You know, the sun comes in through the stained glass just so, and the voices of the girls’ choir rise so majestically to the vaulted ceiling high above, echoing down awash in the natural reverb of the giant room built long ago by men who loved an idea so, so much. The flute solo brings tears. It’s a moment. It’s beautiful. It’s almost enough to make me want to believe.

But they screw it up. They always do. Denying love because it doesn’t fit their parameters?

This wasn’t the day to hate. No day is, but really, guys, not today. From what I understand—and I think that’s a lot, relatively—the founder would have had a huge problem with it. He wasn’t about parameters.

I am reminded why I chose my own path, and though it isn’t any clearer today, I am sure it’s right for me and I’ll figure it out as I travel it. And if I don’t, that’s fine, too, because the scenery and the company are pure magic if I just remember to look.

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