God, The Promise Keeper

Many of you have heard about Washington Post op-ed columnist and “Evangelican Episcopalian” Michael Gerson’s wonderful sermon that he delivered at the Washington National Cathedral this past Sunday (2/17/19). Some of you even had the privledge to listen to it, at the service or online. If you haven’t yet, I commend it to you.

I’m no match for Michael as a writer or a sermonist. I’m not trying to be. All I’d like to do is share the sermon I was asked to deliver to the congregation at the Episcopal Church of the Ascension in Twin Falls, Idaho on February 24, 2013. I, too, chose to talk about my depression. Shortly thereafter, I turned it into a book. There can be no shortage of people talking about this insidious illness.

God, The Promise Keeper
Episcopal Church of the Ascension, Twin Falls, Idaho
February 24, 2013

“I don’t like early Lents like the one we are in. Forty days of prayer, penance, repentance, almsgiving, and self-denial are hard commitments – any time of the year. To make such sacrifices during periods of inversion, snowstorms, howling wind, and record low temperatures feels downright Catholic to me.

But here we are – the second Sunday of Lent. We can’t change the calendar. And, as we grapple with today’s texts, which are full of fear and lament, we can either choose to feel that way ourselves, or strive to become fearless and cheerful. Either way, God will love us.

In the first reading from Genesis, we feel Abraham’s fear, don’t we?

Poor Abraham. He had an apparent abundance of wealth, but no land and even worse, no children. He was definitely not fearless and cheerful. The only one sitting pretty, it appeared, was his chief steward, Eliezer, who stood to inherit Abraham’s wealth if God did not fulfill His promise.

God challenges Abraham. “Look up at the sky and count the stars, if you can.” This did not make Abraham feel chosen in the slightest. Anyone around the world could have taken this challenge on any given night. Don’t blame Abraham if he thought God was stalling. “All I get are promises,” Abraham must have thought to himself.

If that wasn’t daunting enough, this old man had to round up a heifer, goat, and ram – and make sure that they were each three years of age. It would take a Board Certified veterinarian in today’s world to provide such authenticity. Thankfully, God was far less fussy about His specifications for the turtledove and pigeon.

We all know how the story of Abraham ends. God keeps the promise of land and many descendants he made to Abraham.

Still, Abraham did experience pain and suffering. And like Abraham, there have been times in our lives when our world really has crashed down on us. How many times have we thought, “If anything can go wrong, it will?” When life seems to be going in a downward spiral, we are at the end of our rope and we can’t tie a knot to hold on. Fear often takes hold of us. Fear traps us in the belief that nothing will ever improve, that we are ensnared and will never escape. When life gets us down, fear fills the void left by hope.

Let me share the contemporary story of a man who suffered from a lifetime of depression, but rather than address his illness, he ignored it. He thought it was a temporary condition, something that would go away on its own. In fact, he never even bothered to ask God for help. So, over the years, this flaw in what we now know to be chemistry, not personality, led the man down a dark path, hurting not only him, but many friends and loved ones as well. He was so intractable that those who knew him and cared for him stopped offering help.

Three and a half years ago, he hit bottom with a thud! A very loud thud! He made plans to bring a quick and brutal end to his life. Again, he did not reach out to God. He was so lost that he assumed God didn’t care.

Well, on the planned day of destruction, God appeared to that man through a primary care physician at Georgetown University Hospital in Washington, D.C. It was a true epiphany, a time when the man realized that despite the resulting embarrassment and humility he’d face on earth, God was willing to make a covenant with him.

God promised the man he’d get better if he sought treatment. No magic wands, no “we’ll just keep this between ourselves.” The man had to own up to his illness and do something about it. In return, God would free the man of suffering and lead him to a new place where he could restart his life. And not be judged by his neighbors.

Today, that man is very much alive and well. In fact, he is living in Boise, Idaho and standing before you now, another sign that God is a promise keeper.

Yes, I, Stuart Hotchkiss, am that man.

Enough about me. Let’s look at the rest of today’s texts. I’m certain they speak to everyone in this congregation.

In the second reading, Paul’s main point is that we are to live as citizens of heaven while we are residents on earth. This is not an easy task. It runs completely counter to our capitalist ideals. We are obsessed with earthly things, even though every person knows “you can’t take it with you!”

