Mhairi Forrest

Are embryos people too? It’s a question I have to ask. Or, maybe the question I’m really asking is what are human embryos? Are they the beginning stages of human life and deserving of protection, or are they a mass of cells, which can be used at will?

One of President Obama’s first acts in office was to sign an order removing the restrictions on federal funding for embryonic stem cell research imposed by President Bush. The Bush administration allowed for government money to be used on stem cell lines created before August 2001, but research on new lines had to be privately funded. Obama lifted the ban stating, “our government has forced…a false choice between sound science and moral values…(Obama’s executive order) is about ensuring scientific data is never distorted or concealed to serve a political agenda – and that we make scientific decisions based on facts, not ideology.”

Bush limited funding because of, as he stated, “fundamental questions about the beginnings of life and the ends of science.” You can define this decision as ideology, or as reservations based on whether or not the government should support research that may be morally and ethically wrong.

President Obama has no problem identifying other scientific research as immoral. In the same speech he stated, “We will ensure that our government never opens the door to use of cloning for human reproduction. It is dangerous, profoundly wrong, and has no place in our society, or any society.” So, at least, in the case of reproductive cloning (not therapeutic cloning which he failed to mention), making decisions about science based on ideology is permissible, as long as its ideology with which you agree.

In stem cell research, surplus embryos donated from fertility clinics have their stem cells removed, resulting in the destruction of the embryos. These cells are unspecialized meaning they’re not muscle cells, etc., but can develop into specialized cells. Theoretically, these new cells can then be used as therapy for patients suffering from diseases like Parkinson’s.

There are several restrictions on obtaining the embryos. They must come from fertility clinic surplus; must be destined for destruction; cannot be created for experimentation; and the donors must give consent.

As Dr. Curt Civin, Founding Director, University of Maryland Center for Stem Cell Biology and Regenerative medicine stated, “This was life that was going to be destroyed. The choice is to throw them away or use them for research.”

Here’s where I return to my original question. If these embryos are life, human life, should they be available for scientific research at all? I doubt there’s anyone who would argue for experimentation on the terminally ill, elderly, or death row inmates, even though their lives are about to end. Any scientist proposing such a thing would be considered evil.

If embryos are not human life, then why are there any restrictions? If they’re simply a mass of cells, undeserving of protection, then we should be able to do anything we want with them, including tossing them in a blender with a banana and marketing it as a protein shake.

I could argue other sources of cells, such as adult cells and umbilical cords are promising, or that the ability to use cells grown from stem cells for cures is theoretical only; however, I believe these arguments miss the point. Even if this therapy lives up to all the potential and is the ONLY source of cells for use in treating these diseases, is it morally right for us as a society to pursue it? That question should be answered first. Historically, there has been experimentation done on humans who were also destined for destruction and not considered fully human by the scientists experimenting on them. All moral societies have condemned their research, even refusing to use the possibly beneficial results.

We should also be asking whether or not so many embryos should be produced in the first place. I understand the rationale. the more embryos created, the better the chance of a successful pregnancy and healthy baby. But is that enough reason to be making life only to destroy it?

Each embryo, if implanted in a womb, could develp into a unique human being, never seen before and never to exist again. These questions are too important to ignore and too crucial to denigrate as mere ideology.

I’m really good at falling; in fact, I’m so good at it, I’ve embraced it as my own particular form of dance. I wear my abundance of bruises as sanguineous (ooh. I’m SO showing off) badges of something approaching nostalgia… Oh, yeah, this beaut’s from the time I flipped the shopping cart I was riding… I realized a long time ago, that for me, tripping over things (like air), usually in front of an audience, is inevitable, so I’d better learn to get up gracefully with my sense of humour intact. So, falling is my art form and I am an artiste.

Athletes understand this idea of falling with style. The really remarkable ones have made their careers by biting the dust over and over again. They have to be willing to fall, willing to fail, in order to achieve greatness. I love watching Olympic hurdlers warm up. You can see them looking down the track, imagining themselves soaring over the hurdles. Preparing for this race, they’ve flown over hundreds and probably crashed into just as many. They’re not looking at the ten in their way as obstacles, but as opportunities to show millions of people what they can do. They’ve trained for this day, using every failure as an occasion to learn how to get over the next hurdle cleaner. The interesting thing is, they always race with the possibility of crashing. Crashing means they won’t win, they might even sustain injuries, and remember, the whole world is watching, so if they fall, it’ll be spectacular. But achieving the glory waiting 400m in the distance makes it worth it.

