Mrs. Turpin always noticed people’s feet.”1

Like all good writers of fiction, Flannery O’Connor shows rather than tells. She is exquisitely good at it. This skill is what can make her stories so difficult to understand at first. O’Connor refuses to tell her readers very much. But like a photographer with a keen eye and a high-quality lens, she captures telling details about her characters, focusing our attention on the concrete shell around the inner nut of meaning, on the manners that reveal the mystery. Indeed, as O’Connor explains in Mystery and Manners, a collection of essays and lectures on the thinking and technique behind her craft, manners (the tangible, observable details) reveal the mystery (the essence, truth, and universals) of being. And those few simple words—“Mrs. Turpin always noticed people’s feet”—capture the essential nature of the main character of O’Connor’s “Revelation.” They also capture her central problem: namely, in order to see someone’s feet, you have to look down on them. Mrs. Turpin looks down on everyone.

WE ARE ALL MRS. TURPIN

As with many of O’Connor’s characters, Ruby Turpin’s prevailing sin is pride. In Ruby’s case, this is a twofold irony: first, Mrs. Turpin thinks she is humble, but she is not; second, the qualities she judges others for are ones she shares. But this is the universal truth, the mystery that O’Connor reveals behind the particular example: none of us has reason to look down on anyone else. Yet we do. We are all Mrs. Turpin.

To be human is to struggle with pride. A few have too little of it; most, too much. There is a good sense of pride, of course, such as having pride in one’s work or one’s children. Aristotle means this sort of pride when he speaks of it as a virtue. In the Christian tradition, pride is understood as the excess of this good pride, what Aristotle terms vanity. Both the Aristotelian and the Christian tradition call for the proper proportion of esteem of oneself. Aquinas defines pride, simply, as “inordinate self-love.” He explains that “every man’s will should tend to that which is proportionate to him”; therefore, pride goes against right reason.2

Pride may be simple and it may be human, but it is a devastating vice. The root of pride, according to Aquinas, is lack of submission to God; pride, therefore, is “the beginning of all sin.”3 Pride is the sin attributed to the fall of Lucifer, who sought to ascend to the throne of God and be equal with the Most High (Isa. 14:12–15). Pride is the sin of Adam and Eve, who sought, in eating the forbidden fruit, to be like God (Gen. 3:5). The New Testament teaches that “God opposes the proud but shows favor to the humble” (1 Pet. 5:5; cf. Prov. 3:34). No wonder Pope Gregory I in the sixth century named pride the “root of vices,” the deadliest of the deadly sins.4 It has since then been recognized as such throughout church history.

Accordingly, moral philosophers have long considered the virtue that opposes pride—humility—to be the foundation of all other virtues.

John Chrysostom calls humility the “mother, and root, and nurse, and foundation, and bond of all good things: without this we are abominable, and execrable, and polluted.”5 Or as Peter Kreeft writes, “The greatest virtue keeps us from the greatest vice.”6

Without humility, without an understanding of our proper place within the order of creation, we cannot cultivate the other virtues. We cannot even come to Christ, or to true knowledge, apart from humility. Augustine wrote in one of his letters that the way to truth begins and ends with humility:

In that way the first part is humility; the second, humility; the third, humility: and this I would continue to repeat as often as you might ask direction, not that there are no other instructions which may be given, but because, unless humility precede, accompany, and follow every good action which we perform, being at once the object which we keep before our eyes, the support to which we cling, and the monitor by which we are restrained, pride wrests wholly from our hand any good work on which we are congratulating ourselves.7

But do we know what true humility is? “Nothing is more deceitful,” says Fitzwilliam Darcy in Pride and Prejudice, “than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast.”8 False humility so abounds that we often distrust humility when we think we see it: The celebrity or athlete who gestures to heaven following a stellar performance. The humblebrag posted on social media (“I’m struggling so much more to learn Russian than I did learning French, Spanish, and Japanese!”). The public figure who accepts a greater honor with the obligatory announcement that it is “humbling” to do so. The church leader who “humbles” himself by making a dramatic public confession of some petty and popular sin that serves only to make him more endearing and relatable. None of these examples portray how truly, well, humiliating, real humility is.