Not everyone can follow Paul’s exhortation to be imitators of Christ. To label people who can’t as “enemies of the cross” is a bit severe. Let us have compassion for and recognize the Lost and the Confused.

In Psalm 27, we see that God is a light to his people. He shows us the way when we are in doubt. He comforts and rejoices our hearts when we are in sorrow. It is in His light that we are able to walk on in our ways and to overcome fear. In His light, we are able to see light forever.

“The Lord is my light and my salvation;
whom then shall I fear?
The Lord is the strength of my life;
Of whom then shall I be afraid.”

We fear losing our health, our wealth, our family and our friends. We allow ourselves to suffer from fear-based emotions such as anger, jealousy, worry, guilt and insecurity.

There are many scholars like Dr. Jeanne Holland Crowther, author of “The Other Side of Fear”, who, collectively, have helped teach thousands, maybe tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, to change fear energy into love energy. But we are a world of 2 billion Christians, and, unfortunately, fear is on the rise.

Look back at history. Fear has swelled over great leaders no matter how brave they’ve appeared to be. Julius Caesar was afraid of thunder. Peter the Great was terrified to cross a bridge. Josef Stalin was constantly in fear of being poisoned or killed.

Fear cannot be conquered without love. As the famous Lebanese-American artist, poet, and writer Kahlil Gibran said, “When you love you should not say, ‘God is in my heart,’ but rather, ‘I am in the heart of God.’”

We see this in Luke’s gospel. Jesus becomes transfigured. His disciples receive a glimpse of his divinity shining forth through his humanity. Jesus’ words reflect His commitment to persist in His ministry and His mission, knowing full well that by pressing on to Jerusalem, he would soon die. He is indeed, fearless. He is in the heart of God.

Not even two weeks into Lent, and some of us may already be discouraged in our observance. Perhaps we have already fudged or been somewhat lax in fulfilling our commitments, be they prayer or sacrifices. Isn’t this part of the larger issue of discouragement in general? We are earnest in our quest for spiritual progress. Sometimes were are successful, and sometimes we aren’t.

Frequently, we find ourselves getting stuck in a rut. That should not be the time to surrender to discouragement. If we do, it is because we have placed the focus on ourselves instead of God.

Yes, in our covenants with God, we need to keep our side of the bargain. But they are not contracts between equals. The Lord is the one who can do all things. We, on our part, have to be patient, love God and ourselves, and maintain hope.

God always keeps His promise.”

Stuart Hotchkiss
St. Michael’s Episcopal Cathedral
Boise, Idaho

Take Time for Paradise

Here follows a sermon delivered by John S. Thornton, former Episcopal Bishop of Idaho, to the congregation of St. Michael’s Cathedral (Boise, Idaho) on May 4, 2014.
It is one of fifteen sermons found in Bishop Thornton’s new book, The Backside of God.

“This is the first in a series of sermons on our Eucharistic liturgy. My task is to talk about the whole purpose of the liturgy. There will be others, on the Peace, the Offertory, the Fraction, and the Dismissal. As for the purpose of our liturgy, I’ll take a roundabout way; but we’ll get there. Bear with me.

I’ve read quite a few books on liturgy. In my opinion, the best book on liturgy isn’t on liturgy at all. It’s on baseball. The book is A. Bartlett (“Bart”) Giamatti’s Take Time for Paradise.

I have a history with Take Time for Paradise.

Sometime back in the mid-1990s, I got a call from a chaplain at the Mountain Home Air Force Base in Idaho. He asked me if I would give the benediction at their National Prayer Day Breakfast. I said, “Sure, I’d be happy to.” Then he told me that the speaker would be Tommy Lasorda, the Manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers. (He was also featured in those SlimFast® ads.) “Wow,” I said, “I’d love to hear Tommy Lasorda speak.” I got the impression that it was a sure thing. However, the chaplain added a little caveat, with a voice so smooth that it screamed uncertainty. “If for some reason ‘Tommy’—as if the two of them were on a first-name basis—couldn’t make it, would you be the speaker?” Three months away from an event, you agree to almost anything. I did. Within minutes, I was in a panic about what I had agreed to. The chaplain promised to stay in touch. The days of unease went by.

