It’s a normal Tuesday at 3:30 p.m. I’m in the kitchen sweeping crumbs. Or washing dishes. Or trying to write a blog article real quick. From a faraway corner of the house, I hear an unmistakable sound. The sound of whining. My youngest son is...
I am the true vine, and my Father is the husbandman. Every branch in me that beareth not fruit he taketh away: and every branch that beareth fruit, he purgeth it, that it may bring forth more fruit.
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