HUMILITY IS BEING GROUNDED

It’s helpful, as is often the case, to look at the etymology of the word. One thing I love about words is how their own stories can reveal so much about the history of ideas and worldviews, along with a deeper understanding of the concept. Humility is one such word. The ancient root from which we get the word, along with its sister humble, means “earth” or “ground.” Eugene Peterson explains, “This is the Genesis origin of who we are: dust—dust that the Lord God used to make us a human being. If we cultivate a lively sense of our origin and nurture a sense of continuity with it, who knows, we may also acquire humility.”9 Implicit in the word humility is the acknowledgment that we “all come from dust, and to dust all return” (Eccles. 3:20). Like the earth itself, the humble person is lowly. The person of humility is—literally and figuratively—grounded. Thus humility is the recognition that we are all human—another word that comes from the same root—and that none of us are God. Remembering our position as earthly creatures who are not gods is the essence of humility. The virtue of humility, most simply defined, is an accurate assessment of oneself. And, of course, it is impossible to assess oneself rightly apart from God.

While the definition of humility is simple, achieving this accurate assessment of oneself is not easy. In fact, in “Revelation,” it comes only through an act of divine grace. Through Mary Grace, to be exact.

Mary Grace is the name of a young woman Ruby Turpin encounters in the doctor’s waiting room where she sits with her husband, Claud, who is there to seek treatment. Mrs. Turpin’s “little bright black eyes [take] in all the patients” in the crowded and dirty room. She passes the time by making haughty, scornful judgments on them. The irony is that Ruby Turpin is not a well-to-do, polished, genteel lady observing the hoi polloi from a lofty place of privilege. No. Mrs. Turpin and her husband are farmers—pig farmers, to be exact. But they have just enough more than some for Mrs. Turpin to feel justified in looking down upon the black people they hire as day laborers and the common folk she observes in the waiting room. She’s so proud of herself and her station in life that she tells one of the women during a conversation in the waiting room, “Our hogs are not dirty and they don’t stink.”10

No pride could be more blinding than the kind that makes you think your pigs don’t stink.

Pride has traditionally been associated with blindness, all the way back to Oedipus Rex, the famous hero of Sophocles’s ancient Greek drama. Oedipus’s tragic flaw of pride ultimately compels him to blind himself in an act of poetic justice for unknowingly killing his father and marrying his mother. His self-imposed physical blindness serves as both a reminder of the pride that kept him from an accurate assessment of himself (humility) and an emblem of the self-knowledge now in his possession, gained at great cost.

Pride is always a way of not seeing oneself properly, whereas humility is “self-knowledge perfected.”11 And if knowing oneself is not already difficult enough (indeed, even impossible given the deceitful nature of the human heart), true humility requires not only an understanding of oneself but also an understanding of objective reality outside of oneself. As Josef Pieper explains, “The ground of humility is man’s estimation of himself according to the truth.”12

Mrs. Turpin isn’t physically blinded in the story, as Oedipus is, but she comes close. Like Oedipus, her spiritual blindness is her downfall. She is blind both in her high estimation of herself and in the limitations of her knowledge of others. Her blindness leads to excessive pride. This pride is like a coin: one side is Mrs. Turpin’s elevated view of herself; the other side is her low view of others.

To help anybody out that needed it was her philosophy of life. She never spared herself when she found somebody in need, whether they were white or black, trash or decent. And of all she had to be thankful for, she was most thankful that this was so. If Jesus had said, “You can be high society and have all the money you want and be thin and svelte-like, but you can’t be a good woman with it,” she would have had to say, “Well don’t make me that then. Make me a good woman and it don’t matter what else, how fat or how ugly or how poor!” Her heart rose. He had not made her a n——or white-trash or ugly! He had made her herself and given her a little of everything. Jesus, thank you! she said. Thank you thank you thank you!13

Mrs. Turpin is, in a sense, merely an exaggerated version of Jane Austen’s Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, who also places too much confidence in her own perceptiveness. The two characters and their stories are worlds apart, but they are similar in exposing the folly of pride. Whereas Elizabeth Bennet’s pride is subtle and even appealing in its relatability, Mrs. Turpin’s arrogance is shocking: “There was nothing you could tell her about people like them [white trash] that she didn’t know already.” Significantly, the story specifies in the next sentence that she “knew all this from her own experience.”14 Experience is, of course, a way of knowing that sharply contrasts with revelation, as the story makes clear by the end. Experience is rooted in the self and is thus a source of knowledge that is ripe for pride.

