this earthly state, none of them last.
that doesn't mean they aren't real.

everything is real.
everything is meaningful.

these things i know.

a home.

going to a funeral is a humbling experience. and it puts life into perspective like nobody's business.
this life is so short. it can change so fast.
colleen was a beautiful soul. a jewel, really. and her eyes twinkled with her smile. which was ever-present. i admire that.
therefore, after today, i have come to some important conclusions.

someday:

i'd like to live in a home with lace curtains. a home with a big front porch and a soft porch swing just waiting to be rocked in on a warm summer day, glass of lemonade in hand. fresh flowers ever-present throughout the year on the inside. and a flower garden outside in the yard. oh, yes. i'd like a yard for my kiddies to play in as well. preferably one large enough to accommodate picnics and other gatherings. in the spring and summer time, the fresh flowers on my table will come from my own garden. this home will have lots of windows, in order for the natural sunlight to flood its way through every room and join the flood of love that will be present in every room.  someday, i want to learn how to always have advice for anything my kiddies ask me about or are concerned with. i want to know just what to say that makes them feel just right. whether they're three years old, or forty-three.  i want to make bread. not just for the fact that freshly homemade bread is more nutritious, but also because then my children can learn this life skill. we'll save money in making our own bread, as well. and i learned today how the making of bread is full of life lessons to be learned.  in this home, sunbeam naps will be encouraged, especially on summer sunday afternoons. the windows and doors will be open often, with screens where necessary. and the breeze will flow freely on warm summer days that aren't too hot. i'd like a nice and big family room, for that is what it will be: a room for family. and at some level we're all family, aren't we? whether or not it's a link by blood or marriage, we are eternal. i want it to be big enough to accommodate all who enter, but small enough to still feel charming and cozy. comfortable, not intimidating. and bookshelves! oh, the bookshelves we'll have. i wouldn't be my parents' child without them. they'll be full of books and easily accessible. following colleen's advice: read good books. read a lot of them. my kiddies will learn from a young age the wonders and importance of reading. i'd also like a piano. someday, at least. my kiddies will all learn a musical instrument. it's good for the brain. and music will be plentiful in this home. a place of perpetual learning. i'd also like it to be a place of color. not a monotonous white. i think a little bit of color is just what life needs sometimes, and if in my home is the only place to find the 'colors of life,' then so be it.

and while all these desires may seem materialistic, they're not meant to be.  the reason for my desires is this: i want family time spent together in this home to be not just encouraged, but desired.  i want all who enter this place to feel loved and cared for--to feel home, regardless of whether or not they are immediate family. i want it to be a place of love and nurturing, a place of peace. i want my family to want to spend time together. to want to invite friends and neighbors. to want to be there, regardless of what they're doing. between the big and plentiful windows and a yard, i'd like time devoted to be still. maybe even a weekly family tradition. 'be still, and know that i am god.' time set aside for cloud watching, star gazing, and pondering the mysteries of the universe. time set aside to just plain be. to appreciate the beauties of the universe. and most of all, to soak up the time we have together. for it will no doubt pass too quickly and seem too short. good thing we ultimately have eternity at our disposal. we'll need every second, for forever will not be long enough. it never is with the people you truly love.

photos here, here, here, and here.

"Home is the one place in all this world where hearts are sure of each other. It is the place of confidence. It is the place where we tear off that mask of guarded and suspicious coldness which the world forces us to wear in self-defense, and where we pour out the unreserved communications of full and confiding hearts. It is the spot where expressions of tenderness gush out without any sensation of awkwardness and without any dread of ridicule."

Frederick W. Robertson