A New Friendship Blossoms

Eleanora shows me her bunny

I usually decline friendship requests on Facebook from people I don’t know.  At the very least, I look for friends that we have in common before accepting their friendship.  But Eleanora’s picture sort of captured me.  I went to her page and saw that she lives in Milan.  I thought that she might be friends with a friend that is not on Facebook, and maybe that person had talked about me.  So I accepted her friendship request.

About a week later, Eleanora had a birthday, so I sent her birthday greetings, as I try to do with all my Facebook friends.  She responded, “Grazie, sorella sconosciuta!” (Thanks, unknown sister).  Aha!  So we really don’t have any friends in common (at least not as far as either of us knows).  This exchange initiated a chat in which we discovered that we live close to each other—walking distance—so we decided that we should meet.

The day of the meeting, I found myself halfway across town without my phone when I remembered our appointment.  So I hurried home, grabbed my phone, and called Eleanora to let her know that I was on my way.  Even though she lives walking distance from my house, I was already half an hour late, and the bus would get me there faster than walking.  So I went to the bus stop.  The sign said that the bus would be there in 9 minutes.  I looked around and saw a pastry shop, so I popped in and bought Eleanora a little pastry.  The baker wrapped it in a lovely little gold-lined box that for me was worth the price of the pastry.  I had just enough time to get back to the bus stop and hop on the bus.


Eleanora has a youthful appearance that belies her true age (almost the age of my mother).  On her shelf I saw a picture of a young Julie Andrews, and I commented on it because I have a friend who met Julie Andrews.  She quickly corrected me: “No, that’s me.  All those pictures are me, even the one that looks like a man.  There I was playing the part of Stendhal.”  Eleanora had been a stage actress and a painter.  She’s a very creative and talented person.  She had acted mostly in Rome under Zeffirelli before coming home to Milan.

Here in Milan she has acted at the Piccolo Theater, which is the most important theater venue in town[1].

Her glorious past aside, Eleanora became a follower of Jesus Christ.  I already knew that much from checking out her Facebook page before accepting her friendship request.  She had been raised Catholic, and hadn’t cared much for the church.  But when she had an encounter with real born-again Christians, she went to church with them and met the Living Savior.  She said that many of the things I post on Facebook encourage her.  Well, that shouldn’t be a surprise, since encouragements is my main spiritual gifting[2].

Since those days she has battled some of the health issues that seem to plague us with age.  The constant aches and pains had left her feeling discouraged.  She showed me a painting that she was working on.  She said that she hadn’t touched it in years.  Even unfinished, I could see how beautiful it was.  I really wanted to see it finished, but didn’t feel that I should say so on our very first meeting.  I will tell her the next time I see her.  I suspect that painting again could really lift her spirits.

As I left her house, I marveled that a chance meeting on Facebook had led me to become acquainted with a truly remarkable and precious sister in Christ.  But then we know that in God there really are no chance meetings.  This was a God set-up from beginning to end.  God is good!

[1] There is La Scala, but it is almost exclusively opera and ballet.

[2] It’s not that I’m so encouraging, it’s just that I’m plugged into The Great Encourager.  I can’t claim any credit because without the Holy Spirit’s supernatural gifting, I would be terrible at encouraging.

Today’s the Day!

fishing gun

27 September 2016

Today we go to pick up the team at the airport—yes we!—Deborah is going with me.  She will film their arrival and get to know them on the train ride back home.

I am so amazed at how this has all come together.  That could only be God’s doing!  Just a month ago, I still only had a few ideas—certainly not enough things to keep us busy for a whole week.

On the train ride from the airport, I told them all the strange story of the house:

I was just waking up one morning a couple of years ago, and I could practically feel God’s breath on my ear.  He whispered: “Isaiah 5:9.”

I had no idea what Isaiah 5:9 said, so I got out of bed and went straight to my Bible.

In my hearing the Lord of hosts said, “Truly, many houses shall be desolate, Great and beautiful ones, without inhabitant,” (emphasis mine).

There is a house on the other side of the park from me that had been occupied by anarchist squatters.  A few months prior to that day, they had been evicted in a massive police action that blocked all the streets around the house.  The day that God whispered in my ear, I learned that the house was going to be sold at auction—interesting timing, right?

