The Time of My Life

This time of year always seems to lead me to reminisce and remember past years. This morning as I was folding laundry I remembered being 19. The summer after my freshman year of college, I moved out of the dorms and lived with three 25-year-olds. One of my roommates was incredibly concerned that she wasn't married yet. She had some quote about "career women" and she was sure that she did not want to become a "career woman." For all her worrying, I remember she got married within a year or so after our summer of conversations about the woes of being single at the age of 25.

Well, as my nine-year-old brother loves to remind me, I will soon be a quarter-of-a-century old. And, from the looks of things, I'm very likely to still be unmarried when I turn 25. And, from the looks of things, it is even more likely that I will be a "career woman" for some unknown period of time after my 25th birthday- you know suits, office, heels, that whole thing. It's not quite what I expected for myself. I think my 19-year-old self sat there listening to my roommate thinking, "I probably won't have to worry about all this. I'll probably be planning a wedding by the time I'm in her shoes."

I was right, and I was wrong. I'm not planning a wedding, but I don't have to worry either. Because while I wasn't expecting the suits and the heels and the office on the 30-somethingth floor overlooking the East River and Central Park, I also wasn't expecting seeing myself (talking in front of people) on C-SPAN, chilling in Justice Alito's chambers before hearing arguments at the Supreme Court, taking a three day tour of New England with my college friend, visiting 15+ states in 12 months, listening to Handel's Messiah in the National Cathedral, hearing the Chaplain of the U.S. Senate talk about Thanksgiving with only a hundred other people, and seeing A Christmas Carol at Ford's Theatre.

How could I have ever expected the perfect bliss of waking up each morning to the sunrise and views of planes taking off from Reagan International Airport, of a morning run to the Air Force Memorial to see the sunrise over the Capitol, of Five Guys and crocheting with two of my favorite girls on a Saturday night, of sitting on a park bench with my family watching my brother play chess by the bay, of missing my turn while driving because my best friend and I were half-laughing/half-crying to Taylor Swift crooning "cause I had the best day, with you, today?" How can I worry when each year is better, happier, and lovlier than the last? When the increasing challenges and stress are accompanied by ever-increasing confidence and strenth? When moments of bliss and wholeness are more frequent and more clear? The reminiscing only makes me wonder why I ever worried and wonder what the next year will bring.

Dreaded Dentist

Today I went to the dentist. I hate going to the dentist. It's not so much that I hate the dentist himself, I hate what the dental hygeniest always does to my mouth and to my face. All of the stretching and pulling and shoving her hands into my little mouth. Any Mary Kay consultant surely would not approve of such an abuse of my skin and delicate facial muscles.

The most feared dental hygeniest was Duquessa. Fortunately, we have changed dentists and I no longer have to surrender myself to her aggressive techniques with the electric tooth polisher. Despite routinely being told I have great teeth, witnessing the hygeniest's shock when she finds out I never had braces, and rarely having cavities, I still despise the dentist. But I survived today.

My dentist has his office at the hospital. As I drove away, passing the Emergency Room sign, I realized I hate hospitals in general. In elementary school I made my parents take me to the emergency room. I swore I was having a heart attack and was dying. We parked; I puked in the bushes while my parents went in and started talking to Peter Barth's mom, who was on duty in the emergency room that night. Amazingly enough, after puking I felt great (almost) and we went home where I slept on the floor next to a bucket and a plastic baggie with ice chips.

Other times we've actually waited in the emergency room. All night. I got lost in Huntington Memorial Hospital once looking for some food because we had been stuck in the emergency room for hours. It's pretty eerie wandering around a hospital by yourself at night and then getting locked out. Thank goodness I stay pretty healthy, and that going to the doctor is still a step above going to the DMV (and hopefully it will stay that way, but I'm doubtful). Thanks to my private insurance company being stingy with dental visits, I'm officially free from check-ups for six months. Until then...

States Test

Last night, I flew across the United States of America. Today I found a tablet of paper at my mom's desk in our house that has a map of the continental United States on it. The map doesn't have the state names, just the drawing. I gave myself a test. 46/48. Not bad for being 10 years out of eighth grade. Poor Iowa and Missouri, I got them mixed up.