A week before the National Prayer Day Breakfast, I called the chaplain. “Is Tommy Lasorda coming?” “He plans to, though he’s having a little trouble arranging transportation.” I accepted that as a “yes.” On Monday before the National Prayer Day Breakfast, I called the chaplain again. “Is Tommy Lasorda still planning to be there?” “He says so, but he still hasn’t worked out the transportation.” What? Is it really that hard to get from Los Angeles to Mountain Home? On the Wednesday before the National Prayer Day Breakfast, I called the chaplain again. “Is Tommy Lasorda going to make it?” “He’d like to, but he wants us to send an F-16 to pick him up. We can’t do that. It looks like you’re going to be the speaker.” Oh, God.

I could just see it. An officers’ club jam-packed with Air Force personnel and their spouses and their children, every one of them excited about seeing and hearing the legendary Tommy Lasorda. And what do they get? The Episcopal Bishop of Idaho. A preacher.

It was now the Thursday before the National Prayer Day Breakfast. Jan and I were in Buhl at the time, working with the church there. We got into our car and drove as fast as the law allowed – maybe a little faster – to the Barnes & Noble in Twin Falls. I needed some books on baseball, in an attempt not to disappoint people too much.

Barnes & Noble did have some books on baseball, mostly big picture books. I needed little word books. We picked two of them, David Halberstam’s The Summer of ’49 and A. Bartlett (“Bart”) Giamatti’s Take Time for Paradise. Back to Buhl we went, Jan driving, I scanning the two books. The Summer of ’49 was too fat; so I put it aside. Take Time for Paradise was a lot skinnier; so I started to read it cover to cover. It was so beautifully written that I didn’t notice how fast – or slow – Jan was driving.

Bart Giamatti was the Commissioner of Baseball from April 1, 1989 until September 1, 1989. He died of a heart attack after only five months in office. He had been the President of Yale University, but he resigned to take the job he had always wanted. He loved baseball and he understood its philosophy, its geometry, its numerology, its strategy and tactics and its rites and ceremonies. He made baseball’s hunger for homecoming as important as Homer’s The Odyssey.

By bedtime on Thursday, I had a speech, written on the back of seven envelopes. It was either going to work or be a colossal flop and the whole Episcopal Church in the United States of America would be humiliated. We slept well, but not long. By five in the morning, we were up, showered, dressed and on our way from Buhl to the Mountain Home Air Force Base.

We got to the gate of the Base at about 07:30. I pulled into the guardhouse parking lot and hurried in. An MP noticed my collar and asked, “Are you here for the National Prayer Day Breakfast?” “I am,” I said. “Follow me, sir!” Who was I to disobey orders? He ran to his patrol car, got in, started the engine, turned on the flashing lights and careened out of the parking lot. We followed right behind him. We’d never had that kind of treatment before. We felt like the President and the First Lady. When we got to the officers’ club, the MP skidded to a stop, jumped out and shouted, “Park here, sir!” It made no difference to him that it said “No Parking.” He was making lawbreaking so much fun.

There were a lot of people milling around in the entrance of the officers’ club, but the chaplain elbowed his way through and greeted us. I said, “Could you take me to a private room so that I can look over my speech? Let me know when it’s time for breakfast.” No problem. I looked over what I had written on the backs of the envelopes, scratched off some lines, scribbled some new ones. I was getting confident and panicky at the same time. Then the chaplain came and told me that it was time for breakfast. Jan and I were seated at the head table, on the dais. I sat on the chair that Tommy Lasorda was supposed to have sat on, and I felt people’s excitement dying down. No Tommy Lasorda. A guy with his collar on backwards. And we paid for this. We ate.

I was introduced by the chaplain. There was polite applause. I said, “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not Tommy Lasorda.” They roared. To them, that was funny. I thought, I think I’m going to like this audience. “You’ve come to hear Tommy Lasorda talk about baseball; so I’m going to talk about baseball. Well, you say, you don’t know anything about baseball. What difference does that make?” I said. “People talk about things they don’t know anything about all the time. If Tommy Lasorda were here and talked about Process Theology, you’d love it.” They roared. I was having fun. They were egging me on.

First, I talked about Jackie Robinson and baseball as meritocracy. It’s not whom you know, it’s what you can do that matters. You could see “yes” on every face. The audience was full of scrambled eggs and sausage patties and hash browns and alleluias.