Soon Mrs. Turpin can’t help but say out loud what she had just been thinking, and she tells the woman she’s been chatting with in the waiting room, “When I think who all I could have been besides myself and what all I got, a little of everything, and a good disposition besides, I just feel like shouting, ‘Thank you, Jesus, for making everything the way it is. . . . Oh thank you, Jesus, Jesus, thank you!’”15

MOMENT OF REVELATION

Mrs. Turpin gives thanks for her good standing in life. Then we read: “The book struck her directly over her left eye.”16

This burst of unexpected violence is a signature move for O’Connor: sudden, inexplicable, and disorienting. But such violence in O’Connor is never gratuitous or unnecessary. No, with O’Connor it is always the most necessary violence of all, reflecting the violence of Christ’s crucifixion, the means God uses to offer the grace that saves. O’Connor explains her use of violent and grotesque characters this way: “When you can assume that your audience holds the same beliefs you do, you can relax and use more normal means of talking to it; when you have to assume that it does not, then you have to make your vision apparent by shock—to the hard of hearing you shout, and for the almost-blind you draw large and startling figures.”17

For O’Connor, both her audience and her subject matter reflect conditions characteristic of what she termed a “Christ-haunted” culture. There are various qualities of such a society, bereft of Christ, but one quality that stands out is pride. Not the most obvious kind of pride, perhaps, but the kind that is most difficult to detect and therefore to shake: that quiet and persistent pride of placing faith in oneself. We see this pride in many of the characters in O’Connor’s stories: Hulga in “Good Country People,” the grandmother in “A Good Man Is Hard to Find,” Mrs. Cope in “A Circle in the Fire,” and Ruby Turpin in “Revelation.”

The book is hurled at Mrs. Turpin by Mary Grace, the daughter of the woman she was speaking to moments before. Mrs. Turpin had scorned her for her acned face and surly attitude, but the girl seems to have seen right through Mrs. Turpin, lobbing angry glances at her while looking up from reading her book until she finally throws it at her. The chaos that follows ends with Mary Grace restrained, medicated, and taken away as a lunatic and with Mrs. Turpin, injured and stunned, returning home in a daze.

Unable to shake the shock of the attack, Mrs. Turpin senses that God has given her a message in the horrible words Mary Grace hissed to her as she lay subdued on the floor, words she cannot get out of her mind: “Go back to hell where you came from, you old wart hog.”18 Restless, she finally goes to the pig parlor and begins to hose down the hogs. There she wrestles with God. “How am I a hog?” she demands of God. “If trash is what you wanted why didn’t you make me trash?” she implores, her pride yet intact.19

But as she rages on at God, she gazes at the scene before her: her husband’s truck on the highway, the pigs settled in the corner, the sun in the sky. Then a “visionary light settled in her eyes.”20 As is typical in O’Connor, first there is the storm of violence, then the light.

The vision Mrs. Turpin sees while standing there, hose in hand, baptizing the unclean pigs with water, is of a procession of people making their way into the Promised Land. The group is led by the very folks Mrs. Turpin had proudly disdained. “And bringing up the end of the procession was a tribe of people whom she recognized at once as those . . . like herself and Claud. . . . They were marching behind the others with great dignity, accountable as they had always been for good order and common sense and respectable behavior. They alone were on key. Yet she could see by their shocked and altered faces that even their virtues were being burned away.”21

At last—by the violent means of grace—Mrs. Turpin understands that “the first shall be last.” She and Claud may be last, but through the vision she at last understands that the order is of no importance at all. All that matters is that you come. And when you do, your virtues—those good deeds and good manners and good things in your possession—will count for nothing.

But until you have enough humility to accept that, you will never be able to come.

The story closes with Mrs. Turpin listening to “the voices of the souls climbing upward into the starry field and shouting hallelujah.”22

But between the awakening violence and the redemptive vision is suffering. Suffering, as “a form of involuntary humility,” is thereby “a form of divine grace.”23 The violent act of Mary Grace causes Mrs. Turpin to suffer. Her pain is not merely physical but mental and spiritual as well. In fact, her physical suffering is far less than the spiritual torment she experiences as she begs God to reveal the meaning of Mary Grace’s cursing her to hell.