Corporate Fashion

There's a girl in my corporations class who wears big round glasses that cover half of her cheeks. Based on the way she pulls back her hair and comments in class, I'm guessing these weren't the only glasses she could afford. Being from California, I can understand wanting to look slutty, trendy, unkempt, etc., but Californians don't ever seem to make an effort to look stodgy. Loosen up a bit people: wear a bright color, untuck that button-up shirt, try a sweatshirt and jeans, or hey, even wear sweats! It's Georgetown, not Harvard.

Addendum...

26) TARGET! How could I forget Target????!!!!????
27) Crest Pro-Health Toothpaste
28) Advil
29) The Safeway on Franconia

Some of the greatest inventions...

I'm Thankful For...

This list does not include the traditional family, church, democracy, etc. things that I am thankful for. Instead, it is a beginning to a list of things I am thankful for that are simpler pleasures that make each day better.

1) Harris Teeter chocolate chip muffins
2) Bright California oranges on sale at HT (a little piece of home)
3) Prof. Thomas cancelling class for Oktoberfest each year
4) Prof. Thomas never scheduling make-up classes
5) Lamp light shining through fall leaves after dark
6) "I wanna show alla my haters love..." Thank you, Chamillionaire
7) Michael and Michelle, the friendly front desk people in our building
8) Fog
9) Annapolis, MD
10) Christmas music
11) Twinkly lights
12) The Mt. Vernon Trail
13) Pleasure reading
14) My fuzzy pink blanket
15) Deer Park water bottles
16) Park swings
17) The Jefferson Memorial
18) The yellow line of the metro
19) Waking up to the sunrise every morning
20) Hot chocolate with peppermint ice cream (particularly with Callie and Anj)
21) Peppermint Joe-Joe's (another shout-out to Callie and Anj)
22) Talking
23) Cell phones
24) Airplanes
25) The internet

Put Your Faithful Foot Forward

The August before I started seventh grade, my family sold our house on Valverde and moved into an apartment. It was in that apartment I memorized the words to every Winnie the Pooh movie as 2-year-old Kati watched them constantly in our close quarters. In our small shared room with bunk beds arranged in an L-shape to prevent anyone's head from getting crushed should the bunk beds fall in an earthquake, I told Missy that KIIS 102.7 was a "bad" (aka evil) radio station. Sure not every song was perfectly devoid of swearing, but Missy was mainly just a cooler 2nd grader than I was 7th grader. While Missy and I didn't agree on which music to play on our alarm clock radio, we shared a sense of fear--fear that Dad's promise of being in a house before Christmas would not be fulfilled. But it was, we moved into our house on December 12th, if I remember correctly. Just in time for Christmas.

In seventh grade faith was all about patience, and patience was all about waiting. Faith was not a principle of action; rather, it was a principle of inaction. Only in recent years, perhaps even recent months, has faith become a forward-moving rather than a stationary principle. This morning I woke up with a feeling of dread. Last night our management company insisted on extra, unwritten, unagreed-to terms in our lease. The fear of not having a home at Christmas returned.

At the same time, opportunities are sprouting in my life that I have waited for and hoped for--sometimes faithfully and more often doubtfully--for years. These opportunities provide a stage for reflection, and reflection affirms that nothing has ever gone terribly wrong in my life. For all the fear, and for all the struggle, I've never had a difficult experience that did not provide me with an opportunity to learn and grow. I have never had to be patient for a promise or event that was not sweeter for the wait. And the waiting was sweeter when I had faith.

Faith is doing your best to accomplish the tasks of the day rather than becoming consumed by the uncertainty of the future. Faith is believing in solutions and working toward them. Faith is seeing challenges as opportunities, trusting that Heavenly Father will add His infinite wisdom to the intellect, agency, and resources He has already given us, to help us find solutions. Faith is the act of picking up the phone, the scriptures, or the instruction manual to find answers. It is the act of dropping to your knees, dropping your fear, and dropping your pride to receive what He is ready to give. When I act in trust and confidence, knowing that nothing can go terribly wrong when Heavenly Father is on my side, the dread flees and faith flourishes.

Success: Book (in Progress) Review

I came down with the flu on Wednesday. Staying in bed for two days straight allowed me to catch up on some recreational reading... and blog about it. My current book is Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell. I'm only halfway through, but I have some thoughts about Gladwell's theories of success.