Then I talked about baseball as a parable. Baseball is America’s parable. It’s a universal parable. It’s about coming home again and having a reunion with those who care most about you. It’s like the ancient myth of Odysseus, who risked whatever he had to risk and suffered whatever he had to suffer to get home again.

And on and on. When it was all over, I signed Tommy Lasorda baseball cards with my own name. One woman came up and told me, “Whenever I see those SlimFast® ads, I’ll think of you.” I’ve rarely had so much fun.

In baseball, there are four bases, but the fourth base isn’t called “fourth base.” It’s called “home.” The object of baseball is to get on base and around the bases and back home again. But once you get a hit or a walk – with the exception of a “home run,” for which you get safe passage around all the bases – you’re out there all alone in a dangerous world. Everybody out there is out there to make sure you’ll never get home again. They can make it “swift and savage.” If you take too long a lead off first, the pitcher can pick you off. If you try to steal second, the catcher can throw you out. If you take too big a lead off second and head for third, you can get trapped between the second and third basemen and get tagged out ingloriously. If a fielder has the “arm,” he can throw you out at second or third or home. Everybody out there is practiced and primed to make you fail. But when you do get home again, there’s a combustion of glee and a compaction of boyish physicality, high-fiving and back-slapping and hugs. The “family” is together again!

Even if you don’t play baseball or never have, that’s your story. The world isn’t always a safe place. It can be dangerous and often is. But the mature and healthy person doesn’t slink from it, loves the challenges, takes the risks, wins some, loses some. Nonetheless, we all get weary and need to go home again. “Ye, who are weary, come home.”

All the elements of our Eucharistic liturgy combine to make our worship an experience of coming home again. Here there is the sense of safety and security. Here there is “the freedom from wariness.” Here there is the coloration and “aroma of inclusiveness.” Here there is the atmosphere of absolution and embracement. Here there is the affirmation of individuality and autonomy. Here there is the celebration of the giftedness and goodness of each person. Here there is the pulsating and palpable presence of the mystical Christ. Here is “home,” a state of belonging to all whose hearts are in the heart of Christ. That’s where we are, home again, as we kneel and eat the sacred bread and drink the sacred wine. That’s how we ‘take time for paradise.’”

The Backside of God, written by +John S. Thornton and edited by Stuart Hotchkiss, is now available for sale in paperback (132 pp.) on Amazon.

Did You See Him in the ’60s?

Bishop John Thornton is a great homilist and sermonist. Those of us who have heard and/or read any of his sermons can attest to that. In fact, it is because of us that he began, in 2014, to publish his collections.

His latest volume, Good Seed and Zizania, contains not just sermons but other great writings as well. As he was digging through old boxes to create this work, he came across a poem that was published in Episcopal Life, the National Church’s monthly publication years ago. It’s titled “Did you see Him in the 60’s?” It’s passionate and, typically, sassy. The publication date had to be sometime at the end of the ’60s or in the early ’70s.

For me, it is the essence of the history of that time, that troubling, yet freeing decade that transformed a generation and a nation. As the bishop opened his complimentary author’s copy, I asked him to read it outloud, once gain, to me. It gets better each time. In all of his writings — including this poem — Bishop Thornton doesn’t waver from what is important and what he believes. His perspective on the ’60s is every bit the John Thornton you may know or may want to know and, certainly, his unique way of looking at our world.

With his kind permission, I am able to share it with you.


Did You See Him in the ’60s?

The creeds of Man are

Penciled on restroom walls,

Chalked on sidewalks,

Painted on traffic signs,

Jack-knifed into theater seats,

Pinned on lapels,

Glued to rear bumpers.

Sometimes, they are a lamentation;

Sometimes, an exultation;

Always, a declaration:

Here I stand.

One of the best of the ’60s is

“God isn’t dead –

He just doesn’t want to get involved.”

That says so much about

Man’s faith

And lack of it.

The faithless believer – of whom there are many – might say,


I believe in God,

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, too,

The whole thing –

But what difference does it make?

The difference is between

Seeing and not seeing,

Hearing and not hearing,

Being alive and wishing you were dead.

Assent to the ancient formulation,

Three in one,

One in three,

May help in getting through liturgies,

But not in getting through life;

And life is what there is to get through –

And get with!


[I, myself,

Or, if I were you] –

I would not ask,

Do you believe in God?