HUMILIATION AND AFFLICTION

In Waiting for God, Simone Weil draws a distinction between suffering and affliction. In Weil’s terms, suffering involves physical pain, but affliction involves the anguish of the soul. Weil contrasts the deaths of the martyrs with the death of Christ to show the distinction between suffering and affliction: “Those who are persecuted for their faith and are aware of the fact are not afflicted, although they have to suffer. They only fall into a state of affliction if suffering or fear fills the soul to the point of making it forget the cause of the persecution. The martyrs who entered the arena, singing as they went to face the wild beasts, were not afflicted. Christ was afflicted.”24

Mrs. Turpin experiences not only physical suffering but the greater anguish of affliction. She is wounded less in being struck by the book than by the conviction that God is chastening her through Mary Grace’s horrible words. Mrs. Turpin, who looks down upon everyone she sees, struck (nearly) in the eye, now can see that her pride has been all for naught. This kind of true affliction, as Weil says, involves “social degradation or the fear of it in some form or another.”25 Mrs. Turpin’s pride has depended on her view of herself in relation to others in her social world. Her redemption is in undergoing the humbling vision in which she has taken her proper place in heaven as last, not first.

Earlier in the waiting room, before being struck by Mary Grace’s flying book, Mrs. Turpin was half listening to the piped-in music. “The gospel hymn playing was, ‘When I looked up and He looked down,’ and Mrs. Turpin, who knew it, supplied the last line mentally.”26 She knew the line. But until her moment of grace, she couldn’t grasp its meaning. “Pride looks down, and no one can see God but by looking up.”27

Humiliation is a form of affliction, not merely suffering. O’Connor’s use of violence in her stories brings about the sort of affliction of the soul—the humiliation—that allows for repentance and redemption. Such humiliation, Weil says, is “a violent condition of the whole corporal being which longs to surge up under the outrage but is forced, by impotence or fear, to hold itself in check.”28 Consider the humiliation Christ endured through his suffering and affliction on the cross. Christ,

being in very nature God,

did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage;

rather, he made himself nothing

by taking the very nature of a servant,

being made in human likeness.

And being found in appearance as a man,

he humbled himself

by becoming obedient to death—

even death on a cross! (Phil. 2:5–8)

The rich layers of the word humbled in this passage reflect the depths of Christ’s incarnation. On a literal level, the word denotes the fact that Christ became human (earthly). But it also suggests the meaning we associate with the word today: Christ degraded himself, stooped low, and gave up his rightful and lofty place in heaven in order to share our humanity with us. Both the literal and the accumulated meaning of humiliation capture Christ’s action. Christ’s own humiliation is the evidence moral philosophers give to explain why the virtue of humility is central to the good life.29

A LIFE OF HUMILIATION

Flannery O’Connor knew humiliation well. Her very life was in many ways a humiliation. From a young age, she was unable to meet her mother’s expectation for her to be a proper Southern belle. She described herself later as “a pidgeon-toed [sic], only-child with a receding chin and a you-leave-me-alone-or-I’ll-bite-you complex.”30 As a girl, she had to wear corrective shoes and “had a distinctive kind of loping walk.”31 Later, her few, awkward attempts at romance were never fully requited. When she became ill with lupus, she had to give up the independent life she had carved out for herself as a writer in the Northeast, returning to her mother’s home in Georgia until she died at age thirty-nine from the disease.

Of course, every humiliation of ours is but a pale shadow of Christ’s humiliation. Comparing whatever we go through to what he did puts our afflictions in proper perspective. This is the beginning of humility. Humility is not, therefore, simply a low regard for oneself; rather, it is a proper view of oneself that is low in comparison to God and in recognition of our own fallenness.32 “Humility is thinking less about yourself, not thinking less of yourself.”33

The Beatitudes describe the characteristics of the humble: the poor in spirit, the meek, the mournful, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers, the ones who hunger and thirst for righteousness. But the Sermon on the Mount doesn’t merely praise these qualities; it offers a paradoxical promise in which all of those who are last shall be first. (And the Mrs. Turpins of the world, as her revelation reveals, shall be last.) Christ’s own humiliation is the most dramatic example of this. The passage from Philippians quoted above continues by describing Christ’s reward for his sacrifice:

Therefore God exalted him to the highest place

and gave him the name that is above every name,

that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow,

in heaven and on earth and under the earth,

and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord,

to the glory of God the Father. (Phil. 2:9–11)

This is the “moral irony” of the virtue of humility: the “ironic biblical principle that humility ultimately results in exaltation.”34 The paradox of humility is that through it we are exalted (Matt. 23:12). And the paradox of pride is that through it we fall—a truth devastatingly portrayed in another of O’Connor’s stories, “Everything That Rises Must Converge.”