Its easy to view anything in the way to the finish line as an obstacle, an insurmountable brick wall even. I’ve stood in the starting block and stared down barriers, only to remember past failures and that was enough to send me packing. I wasn’t going to enter the stadium again, let alone get on the track. I might fail and that fear of failing was sufficient to keep me out of the race. Fear is a really interesting phenomenon. For the most part, it’s just our imaginations working, but it can have an actual impact in our lives. It’s like the soundtrack to a horror movie. If you watch a scary film with the sound off, or as I prefer, with your thumbs in your ears (and the rest of your fingers covering your eyes), you’ll find it a whole lot less terrifying. Fear of falling, of failing, of all the what-ifs, can be like the violins in Psycho.

Shutting off the music, learning to push past fear, is difficult, but not impossible. It takes existing in the present and being thankful for whatever good things are in our lives. It means dreaming big dreams and taking on the first hurdle on the track towards them, even if we bite the dust, because giving in to fear is the only 100 percent money-back guaranteed way not to succeed.

For me, it was losing a hundred pounds. I was determined to get over that first hurdle, no matter how many times I’d failed before. When I did, I realized the next one was looking much nearer the ground. Within a fifteen month period, I lost the weight; was a finalist in a Good Housekeeping Magazine writing contest (the first I’d ever entered); began and finished the first draft of my first novel; pursued literary agents and publishers; left a very broken relationship; and began traveling again. Each time, I learned, and used my momentum to carry me over the next one. I’m still racing and still crashing, but now when I fall, I fall with panache, because I know I’m getting closer to the dream waiting across the finish line and nothing’s going to stop me.

There was a man who bought a field. One morning, as he strolled across his land, he tripped over the corner of a wooden chest buried in the soil. Excited by the possibilities, he tried digging it up with his hands. The ground was hard and dry and he had little success. Afraid someone might stumble on his discovery, he raced home, grabbed a spade and raced back. There was no-one about as he jammed the tip into the earth. It made little progress in the rocky soil except to scrape a few inches of dirt from the edges.

Sweat traced streaks in the dust covering the man’s forehead and dripped into his eyes, making it difficult to see. He stood up, dropping the tool in irritation and gazed across the field. There must be something important in this chest and he had to know what it was. A pickaxe was needed. Again, he ran home and carrying the axe over his shoulder, returned to the box.

Gripping the shaft, he raised the pickaxe above his head and slammed it into the ground. A hole appeared under the point. This victory encouraged him and being careful not to damage the wood, he continued to puncture the earth, until the top was free. The sun glided across the sky, it’s heat scorching his back, then the top of his head, and finally burning his face before he was able to wrestle the box from the earth.

He sat down on the dry ground, his breath straining against his ribs and examined his discovery. The chest, its wood pitted from time spent in the earth, was unremarkable in size and construct. He tried to pry open the lid, but it was stuck and he was too hot and tired to struggle with it there. He stood up and grabbing an edge, dragged the heavy box behind him.

As he entered his front door, the air of his home lay like a cool cloth on his body, soothing the hot throbbing in his head and muscles. He pulled a large knife from a drawer and forced it under the lid of the box. It creaked, encouraging him to continue. The man shoved the blade in deeper and pushed on the handle. The chest opened, his hands plunged into the interior and he peered inside.

The box was filled with large metal shapes and what looked like rocks. He pulled these out first. They were rough and gray, but as he examined them in the light, he noticed threads of green, red, blue and purple glistening through the dull stones, whispering a promise of beauty. He laid them aside and pulled out the large metallic pieces. They were grimy, but their smooth edges testified to their workmanship. He traced his fingers on their surfaces and through the dirt, could detect ornate designs etched in the metal. Turning one piece over in his hands, the man realized it looked like some kind of headpiece. As he placed it on his head, he was surprised to discover it fit perfectly. Dragging more of the objects from the chest, he found others to cover the rest of his body.

He gazed in a mirror, admiring his reflection. There was something noble in what he saw and he felt as if a hand was stroking strings deep inside him, releasing the sweetest music.