In Outliers, Gladwell postulates that people are successful because of the opportunities they are given rather than their own hard work or intelligence or desire to suceed. He cites Bill Gates and other titans of the computer/software/internet industry and their particular fortune to have been born around the year 1955 and have access to computers (to practice their programming skills) in a time when computer access was virtually non-existent. He cites Joe Flom, of law firm Skadden, Arps, Slate, Meagher, and Flom, and other successful Manhattan Jewish attorneys born in the 1930's for the opportunity of discrimination against Jewish lawyers, which allowed them to get an edge in emerging areas of corporate law. And he cites the fortune of Canadian hockey players born in January, children born to involved parents, and oil and steel tycoons born in the 1830's. Gladwell is right, probably every person we hail as truly successful was given opportunities beyond their control that, when seized, led to their fame, fortune, and success.

Because that's what success is, right? Success must mean excessive amounts of wealth and widespread recognition within one's chosen profession. Right? The American dream is becoming a Rockerfeller or a Carnegie? And the only way to do that is by having opportunities you can't control? Success must mean a Harvard undergrad, a Yale law degree, and a clerkship on the Second or Ninth Circuits followed by one on the Supreme Court? Or success must mean winning the national science fair at age 10, going to MIT, graduating from Harvard medical school, inventing the cure for cancer, and winning the Nobel prize (all by age 40, of course)?

Gladwell is wrong--not in his observations, they seem to be on point--but in his definition of success. He disparages the value we, as Americans, place on hard work and intelligence when evaluating success. Yet, none of his success stories were stupid and/or lazy. They were all committed, 110%. But Gladwell argues that commitment, hard work, and intelligence are not enough to suceed. He's wrong because he thinks success means having your name up in lights and driving a fancy car to your fancy house. He thinks that success must mean being an outlier. He's missing the bigger picture, the real American dream.

Success means progress. Being better than you were yesterday, a year ago, five years ago. Success means setting a goal and achieving it. Now for the smart aleck who is going to go to Webster's dictionary and tell me that definition 2b says "also : the attainment of wealth, favor, or eminence" consider whether we all need to shift our focus a little bit. I know too many people who think they are unsuccessful because they study law at Georgetown instead of Harvard (I mean, really people, why stop at Harvard, we all know you haven't really achieved success unless you are at Yale), or who think that they are unsuccessful because they are a staff assistant on the Hill instead of the legislative director, or who aren't making as much money as they want to be, or who aren't getting the grades they want, or the car they want, or the living situation they want, or the pant size they want, or the boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse they want.

I propose two suggestions. On one level, my response is: "Go get it!" If you want something, and really want it, then go get it. You can do it. You can make a goal and achieve it. And don't let Malcolm Gladwell tell you that some fortuitous opportunity is required to achieve your goal. Make opportunities where none exist. You will see results. Maybe you won't be #1 in your class or make millions, but I bet if you really wanted those things, at the expense of everything else near and dear to you, you could achieve those things. You could be at the top.

But you don't really want that. Because to you, that's not success. Because some part of success necessarily includes happiness. And happiness is derived from a variety of sources. Trust me, I was the kid who accepted nothing less than an A+ in junior high once I found out that was the best possible (see post on the five paragraph essay). And I worked my butt off, and I had the highest grades of anyone in my junior high. And achieving that goal made me happy, but now there is more to life. Real success includes some combination of success in family, friends, extracurricular learning, and living life. It may include being successful in living your religion, which brings me to my second point.

You can make goals, and you can try to achieve them, and sometimes you will fail. Not everyone can make a million dollars, look like Brangelina, have a perfectly happy family, and be number one at work. If that is your view of success, you are not only likely to fail, you are destined to fail, because under that definition, success in one area comes at the expense of success in another area.

However, you and I are children of God. And if success means following God's will for us, then faithful hard work never goes unrewarded. The rewards may be delayed for a time, and we will undoubtedly suffer disappointments as we quest for success, but striving to understand God's will for us helps us achieve balance, which is the most difficult of all tasks. It is much easier to binge on success in one area and starve yourself of success in another area than it is to be successful at balancing all the areas of your life. Successful balance (which often comes without fame or fortune) brings the greatest happiness and satisfaction. And while opportunity to learn about balance and God's will may come at different times for different people, a loving and just God never denies those opportunities to His children. Thank goodness Malcolm Gladwell and his definition of success do not rule the universe.