Everybody does;

Nobody wants to be unpatriotic.

What I want to know is this:

Did you see Him,

Did you hear Him,

Did you, at the very least, read about Him,

As He was creating worlds ex nihilo

And electing

And blessing

And disciplining

And cursing

And incarnating Himself in human form

In the ’60s?

Did you?

If you did not,

You just missed one whole decade of

The Mysterium Tremendum’s extravaganza

Called “History.”

He was involved in all that,


And remaking

And unmaking to make all over again

A world He loves

With a love young lovers would be embarrassed by.

Perhaps His providence was too obvious – and too good to be true;

Perhaps it was hidden in the supposed insignificance of everyday things.



Now the ’60s are gone,

Ten years,

One hundred and twenty months,

Three thousand six hundred and fifty-three days

Of good and evil

Chronicled in chronicles

Ten cents each, twenty-five cents on Sunday.

Headlines and fillers too,

Announcing what we did


And for

And to

Each other anno Domini.

Because of what we did to each other,

We have learned a little more about

The history and geography of folly and vengeance:



East Berlin…






My Lai…

Dallas, Memphis, and Los Angeles…


Dugway Proving Grounds…


White Sands Missile Range…

Santa Barbara…

Et al.

The “et al.” is important –

It probably includes our hometowns.

Since AP and UPI did not,

We did not notice much wrong, either;

Though much wrong there must have been.

I doubt that the human race completed the lexicon of horrors,

To which St. Paul gave the title “Principalities and Powers of Darkness;”

But we gave some new meanings to some old words,








In a moment of calculated [and calculating] penitence,

We could wish for the publication of

An expurgated and abridged record of our deeds in the 60’s.

Perhaps our children’s children need never know

What destructiveness their grandparents were capable of.

We might look good

Even though we were not.

Kyrie eleison!

Write that on the blackboard of your mind

Three thousand six hundred and fifty-three times.




Someone waved and shouted for recognition.

Now I know that God is,

As I know that the Sun shall rise,

An uncanny and inexpressible knowing;

Though He still eludes and defies me

[And, I suppose, you, too].

I have said, jesting,

This much I am quite sure of:

God loves surprises,

God hates pastels,

And Styrofoam is the invention of God’s adversary, the Devil.

In the fourth decade of my life,

I learned one more thing:

God goes through history

As if it were a masquerade party.

He puts on costumes and faces

And makes us guess who He is.

Was that Albert Schweitzer

Or the Spiritus Creator in disguise?

Was that Martin Buber?

U Thant?

Paul Tillich?

Malcolm X?

Rachel Carson?

Martin Luther King?

Alexander Dubček?

Pope John XXIII?

Kenneth Skelton?

Jim Ryan?

John Kennedy?

Art Hoppe?

Neil Armstrong?

Kilmer Myers?

Godfrey Canbridge?

Fred Shepler?

And millons of unheralded others,

From den mothers to criminal lawyers,

Or the Spiritus Creator in disguise?

Al last,

At long last,

I think I have guessed His identity.

When you reflect and reminisce about

The madness and miracle-working of the ’60s,

Do not forget what God and Man, cooperating, did:

The Pill,

The Czechoslavakian resistance,

The human heart transplants,

The 3:51.1 mile,

Pacem in Terris,

The laser,

The German measles vaccine,

The Moon landings,

Silent Spring,

The DNA molecule’s decoding,

The Peace Movement,

Boston City Hall,


The War Requiem,

Project Head Start,

And Lyndon Johnson’s resignation.

It was quite a decade!

After we have done our penance,

Perhaps we should rejoice.

Ave Maria!

And Joseph, too!

The spirit of your son

Accomplished some mighty wonders in the ’60s.

Copyright © 2016 +John S. Thornton


A Letter to Hillary

Dear Hillary,

You don’t know me and I don’t know you.

But last night, you did something so extraordinary in the history of our country that I want to reach out and congratulate you.


You have also removed any reservations or ambivalence I may have shown in the past about voting for you this November. You are the best choice—the only choice— for President of these United States. Period.

I have called you names in the past and cited many of your flaws. To your credit, you’ve never said a thing about me or my worts or my stumbles in life. I was a Bernie supporter in the primary, but the primary is over, and you won the nomination. You appear to be working with Bernie to unify the party and include the voice of his supporters in your moving-forward agenda. Thank you. I feel like you are listening to me. I feel included.