At that moment, the door opened and his two most trusted friends entered. They saw him standing in the middle of the room, dressed in the soiled metal and laughed. Their laughter grew louder as the man explained about finding the chest and tried to show them the fine etching and coloured seams in the rocks. Through their amusement they gasped how foolish he was for getting excited by someone’s buried trash. They told him, they’d come to invite him for dinner, but he would have to get rid of his ridiculous outfit, if he wanted to join them. With that, they departed, still chuckling at his imprudence.

His friends were men of discernment and he valued their opinions highly, so turning his back to the mirror, he yanked the metal pieces from his body, tugging on shame like a well-worn coat as he dropped them into the box. He threw the dingy rocks, ugly in their silence, on top and slammed the lid down, once again concealing the contents.

Disgusted by his gullibility, he dragged the chest out onto the road and sat down on top. A horse-drawn cart pulled up along side him and the driver, a stranger, jumped down. He was obviously important as was attested by his fine clothing and magnificent horse.

“Why are you sitting on a box in the middle of the road?” he asked.

The man, looking down at the stranger’s leather shoes, replied, “I’m returning a box of trash to where I found it.”

“May I see what’s inside?” the stranger asked.

“It’s only metal junk and some rocks,” the man insisted, his face burning with the memory of his friends’ derision.

Again the stranger asked, “May I see what’s inside?”

The man stood up and lifted a corner of the lid, pulling out the metal piece he’d worn on his head. The stranger took it in his hands and examined it, rubbing his thumb over the design made faint by dirt. He reached in his cart and pulled out a cloth, then wiping it across the metal several times, passed it, now gleaming in the sun, back to the man. Astonished by its beauty, the man gasped.

“What else is in the box?” the stranger asked.

Again the man lifted a corner and pulled out another of the metal pieces. Again the stranger rubbed the cloth over it, transforming the metal.

“Let me see what else is in there,” the stranger demanded. Encouraged, the man opened up the box, letting the stranger peer inside. “Take it all out,” the stranger insisted and the man pulled out every bit of metal and every rock and spread them on the road.

“Would you like me to tell you what you have?” The man nodded, unable to tear his eyes from the gleaming headpiece.

The stranger took the object and placed it on the man’s head. “This is a helmet to be worn in battle.” He pointed to the metal, “All of this is armour, fine armour, meant for a warrior.”

The man started to pull the helmet from his head, “I found this buried in my field. I didn’t steal it.”

“Then it is yours, my friend,” the stranger said, picking up a rock streaked with vivid green. “This stone and the others, do you know what they are?” The man shook his head.

“They’re uncut gems of the highest quality, meant for a king.”

The man stammered, “I…I didn’t know. I f…found them.”

“Then they’re yours,” the stranger replied.

“My friends said they were trash,” the man whispered, marveling at the treasure before him.

“Farmers know of pigs and manure, not the ways of a warrior and the treasures of a king,” the stranger replied. He gazed at the man. “I am a captain in the army of a great king and can use a man like you. I can teach you how to fight in this armour.” The stranger picked up one of the rocks streaked with red, “And these stones can be fashioned by the king’s workmen into the finest gems. It’s for you to choose. Stay here with this treasure hidden in a wooden box, or follow me to the greatest adventure you will ever know.”

The man looked around, at his home, his field, his friends’ footprints remaining in the dust. He gazed into the eyes of the stranger and again felt the lightest touch of fingertips brushing the instrument deep inside.

“I’ll follow you.”

Each of us carries a treasure chest. We pull out what’s inside, hoping others will appreciate our unique essence and abilities. Sometimes they do, but for many of us, our treasure is desired for the wrong reasons, dismissed, despised, even loathed. I’ve experienced this myself, as I offered all that was in me to people I loved and trusted, only to have them deride that treasure as trash. Not realizing these people only understood the pigsty, I was crushed and believed, then repeated many times, the lie that what was in me wasn’t worth loving.

So, I kept a tight lid on everything. Only displaying what felt safe, unsure it would be acceptable, and all the while ashamed of what was underneath. There’s no freedom when you spend your days trying to keep the lid on tight.

I don’t sit on the lid anymore. I was set free by the truth that everything in me was created for a noble purpose, even if I don’t always understand what that is. Yes, some of it might be a bit dirty and tarnished, some of it’s still uncut and unpolished, but it’s designed and treasured by a master and it’s His intention to use all of it and use it well.