Book Review

What do you get when a Jewish author writes a book about Koreans who worship the spirits of their ancestors and sing Christian songs to keep them going day to day? I Am the Clay by Chaim Potok. I Am the Clay is a departure from much of Potok's other work that focuses on Orthodox Jews living in New York. Instead, this book follows an old man, an old woman, and a young injured boy along their journey as refugees in the Korean War. Potok uses profound religious symbols as he juxtaposes foreign Christianity with Korean ancestral worship in a story of self-discovery and love.

From fleeing their village with shells exploding close by, to "a patch of uninhabited darkness amid the surrounding fires" the old man carries the spirit of his father in a wooden box. The old woman makes food offerings to the spirits throughout the journey though food is scarce, and the old man believes the young boy has special powers as the threesome is blessed with fish, a pair of gloves, and the surprise of finding their home unscathed.

At the same time, in worshipping her mother, the old woman remembers a song taught by "the pale man with the upside-down eyes": "Have thine own way Lord have thine own way, thou art the potter, I am the clay." She has long forgotten what the English words mean, but repeatedly sings the song to herself for comfort when the trek seems unbearable. Another repeated symbol of Christianity is the big cross which brings medicine for the injured boy, removes shrapnel from his chest, and provides work for the boy after he returns to the village with the old couple. The symbols of Christianity provide spiritual and physical strength that the old woman and the boy need to continue their journey.

Interestingly, the old man perhaps grows the most as he learns the meaning of love. As he sees the compassion the old woman has for the young boy, he finds "himself gazing at something within him that he had never before seen. All knew of the unseen world beyond the everyday realm of appearances; but he had never thought there might be such a world inside himself: unexplored and cavernous." At the end of the novel, as the old man sees the love the young boy has for the woman, "he felt deep within himself a slow and tortuous turning and then an opening of doors to deeper and deeper recesses inside himself, caves leading to caves, and his heart raced and he wondered if this was what was meant by the word love, which he had heard spoken from time to time, this baffling sensation of tremling warmth and closeness he now felt."

Potok beautifully explores the growth that sprouts from trial, the healing that walks hand-in-hand with suffering, and the love that rises from the rubble of war.

Is that a U boat?: A tribute to my favorite veteran

On March 10, 2009 I woke up, turned on my phone, and listened to my messages. I had landed at Reagan airport at 9pm the night before, returning from a weekend trip to Los Angeles. I don't remember exactly what I did after putting the phone down. There was a mix of shock and sadness, relief and stress--my favorite veteran had died in the early morning hours.

Reid Pierce Nelson served in Europe and Africa during World War II. He told me stories about the war--about the time he was a screamin' and a hollerin' to get his superior to brake, but the supervisor's truck flipped over the cable he had stretched across the road to free a vehicle from some mud; about the time he got lost in a sandstorm in Africa when he was trying to get back to his tent after using the bathroom; about war never being a good thing.

Reid Pierce Nelson was the first in his family to earn a master's degree, maybe even the first to go to college. My mom took us to Idaho once to see the rolling green hills where he went to school in Moscow, to see the white building where he and my grandma lived when they were first married, to see the little town where Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Mo were born. My mom taught us to be like Papa and get as much education as possible.

Reid Pierce Nelson worked for Arco, as a chemist on the coast of California. One day we sat on a bench outside the surrey shop in Morro Bay looking at the Rock and the water. He was excited I was working for ExxonMobil, excited one of his grandchildren wanted to talk to him about oil, excited to be spending time with the people he loved. Later that evening we probably played Spider Rummy. I sat there soaking it in, knowing that one morning I would get the call I got on March 10, 2009.

When I was younger Papa fell off the slide with me, pulled me and Doug in a blue cart through the trailer park in Pismo Beach, walked us through the alley from the house on Yukon Ave. to the 7-Eleven on the corner for slurpees. After he retired and through his seventies, he worked at Beverley's, the local fabric store, to stay busy. When he had his first stroke, he started using a cane. Partial paralysis left him unable to drive, but fiercely independent, he would still walk to the grocery store several blocks away. He survived cancer, chronic leukemia, pneumonia, strokes, heart attacks, falls, you name it. Papa was the ultimate come-back kid. So much so that doctors declared him dead in August 2008, and a few hours and many tears later I got a call with news he had started breathing on his own.

