This is in a sense on drugs, the philosophies of men angled with humans. We are the gold. Smack, Smack, Smack,

Down!

Smack! Once upon a time, there was a testimony.

Now this wasn't just any ordinary testimony.

This testimony was a special testimony, a masculine manly testimony with just the right amount of chest hair the kind of testimony that could calm down a spooked

Clydesdale with just a glance or retile your bathroom with a mosaic of an Arnold

Freiburg painting or beat up Chuck Norris's testimony on the surface of Mars.

However, this testimony wasn't just strong, it was also sensitive.

This testimony never missed a chance to bear itself at passers-by, and it could tear up at the

mere mention of the Garden of Ghesemais or those 3,000 poor widows President Thomas and Sponson cared for in his time as a 15-year-old

Bishop, and it could maintain a Henry B hiring on the verge of crying but somehow still able to testify of the importance of home teaching style voice for hours on end.

This testimony had been hammered and homed, blind and mended, electrified and elevated.

Heck, this testimony had gone through a mission and as such had survived dozens of assaults

from evangelicals and atheists and everything in between.

And like a rough stone rolling forth,

yay, even as if it were cut out of the mountain without hands,

it emerged only sleeker and more powerful

from each instance.

The secret of its success was constant vigilance.

Between church callings, temple trips, family prayer, family home evening,

family scripture,

study personal prayer, personal scripture,

...