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Tomorrow Emily turns sixteen.

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She is the sun around which my pale planet spins right now. I am some absent-minded gardener, puttering, trying to weed without pulling out the sunflowers or the bachelor’s buttons or the forget-me-nots. But I am a poor servant to the garden,
and like as not will yank out a rose instead of a thistle.

As if my puttering matters.

There is a grander plan in play.

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I am grateful to be permitted my small audience.

Beyond words.

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I believe in love’s power to redeem.

I will not quit it.

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