The rendering of True Parents' heart is the unconditionality of it. In their boisterous love for life as it was meant to be, they swallowed problems as if melting hard-candy in their mouth, some sweet, some bitter.

Today, in the fishing testimonial during the vigil, I recalled Father fishing. Undoubtable. Indomitable. He took their children (us) with them to experience the challenges, the smells, the wets and colds, the ocean air, the river's earth, in the garden of Kodiak, the Eden of shimmering greens, the sea's green, the forest's green, the moss's green, the slimy harbor's green, the hilly grass's green.

The island of Kodiak is a limerick green place, where we fished all morning, all night, with long-stretched afternoons stuck in the middle.

The few times being with True Parents boomeranged back into my heart, as I listened this morning to the fishing stories. To me: the feeling is as if I were a sparkling Christmas ornament, finished hugging the tree, stashed carefully in the in-between of the seasons, tucked inside a tissue-surrounded cardboard box, comforted and protected, quietly tinkling with the other stars and lights and globes in there. Warm, holy memories brought the child out of me today.

At the time, I could only  gape. I snuggled up my socks on the steps of the house known as North Garden, with its soft-green carpet, the color of embryonic leaves in Spring, that welcomed me and my brothers and sisters to Father's house.

I felt Father move about the room this morning. In the Anchorage CSW. During the vigil testimonial of Cheong Pyeong Lake fishing. Honesty. No crying. Tears bubbling under my eyelids. Pounced upon by Father's overcoming joy.


​9:48 AM 06.03.26