In those difficult months between August and March, Papa bounced between home and nursing home, his spirit wishing to do things his body would no longer permit. He used to call me regularly to read me the jokes from Reader's Digest. When he was in the nursing home I would call him to read him the jokes. In honor of Papa, and in honor of Veteran's Day, here is one of his personal classics.

Two Italians are standing on the coast looking out on the Atlantic. One says to the other: Is that a U boat? And the other replies: No that's not a my boat.

I love you Papa.

Lies and Love

I love a good chick flick. Your typical boy meets girl, girl falls in love with guy, girl finds out guy was lying to her, girl gets offended and won't speak to guy, girl forgives guy, girl and guy get married or begin serious relationship.

This is essentially the plot of most of my favorite chick flicks: 1) You've Got Mail- check- "Joe, just call me Joe? Like one of those 22-year-old cocktail waitresses. Hi, I'm Cindy...", 2) 27 Dresses- check- "You said your name was Kevin.", 3) She's the Man- check- ok, so in this one the girl does the lying, but She is the Man. I'm still trying to decide if Dan in Real Life (my second favorite movie, after You've Got Mail) fits the pattern. It's a little different. The girl lies to her boyfriend, the brother lies to the boyfriend, and then girl dumps boyfriend and marries brother (boyfriend's brother, not girl's brother). Close enough for an independent film that's not quite a chick flick.

This realization got me thinking. Is there something wrong with the message of all these love stories? Should society really advocate trusting someone who lies to you? After some serious reflection (pondering on the metro), I think this pattern is pretty true to life. When we meet people, any people, not just dating people, we try to be our best selves. We generally try not to fart, burp, say mean things, eat too much, yell at other drivers, jaywalk, etc. because we aren't quite sure how the other person will react and we want to be liked. Then time goes on, and we get more comfortable. More of the good and the bad and the indifferent of our personalities comes out; in essence, more of us comes out. Few of us wake up thinking, "I want to be truly diabolical today, but I'm going to contain myself because I want X to fall in love with me." In fact, I think most of us wake up and say, "I'm going to give it another shot today because I'm trying to be good."

Another reason we conceal ourselves is to avoid being misinterpreted. Weird, huh? We act less like our true selves because we don't want people to think we are something we aren't. Joe Fox didn't want Kathleen Kelly to know he was the Joe Fox because he really just wanted to be known as a guy who took his very young aunt and brother to storytime. Joe knew that Kathleen would never talk to him at all if she knew who he was and what he did for a living, but he still wanted a chance to be a normal person. Kevin/Malcolm Doyle didn't want to be known as the guy who writes the weddings column in the New York Journal. He was just an average guy helping a girl who got knocked out at a wedding. This all makes sense. We are more than our professions or our last names. While those things are important to who we are, each individual is made up of little quirks and oddities that make us interesting, fun, and attractive. Sometimes stereotypes overshadow who we really are and what we really care about.

Also, getting to know a person takes time. Because we stereotype and because we all want other people to be a certain way, we sometimes exaggerate good qualities, pretend someone is something they aren't, or create fictional people in our head. When we find out the real person isn't the fiction we created, can we really be upset that the person wasn't who we thought they were? Not really.

I don't advocate lying in relationships or ever, but rationing information is bound to happen. This isn't always a bad thing, and movies aren't so far from the truth.

Disclaimer: This post is motivated entirely 100% by thoughts about chick flicks. I have a strict policy against posting anything personal about dating. More than anything, this topic was on my mind because I haven't seen a good chick flick in over a month and a half and have been thinking about which one to watch and when. :)

The Case of the Attacker Grape

I love mysteries. After my obsession with the Babysitter's Club books ended, I turned to Sherlock Holmes. Then in seventh grade, Emily Baines did a book report on "And Then There Were None" by Agatha Christie. My passion for mysteries reached new heights. (I'm a snob though. I only read mysteries written by British authors with titles like "Sir" and "Dame." None of this Dan Brown, Mary Higgins Clark stuff.)

This mystery is somewhat slimy and gross. Last night as I was walking into Harris Teeter (the local "high end" grocery store--it's a step below Whole Foods); rocking out to a mix of Boys Like Girls, Coldplay, and Foo Fighters; wearing capri-length yoga pants and running shoes. Not more than four inches of calf exposed to the elements. I walked through the first set of sliding doors and passed what I now remember to be a suspicious looking man.