I told a couple of ministries about the house, but they gave up on it when they learned that ALER (the government agency in charge of housing for poor and low-income families), which owned the house, wasn’t going to sell just that one house, but 6 or 8 houses comprising much of the block.  All the houses were to be sold as a unit.  The first time there were no takers at the auction, and the houses were withdrawn.  The second time there also were no takers.  Then the third time, the houses were sold.  But the sale, they had continued to stand, empty and abandoned for another two years.

Meanwhile I had seen a squatter hop over the wall of the back yard right in front of me one morning, startling me.  He went to wash himself in the fountain of the park across the street.  Every time I passed that house, I continued to see squatters camping out on the front porch.

I had continued to think that the house was meant for a ministry here in Milan.  Then just a week ago, the Holy Spirit pointed out that it was my ear that He had whispered into, and not anyone else’s.  So I started a Jericho march: seven times around the block for seven days.

They listened fascinated, even while tired from the overnight flight.  Deborah suggested that we do another march around the block as a team, which we all thought was a wonderful idea.  So we dropped their bags at my apartment and rested up a bit.  Ketty, a prayer friend, came with us and we went to the house.  We did the march together, but not so much “together.”

When we finished, we went for a gelato (ice cream), and I pointed out the offices of ALER, right across the street from where we had been marching.  Ketty pointed out the meaning of some of the graffiti we had seen, which I didn’t know: ACAB.  She said that it has a double meaning.  Besides being the Italian name of Israel’s most evil king, Ahab, it is also an anagram for Anarchists Against (I don’t remember what, probably everything—they’re anarchists, right?).  So we prayed and bound that anarchist spirit, forcing it to leave the block.

Deborah also had a surprise for us: while filming, she held the camera over the porch area where I saw the peeing spirit (see Boring Business).  The camera showed someone sleeping on a mattress there.  One teammate said that he had seen something pop up from the porch, and it left the house.  Squatter or spirit, it’s good that he saw it leave, and consistent with my observations that every time I pass the house, the squatters leave.

[As I write this now, months later, I can tell you that the anarchists didn’t leave immediately or happily.  They continued squatting on the property until the end of February (2017), when they were driven out in another massive police action (see The Neighborhood Anarchists.  See also Timing too Perfect, and the following posts about my Jericho March around the house).  The Italian newspaper had a story about the police action, which has since been pulled and “sanitized.”  Now the anarchist group is referred to in the media as a “centro sociale,” which in Italian means a community organization.  If you doubt their anarchist leanings, then check out the picture of the gun they had dangling outside of the house.  How did they clean up their image so quickly after the police action (and subsequent taking over of another abandoned building)?  A local told me that the son of the former mayor had “gotten permission” from daddy for his group to squat in the house.  I wouldn’t be at all surprised if daddy wasn’t also involved in cleaning up their image.]

Later, after a rest, I took the team to the park where the angels had serenaded a prayer team from the US, and told them the story:

Some members of the group had brought a few items from the US to bury in the soil of Italy as a prophetic act of prayer.  We found a hole that had already been dug into the hard soil.  The items were placed in the hole and covered over as we prayed.

Then they asked me to anoint and pray over each of them.  I did, and received words of prophecy for each, which they later told me were exactly perfect.  I don’t remember what I said, but that’s what the gift of prophecy is like: since it wasn’t born in the brain, it doesn’t tend to stick there.

As we finished up and prepared to return home, we heard music overhead.  On a fifth floor balcony of the building closest to where we were standing, we saw two young guys.  One had a trumpet and the other a flute.  They played a brief song, and we applauded wildly, crying, “Bis!  Bis!”  Which means Encore!  Encore!  They waved at us, and played again.  Then a couple of cars entering the roundabout added a couple of honks.  But the strange thing is that the car horns did not sound at all like car horns—they sounded musical.  I got that familiar goosebumpy feeling when God has done something supernatural for you.  We looked up again, but they were gone.  I said, “I think those guys were really angels.  Also the ones in the cars.”  Everyone agreed that it was certainly possible.

As much as they enjoyed being there and seeing the angels’ balcony, they were tired.  So I took them back home where we had a pizza dinner and an early bedtime.  This will be a week full of adventures, and who knows?  Maybe more angel visitations.  God is good!