Jesus comes to each of us and asks the same question – “May I see inside the box?” He’s not looking for information and He’s not surprised by what’s in there. He wants to show us it all has purpose and to demolish the lie that who we are, what we contain has little, or no value. Our gifts and talents, all that’s good, are placed in us BECAUSE He loves us and this love isn’t based on what we do, or how successful we are. It’s up to us, though, to open the lid when He asks. He’ll never force anyone off the chest, but until we say yes, we’ll be dissatisfied, never experiencing the complete freedom and passion of being desired, accepted and used by the one who made us.

Yesterday was my birthday. It’s a day I celebrate no matter how old I am. To me, it always represents sunshine and flowers, probably because it’s in late spring. When I was younger, it meant summer was almost here and that meant no more school. Now, as a mother with three very exuberant kids at home, it means summer is almost here and that means no more school.

When I was younger, I loved waking to the pile of wrapped presents my parents had placed at the end of my bed. I can still recall my excitment as my foot touched the hard edges of the packages and my foggy brain announced, “Today’s my birthday!” I’d pull my booty on my lap and as my family watched, I’d tear off the wrapping and reveal the treasures they’d given to me. I can’t remember a single gift from all those years, but the joy of those days is still with me.

This year, I managed to stretch my birthday celebrations over several days. My family and friends gave me sweet gifts, which I appreciate very much, but I was so aware that as lovely as good wishes, cards and presents are, they won’t last. Things wear out, cards are put in a drawer, the calendar is flipped to a new day. The gifts that will stay, what I treasure, are the relationships I’ve been given. Some of those presents have been around for many years and still continue to delight me every time I unwrap them; others are so new, they’re still in the box, but are wonderful surprises, nonetheless. Each of them is more precious to me than any thing I could ever possess and I’m grateful for their presence in my life.

I remember visiting a summer fair years ago. In the small town where I lived, the local rink – roller skating (in the warm months), ice skating (in the cold) – and a two screen theater, where last run movies were exiled for lengthy sojourns, were it as far as entertainment, so a traveling fair was a big deal. The tinny music of the Ferris Wheel, cast like a net into the summer night, ensnared every adolescent in the area, hauling us to the ticket window, where we’d exchange money hoarded from babysitting and lawnmowing for ribbons of red tickets, passports into a kaleidoscopic world of coloured lights brushing abstract streaks over the crowds.

All the rides required multiple tickets, except the Funhouse, which only needed one, so I saved it for last. It wasn’t much more than a giant box sectioned into different areas. I crossed a moving walkway into a room filled with floor to ceiling mirrors. In those mirrors I appeared tall and skinny, short and fat. My head and hands ballooned and shriveled as I moved about, laughing at the captive of the strange world reflected there.

It was simple to recognize the Funhouse images were exaggerations, because I’d seen myself in real mirrors, but I’ve gazed in others, just as warped in the likeness they reflected back, but not as easy to spot.

Funhouse mirrors are the ubiquitous magazines and media gorged on pictures of young, fit, Botoxed men and women, whispering I’m getting older, heavier, grayer and leaching value to society as I do so.

They’re the cultural messages clamoring for me to prove my worthiness by, attending the right school, working at the right job, making the right amount of money, driving the right car, wearing the right shoes.

But the most damaging of all, are sometimes encountered in the form of trusted people, parents, lovers, friends, who, because they’re bent and broken themselves, can never see good, only fault.

The fundamental defect in this kind of mirror is no matter how much I contort myself, it will never reflect a true likeness. There’s no shame in that.

Yes, I’m a flawed human being who makes mistakes, sometimes really big ones, but that isn’t the totality of me. I am, like every one of us, uniquely designed and gifted, destined for a special purpose, cherished until my last breath and ever after. That’s who the one who created me says I am. And because I’ve seen myself in His mirror, Funhouse mirrors are something to laugh at again.

In a past entry, I poked fun at women’s obsession with toilet seats. For anyone who missed the point, I think women need to get over turning whether or not a guy remembers to put down the toilet seat into a reason for initiating a new Cold War.

So, being the fair-minded female I am, I wish to focus my humble spotlight on a male behavior that is as annoying to women as overreacting to toilet seats is to men.