And then splat, something wet and slimy hit my four inches of exposed right calf.

I looked back like a dog chasing its tail. A leaf? Nope, this object had more depth than a leaf. I looked more closely. A chewed up grape? Really? Ewww... Being a high-end grocery store, Harris Teeter leaves napkins out in front of the deli. Fortunately. How in the world???

If you step on a grape and keep moving forward, it doesn't end up on your calf. Grapes don't fall from the sky. How did the attacker grape get me? I suspect the grape attacker. That suspicious man standing, waiting in between the sliding doors. Good aim, grape attacker.

Chamillionaire

How does one properly pronounce the rapper/hip-hop artist, Chamillionaire's name?

Is it ka-millionaire? As in chameleon.

Or is it cha-millionaire? As in march and champ.

Or is it sha-millionaire? As in champagne?

Pronounciation is not the only think I ponder on the metro. I think other deep thoughts, like wondering why the Maryland license plate has the state website on it (www.maryland.com). First of all, isn't that somewhat obvious? Secondly, does the state of Maryland endorse people whipping out their Blackberrys and iPhones to look up the state website when they see a Maryland vehicle passing? Is there anything about the license plate that would actually make a person want to look up the website?

Parting thought... If you owned the store "Out of Left Field" in the Pentagon City mall and wanted to sell Washington RedSkins paraphenalia, would you post a score board at the door of your store that said W-02, L-05? I didn't think so.

The Run Around

Today, I voted. I went to two polling places. Three months ago I moved 1.4 miles to a new apartment. I changed my address with the U.S. Postal Service and thought I was squared away with the government. Apparently not.

The post office is quite talented at forwarding my junk mail to my new address. In 2008 when I moved the Outdoor Life subscription I never requested or paid for followed me from apartment to apartment without me ever telling Outdoor Life I had moved. On the other hand, when I moved in 2009 the post office wouldn't even forward my "IMPORTANT TAX INFORMATION ENCLOSED" envelope to my new apartment. If the USPS can communicate my new address to Outdoor Life, why can't they tell another government agency my new address as well? Or just forward my mail like my taxes pay them to do so I will know that the tax office needs my new address.

After a few calls to the Arlington County Tax Assessment Office informing them of my new address (apparently there are different divisions in the tax office that also don't communicate), I think I have that one figured out. But USPS also lost my voter registration card. I looked for it in my new mailbox; I looked for it in my old mailbox. No voter registration card.

So I went to my new polling place. They wouldn't let me vote. I went to my old polling place. I told the nice old man volunteer about my plight. His response, "And can you believe they want to run health care?"

Exactly polling place man. I'm with you. If the they take over health care, I hope the USPS has the decency to lose my portion of the bill.

O Holy Night!

Confession: Yesterday marked the first day of November and I started listening to Christmas music (I actually started listening a couple weeks ago). I may have sat in my car after getting home from church listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sing O Holy Night 3-4 times. It is a long song. Sorry, Al Gore. I kept the car running.

The lyrics are amazing. Here are some of my favorites:

"Long lay the world in sin and error pining, 'til He appeared and the soul felt its worth."

I think that pretty much says it all, but a few lines later we heard:

"Fall on your knees!"

Last weekend I was in Sharon, VT at the Joseph Smith birthplace memorial. The Spirit of God was so powerful in that place that I felt compelled to fall on my knees and worship God, thanking Him for the indescribable gift of His Son, for His perfect plan of happiness, and for preparing Joseph Smith to be the prophet of the Restoration of the true gospel of Jesus Christ. Perhaps somewhat sadly, social norms prevented me from literally falling on my knees and worshipping; there were other people around. But my heart was full of gratitude and awe for God, our Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ.

"Truly He taught us to love one another; His law is love and His gospel is peace. Chains shall he break, for the slave is our brother; and in His name all oppression shall cease."

Not only is the slave our brother, without the Atonement of Jesus Christ we would all be slaves to sin. The Atonement liberates each of us from the bondage of sin. Christ paid the price for me, for you, for each individual person you know to be free from the slavery of sin.

"Let all within us praise His holy name: Christ is the Lord! O praise His name forever! His power and glory evermore proclaim."

Merry Christmas everyone!