THE PARADOX OF PRIDE

Julian Chestny is a recent college graduate who is living at home and selling typewriters until he can succeed as a writer. He and his mother live in a declining neighborhood in the newly integrated South. Julian’s mother sacrificed a great deal for her son: her own “teeth had gone unfilled so that his could be straightened,” and she “brought him up successfully and had sent him to college.” But Julian is ungrateful to his mother. Because “gratitude recognizes and prizes the work that another does and who the other is,”35 gratitude requires humility. Julian is not only ungrateful; he is proud. He thinks his failure to thrive professionally is because he is “too intelligent to be a success.”36 His pride and lack of gratitude contribute to the shame he feels about his mother. He is ashamed of her racism, her prejudice, her haughtiness, her backwardness, and her pride in their family’s lofty past that means nothing now.

Julian’s mother (she is always referred to this way in the story, not by her name) does possess these flaws. Her moral blindness and false pride are serious defects in character. They are also just plain annoying. “Your great-grandfather was a former governor of this state,” she reminds Julian as they ride the bus one day to her weight-loss class at the Y. Julian must accompany her on the bus because, the story suggests, she won’t ride alone now that the buses are integrated. “Your grandfather was a prosperous landowner. . . . Your great-grandfather had a plantation and two hundred slaves.” When Julian reminds her of the dingy city where they now live and the fact that there are no more slaves, his mother responds, “They were better off when they were.”37 When she starts reminiscing fondly on the bus about her childhood nurse, “an old darky” named Caroline, and how she’s “always had a great respect for my colored friends,” Julian begs her to change the subject, aware of the hurt her words might cause if heard by fellow passengers. He is so pained by his mother’s racism that whenever “he got on a bus by himself, he made it a point to sit down beside a Negro, in reparation as it were for his mother’s sins.”38

The reader can’t help but be pained along with Julian as we witness such blind prejudice on the part of this woman who thinks herself so fine. We can’t help but look down on her, which means, whether we realize it or not, thinking more highly of ourselves. And thus we have fallen into O’Connor’s trap. For as Julian continues to think disdainfully about his mother, he elevates himself, just as the reader has herself, in his own mind, and to astonishing heights:

The further irony of all this [he thinks] was that in spite of her, he had turned out so well. In spite of going to only a third-rate college, he had, on his own initiative, come out with a first-rate education; in spite of growing up dominated by a small mind, he had ended up with a large one; in spite of all her foolish views, he was free of prejudice and unafraid to face facts. Most miraculous of all, instead of being blinded by love for her as she was for him, he had cut himself emotionally free of her and could see her with complete objectivity. He was not dominated by his mother.39

As Julian continues to stew about his mother during their trip (belying his insistence that he is not dominated by her), something horrible about Julian slowly and steadily unfolds to the reader. He harbors a growing, sinister desire to “teach her a lesson.” He imagines befriending and bringing home “some distinguished Negro professor or lawyer” just to make her blood pressure rise. He nurses fantasies that become shockingly violent.

He imagined his mother lying desperately ill and his being able to secure only a Negro doctor for her. He toyed with that idea for a few minutes and then dropped it for a momentary vision of himself participating as a sympathizer in a sit-in demonstration. This was possible but he did not linger with it. Instead, he approached the ultimate horror. He brought home a beautiful suspiciously Negroid woman. Prepare yourself, he said. There is nothing you can do about it. This is the woman I’ve chosen. She’s intelligent, dignified, even good, and she’s suffered and she hasn’t thought it fun. Now persecute us, go ahead and persecute us. Drive her out of here, but remember, you’re driving me too. His eyes were narrowed and through the indignation he had generated, he saw his mother across the aisle, purple-faced, shrunken to the dwarf-like proportions of her moral nature.40

Julian characterizes his mother’s morals as small and narrow, yet he does not recognize his own immorality in his treatment of her. He goes so far as to imagine slapping her, as he would a child. And when the bus ride is over, Julian’s wishes will be tragically fulfilled.