I like to call it the Surreptitious Check-Out.

Girl and Guy meet. They strike up a conversation. They may be just friends, maybe they’re interested in each other, doesn’t matter. The conversation is going along. Girl may be thinking, “What a great Guy!”. Then, another female walks by and his eyes have just gotta go there and not just a glance, but he’s looking her up and down. Guys, if you think the girl you’re with hasn’t noticed…WRONG! I guarantee she’s aware. Our peripheral vision is much more accute than yours, which means we don’t have to turn our heads to see what you’re looking at (comes in handy when you’re a mom and need eyes in the back of your head).

Now, the first time, she may shrug it off, but if you continue checking out passing females, you are REALLY going to irritate her. She probably won’t say anything. To a well brought up female politeness is paramount (Note: the one exception to this rule, when women are in a serious relationship and stop being polite), but you have completely turned her off.

I’m sure there are men who’ll argue they’re visual creatures and can’t help looking. Uh huh… Let me ask you, then, if you’re having a conversation with the president of you’re company, do you exhibit self-mastery and give him your complete attention, or do you peruse the rear ends of passing females? It’s just bad manners, like picking your nose.

Now, if you’re squirming a bit, wondering if I’m talking about you…Yes, I am. But, this is some of the best advice you’ll ever get. I know how goal oriented guys are. If you’re in a conversation with a woman, and I don’t care if she’s 80 years old and toothless, or the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen, give her your full attention. You’ll garner tons of points, because she’ll notice. She’ll see you as unique, a man among boys and you’ll win.

The kids and I had our annual leprechaun hunt this past Saturday. It’s become quite a tradition in our house, right up there with the biggies of Christmas and Easter, which is a little odd, considering we’re not Irish. We begin preparations right after Christmas (we take our hunting of the little fellas VERY seriously). The ornaments are still on the tree and the younger ones are already planning how they’re going to catch Liam, the family leprechaun, in March.

A variety of boxes, cardboard, toilet roll tubes, and various ephemera starts piling up, materials necessary for building the traps. No egg carton is ever thrown out, after all, the sections make great chairs and toilets for little bottoms. I become a scavenger in the stores for odd bits of packaging. You’d be amazed how helpful people become when you tell them you’re trying to catch a leprechaun; although, come to think of it, I’d be helpful, too, if some strange lady approached me and said she was looking for leprechauns. This year, a guy in the grocery store opened a whole stack of boxes, so I could have the dividers inside, after I told him they looked like little apartment buildings.

The bait for the finished traps is always the same – potatoes, raw, or as Liam likes to call them, praties, occasionally flowers (my youngest daughter’s idea) and whiskey. This year I decided to forgo the whiskey as I didn’t want to risk drunken leprechauns running around the garden, singing Irish drinking songs and scaring the children and their friends.

Once the traps are ready, off we go to find us some leprechauns. Binoculars are helpful, as are butterfly nets, bug boxes… well, think about it, where are we going to put him when we catch him? This year, one of the girls found a leprechaun hole and slide disguised as a hole in the ground with a palm frond sticking out of it. There’s nothing like seeing a whole group of kids and grownups, standing around a hole, next to a busy street, listening for little Irish voices (I’d have given anything to have been a ventriloquist at that moment).

Our special ops missions have yet to be successful. We’ve heard plenty of them rustling about in bushes, but we’ve never been able to catch one, not in the almost two decades I’ve been forcing, I mean, encouraging my children to capture one, find his pot of gold, and ensure my comfortable retirement. The consolation is, Liam the Leprechaun always visits the traps while we’re out hunting (none of my clever children has ever figured out they should wait with the traps) and leaves thank you letters (for the praties – he’s a very well-mannered leprechaun) with little green footprints all over them (but not very tidy) and fairy gold.

I’ve learned a lot from these excursions. You don’t need fairy dust, or even a lot of money, just a little imagination and time and you create magic they’ll never forget.

I’m a single woman and I don’t date. When I make this statement, I get reactions from, “Are you frigid?” to “Don’t you like men?” I find these responses ironic. There was a time in our culture when not dating was the norm. Now, I’m an oddball, or rather, as I call myself, an odd bird, somewhere out on the fringes among the sexually cryogenic and the misanthropic.