Breaking the Cone of Silence

The Cone of Silence

Cone of Silence

OK, I know that clip from Get Smart (1960) dates me.  But keep reading because God gave me a vision about a cone of silence.

Jasmine is a petite, dark-eyed ex-Muslim, originally from North Africa.  Three years ago, her family moved to southern Italy, to her mother’s hometown.  That is where she became friends with a Christian girl who brought her to church and eventually led her to Jesus when she was nineteen.  Her mother, an Italian former Catholic, had her suspicions about Jasmine, but remained silent.

There was a Christian song that Jasmine loved.  She listened to it over and over, drawing strength and comfort from it.  One day she fell asleep listening to the song.  Her brother heard it and told their father.  First her father raged at her, then he tried to kill her.  She ran to the police station and filed a report against him.  The police did nothing.

Murder is against the law in Italy, but in the south there is a long history of honor killings that predates the influx of Muslims from the shores of North Africa.  Mostly that has to do with men being cuckolded or just jealous, whether their wives were unfaithful or not.  The laws had long been on the side of the men doing the killings, rather than protecting the women.  It is possible that in her city this was still considered a “family dispute,” and therefore the police were reluctant to interfere while it was only a threat.

Jasmine’s brother also tried to kill her.  She filed a report against him, too.  Again the police did nothing.  When her brother tried to kill her a second time, Jasmine stood her ground and faced him, though he stood head and shoulders taller than her.  She said, “If you’re going to kill me, just go ahead and kill me.  I’m already dead.”  To her amazement he dropped the knife and walked out of the room muttering curses.

Her father then told Jasmine that she is no longer his daughter and threw her out of the house with only the clothes on her back.  Her pastor got her into a local safe house, then helped her to find sponsors in northern Italy.

For the past three years, Jasmine has lived in a small town in rural Lombardy[1].  There she met her boyfriend, Sammy.  Sammy is also from North Africa, though a different country.  He owns a pizza parlor in my neighborhood here in Milan—one that I have used many times because it is owned by a Christian.  Her boyfriend told her that she can come to Milan to find work, staying in his pizzeria until she has saved enough money to get her own apartment.

Since work is very hard to find in the rural areas, Jasmine jumped at the chance.  She found work right away at a hotel near the pizzeria, but feels even more isolated in the big city than she did in her small town of refuge.  Besides Sammy and colleagues at work, she didn’t know anybody here.  Sammy took her to his church once, but since he works on Sunday, he hasn’t taken her again.  Jasmine can’t go by herself because she doesn’t know her way around town.

In a meeting that only God, Himself, could set up, I met Jasmine a few days ago.  She asked me to take her to MiHOP, the Milan House of Prayer.  One Friday each month they have a night of prayer for Israel.  Jasmine had heard about it and wanted to go, but doesn’t know how to get there.  We agreed to meet early Friday afternoon when she got off work.  I went to the pizzeria and brought her to my house where we could talk.

Jasmine told me her story about coming to faith and the murderous attempts by her father and brother.  It came out in short bursts, followed by long silences.  Often she looked like a little girl as she told her story of hatred and hardship.  Due to my history of abuse, I have often found safety in silence, so we passed many minutes together in silence.

The voices in the kitchen reminded me that I had missionaries using my house as a place to meet for lunch.  They were just finishing their meal, so I took Jasmine to meet them.  These were some of my friends from Missione REM, who have the buses.  She told them her story, and they invited her to come see the bus.  She eagerly accepted, leaving with them a few minutes later.  I told her that I would come pick her up later to go to MiHOP.

When I arrived at the bus, my friends pointed her out where she was standing on the sidewalk, speaking earnestly with a young Arab man in Arabic.  Donna di fuoco (fiery woman) they called her.  It was obvious that she had lost her timidity and found her passion there at the bus.  When I told her that it was time to go, she wrapped things up with the man, asking if she could pray for him.  He said that she could pray for him, but that he wasn’t going to pray to her God (he was Muslim).

The next day Jasmine sent me a message, asking if I would come meet with her.  I went to the pizzeria and brought her back to my house.  She said that she wanted prayer for Sammy.  She wanted to know if God intended them to be together.