After disembarking from the bus, his mother tries to give a penny to a small black child who had been sitting next to her. Shockingly, the child’s mother, offended at Julian’s mother’s condescending posture, punches Julian’s mother in the face. Yet even more shocking is Julian’s response to this violence against his mother.

As she lies collapsed on the sidewalk, he responds by hissing at her, “I told you not to do that.” Slathered in his own self-righteousness, he continues, “You got exactly what you deserved. Now get up.” The vengeful fantasy he was nursing minutes before has come true: “I hope this teaches you a lesson,” he admonishes her. His mother’s response is heartrending: “She leaned forward and her eyes raked his face. She seemed trying to determine his identity. Then, as if she found nothing familiar about him, she started off with a headlong movement in the wrong direction.”41

In the last few minutes of the narrative, Julian’s mother’s mind slips from reality into the past where she, tragically, has stored so much of her treasure. She calls out first for her father, then for the black nurse of her youth—the people who, unlike Julian, returned her love. Because he lacks humility, Julian lacks love. “True love presupposes humility; without humility, the self comes to occupy all the available space and sees the other person as an object . . . or as an enemy.”42 Indeed, while love is the “finest fruit of virtue,” humility is its root.43

Julian’s mother’s delirium spirals until her body gives way and her very life slips from her, there on the pavement with Julian helplessly calling out. But it is too late. She gets, as Julian said earlier, “exactly what [she] deserved”—as we all do apart from the grace that comes only with humility. The story closes with Julian enveloped by swirling darkness that seems “to sweep him back to her, postponing from moment to moment his entry into the world of guilt and sorrow.”44

A PROPER VALUING OF ONESELF

The subtle hope of this last line can be seen in the pattern of O’Connor’s works taken as a whole. Their collective vision shows that before there can be salvation, there must be recognition of guilt as well as sorrow for that guilt, which leads to humility or the “proper valuing of oneself in light of the real relationships one encounters.”45 Significantly, Julian defines himself in light of relationships he imagines having, rather than real ones. Earlier in the story we learn that he tries to befriend black people but only ones he imagines to be what they are not. They don’t pass the prejudicial tests Julian doesn’t see that he has. Ironically, his rejection of his mother because of her immoral racism is his immorality. He rejects the one real person most significant in his life, all because he lacks humility. To live “humbly before God means suffering and submitting to other sinful human beings,”46 but Julian refuses this, imprisoning himself in his own pride. For, Hannah Anderson notes insightfully in Humble Roots, “As much as humility frees us from condemning ourselves, it also frees us from condemning others.”47 The story ends with a hint that Julian, forced to see what he wished for come to fruition, will achieve recognition of who he truly is and, therefore, redemptive grace.

Seeing who we really are—which requires seeing ourselves in relationship to God—is true humility. In Mystery and Manners, O’Connor says, “To know oneself is, above all, to know what one lacks. It is to measure oneself against Truth, and not the other way around. The first product of self-knowledge is humility.”48 But gaining humility—knowing who we are—isn’t only about degradation and lack. It is about the exaltation offered in the freedom of knowing who we are and who we were created to be.

The awkward, pigeon-toed, sickly O’Connor beautifully demonstrated the exaltation of humility in her own life and work. Once, when asked by a student at a lecture, “Miss O’Connor, why do you write?” she answered, “Because I’m good at it.”49 At first glance, this reply might seem conceited or proud. But the truth is that knowing what we are good at and what we are not, doing what we are supposed to do and not what we aren’t, being what we are supposed to be and not what we aren’t, is the essence of true humility.

Before O’Connor knew for certain who she was and what she was good at, when she was struggling to learn this along with the craft of writing, she kept a prayer journal at school. In it, she wrote this prayer: “But dear God please give me some place, no matter how small, but let me know it and keep it. If I am the one to wash the second step everyday, let me know it and let me wash it and let my heart overflow with love washing it.”50 Humility is taking our place, no matter how small (or big), and fulfilling that place with a heart overflowing with love.

The good life begins and ends with humility.