My response to the first challenge is laughter. How else do you answer such a stupid question? To the second, I reply that no, I like men very much. I like the men who come into my life so much, in fact, I choose to treat them and their hearts with the honour and respect they deserve. Unfortunately, our culture has so devalued human beings that we sample each other like chocolates. I don’t like nuts or maple creams, so there’s no chance they’ll make it into my mouth. Other flavours, I’ll take a bite of because they seem appealing and throw away when they’re not. Then, I’ll find something I like and eat the whole thing.

I believe dating, as it exists, fosters the same kind of mentality about people. We try them out, many times allowing them, or ourselves to become emotionally and physically connected, before we really know each other. And what happens when we discover we’re not compatible? We move on, either carrying, or leaving behind, at the very least, a bruised heart and ego.

Dating, where everybody’s minding his p’s and q’s is not the place to find out who someone is. It’s in cultivating friendships, free from the pressures of romantic and sexual expectations, that we can grow in appreciation and love for others. That’s where we discover what it is we want. And this point is crucial. Many people who are dating, have no idea what it is they actually want and have no goal in mind. I would argue, this is especially true of women (Maybe the guys will have a different viewpoint). Many times we date because we are afraid of loneliness; or, we like the attention and validation we get when someone asks us out (or will go out with us); or we want that person to provide something we think we’re lacking. This is a self-centered way of viewing other human beings and with this as the foundation, it’s no wonder our relationships are in such shambles.

I know I want to marry again, but I’m unwilling to diminish the value of any of the men I meet in order to find the right person. So, I’m very careful about the signals I send out, no matter how much I’m tempted to do otherwise. I get to know and enjoy them as friends and within the context of those relationships, I believe I will find the person I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life with. This has not been an easy choice to make, but I believe there’s no greater love than to lay down my life and desires for my friends. And I believe that’s the kind of powerful and radical foundation for a relationship that will outlast the better and the worst, the richer and the poorer, the sickness and the health.

A male friend and I were discussing toilet seat etiquette. He wanted to know why it is women make such an issue out of the position of the lid. Being a guy, he assumed the practical viewpoint – if you see it’s up, put it down. This simplistic solution betrayed his ignorance of the female mind (Rule of thumb – if a female mind is involved, the solution is NEVER simple!).

Of course we could put it down! Do you really believe we’re unaware of the mechanics? After all, we’re the ones who clean the darn thing, so we get how it works! You see, when you leave the seat up, you remind us you’re not thinking about us 24/7. Now, intellectually we’ll acknowledge it’s ridiculous to expect you to be anticipating our needs while you’re in the bathroom (and never mind if we were anticipating your needs, we’d put it up – this point’s completely off topic, so don’t even think about mentioning it!), so the first or second offense, we’ll excuse as an oversight. But when you keep leaving it up… Ooh! You’ve just dissed us!… and that reminds us of the time you ignored us at the party and talked to the girl in the red dress… which reminds us of the time you didn’t like the red pants we bought…

Now, we were going about our business, not even thinking about all this stuff, until you went and made it an issue by leaving the seat up… AGAIN. No woman worth her weight in toilet paper (single ply ’cause it’s thinner) is ever going refuse your porcelain invitation to discuss the relationship and, really, you must WANT to talk about it, or else you’d stop doing it. See! It’s all quite logical and even sort of noble that we bring it up and you ought to show your appreciation with flowers or something. Which reminds us of the time you forgot our anniversary…

During Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, there’s a custom called Tashlich (casting off), in which observant Jews throw bread onto a body of water, symbolizing their sins being cast onto God’s love and grace. I’ve been performing Tashlich at the ocean for several years, not because I’m Jewish, nor out of any religious obligation, but for the sheer poetry of watching my morsels of sin obliterated by waves of grace.

Every time I visit, I’m enthralled by this image of the ocean of God’s love, a love that’s unrelenting, fathomless, fierce, consuming. As I stand at the water’s edge, I’m aware I’m giving just a piece of myself in the bread, but if I were to go in deeper, the water would take all of me. And I’m afraid. Afraid of a God whose love isn’t neat and tidy, but so ardent towards us He sacrificed Himself on a cross to prove it and then calls each of us to follow Him. I can remain on the shore, tossing  Him crumbs, but then I’ll never know what’s waiting in the deep waters and I’ll never be satisfied if I don’t heed His siren call of love and venture in.