You have only one opponent in this race. True, there may be other names on ballots in some states, but this is not going to be another 1992 when Ross Perot captured almost 20 million votes in the general election. This is 2016, and like it or not, the United States is a two-party country. Any votes cast for a member of a third or fourth party are nothing more than a constitutional right.

Your opponent, Donal Trump, has hijacked the Republican Party. He is the party and he is beyond any decent description of a human being. My late mother, a southern lady, would have described him as “common.” Mother and son do agree on something, after all. We argued about so much, so often.

On the surface, it would appear that you and Tim Kaine should win the election in a landslide. Any of us who were raised to be decent and caring souls would dismiss the Trump/Pence ticket as some sort of late night parody of “Jackass: The Movie.” (True confession: I did like the hardware store toilet skit.) But the Republican primary taught us a valuable lesson: people who are mad and feel disenfranchised will do anything to reverse the status quo. These people see you as stale and controlled by big money and another helping of Obama stew. They are willing to throw away decades of progress and revert to what Trump has promised as the good ol’ days.

It’s reminding me of the agony experienced by Jimmy Stewart’s character in the movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Clarence the angel made it possible for George Bailey to go back in time and realize that he had a better life in the present than he did in the past. No harm done in a movie. Trump, however, would really take us back in time, permanently, and try to “imprison” us in one way or another. Probably in ways that would isolate the United States from the rest of the world. In the real nuclear age of 2016, it might just be the final, unwritten chapter of “The Butter Battle Book” by Dr. Seuss.

So, forgive me for taking so long to see the light. Forgive me for my earlier rants about your past. Please allow me to praise you for joining the ranks of some pretty incredible “first-feat” women and encourage you to keep fighting for us. You are going to win this election. Sooner or later, we are all going to get it.


Stuart Hotchkiss

Stuart Hotchkiss has never been a member of a major political party. His presidential voting record has been Carter (1976), Anderson (1980), Reagan (1984), Bush 41 (1988), Clinton (1992), Clinton (1996), Bush 43 (2000), Bush 43 (2004), Obama (2008) and Obama (2012). And a solid Hillary in 2016!



Will you, Lisa, marry me, again?

Dear Lisa, this time exactly one year ago today, I listened to your consent to marry me at St. Michael’s Episcopal Cathedral in Boise, Idaho. The service was sacred, the reception quite festive, the gifts and cards quite bountiful. We, the bride and groom, “were in love,” and we’d beaten the usual stress that accompanies such life changing events with aplomb.

Thrice and twice down the aisle — that’s five trips in total — we had made promises to others that just simply couldn’t be kept. Yes, we’d grown cyclical about falling in love again. We’d resorted to Al Gore’s world wide web to find each other. Suddenly (well it seems like suddenly now, doesn’t it?), we oldies had just entered into a new union with the odds of success better than a nag winning at Churchill Downs. We had no prenup. We based our decision to get married on the one thing that money can’t buy: a shared and strong belief in the fact that we needed one another.

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Bishop John Thornton delivered a homily that made even your dad cry. As you remember, it opened like this:

“Stuart, Lisa isn’t the only woman in the world. And yet she is the only woman in the world which, by love and for love, you and she have created.

This can be your Eden of renewal and gratefulness and wonder and delight and an unfathomable peace. Tend it.”

We have tended it, and +John reminds us every time we see him to continue doing so. We’ve made ourselves the priority, in daily life, in our recent travels, and in planning our future. It’s a bright future, wherever that may be, and I so look forward to the journey.

When I first proposed to you, I asked two questions. The first was, “Will you marry me?” And the second, “Will you marry me for fifty years?” You said “yes” to both questions.

Not that I have a mark-down-the-time calendar or anything, but don’t think for a minute that I can’t see the year 2065 from here.

I also told you before our wedding day that I would never hold your feet to the fire if I didn’t make you feel completely happy. In fact, I suggested we discuss ever year the strengths and weaknesses of our marriage and, as corny as it sounds, give each other a performance review and re-up, as some might say.

Well, I now admit that was a corny idea. You’ve loved me exactly the way I had hoped you would, exactly the way I want to be loved and exactly the way +John counseled us.

So will you, Lisa, marry me, again?