I pointed out that the fact that she has doubts could be an indicator.  But I asked for more details.  She said that at their first meeting, Sammy had been sweet and attentive, and that on the phone he’s very sweet and attentive.  But in person he was like another person: he would clam-up, busy himself, or laugh and talk with his employees like she wasn’t even in the room.  She said she has hardly gotten two words out of him in the last week.  I said that it’s likely only to get worse after marriage.  She agreed.

So we prayed.  While praying I saw a vision of a thick glass dome being lowered over Jasmine.  I asked the Lord what it means.  He said that when they tried to kill her, her father and brother put Jasmine under a cone of silence.  They had tried to silence her permanently, and in part they succeeded in silencing her voice.  Now I understood why Jasmine and I had passed so many minutes in silence.  She sort of carries this silence wherever she goes.  I prayed for a holy glass hammer to break the cone of silence, but the Lord stopped me and said that Jasmine is the only one who can break it.  Then I got another vision of Jasmine opening her mouth and singing a loud, glass-shattering note.  As I began to tell Jasmine about the two visions, the Holy Spirit gave one more instruction: Jasmine can break the cone of silence by speaking up to Sammy about how she feels.  It’s the only way to break it.

I know that Jasmine is capable of speaking her mind.  I saw it by the bus with the Arab man.  I am still waiting to hear follow-up news, but make-up or break-up, it’s got to be better than what she’s been going though.  God is good!

[1] The region Milan is in.

The Dream Team is Coming!


23 September 2016

I had a dream about the Asheville missions team: We were walking and there was somewhere that was closed-off so we couldn’t go in.  I don’t remember how, but we were eventually able to get around the blocked opening and go in.

[When I journaled this last fall I wrote about this dream on a page that was printed in my journal with:

Never stop exploring

Enjoy every moment

I took it as a message from God, saying: never give up!]

I got some wonderful news today: Deborah[1] is going to join us as videographer.  I am so excited about this because she is insanely talented and has the sharpest wit of just about anyone I know.  At the same time, she’s not above cracking corny jokes and puns.  I laugh at it all, and Deborah keeps me in stitches.

Deborah called me the other morning and told me that she’d had a job lined up with a ministry in southern Italy, so she had given notice on her apartment and packed up her things.  Just before she was supposed to arrive there, they told her that they had decided to go in another direction.  Her apartment had already been rented to someone else, so she had nowhere to turn, but to me.  That was when she called me to ask if she could stay here until she finds another apartment and another job.

This is what I love about my ministry because often something that looks like a disaster at first glance turns out to be an opportunity.  In fact, I told Deborah that I need somebody I can trust to look after the apartment while I’m in the US (usually about three months).  Being that she’s already here, she seems like the perfect candidate.  She was very happy for the opportunity, since she has lots of friends here in Milan, having lived here for several years, starting in 2002 when we first met.


Deborah had brought me a couple of Italian flags, and suggested them as keepsakes for the team to sign and put up: one here and one in the church building in Asheville.  Brilliant idea!  You can tell that she’s a creative type.  This is going to be great!  God is good!

[1] Normally, I change all the names of people in my blog and in my books.  But since Deborah is a public figure here in Italy (at least within the Christian community), I have not changed her name.

The Last Round is on the House!


20 September 2016

Today I woke up early and my digital clock said: 3:33.  I prayed and fell asleep again.  I woke again, a bit later than usual, and the clock said 5:55.  So I got started about half an hour later than usual.  Today’s march seemed lighter in every way: literally more light, being at dawn, rather than before, and therefore less scary, but also less heavy, less feeling of opposition, less vulnerable feeling because there were more people out, and in my heart, more joy because the job is done.

As I left home this morning, the Lord had me re-read the key verse for this house:

In my hearing the Lord of hosts said, “Truly, many houses shall be desolate, Great and beautiful ones, without inhabitant, (Isaiah 5:9 NKJV).

As is my habit on most days, I grabbed a few io-ti[1] cards to leave in strategic places.  I hadn’t been taking the cards before this for this particular task, knowing that I would be returning home before going anywhere else.  Prayer walking has a different focus from evangelistic walking.

When I finished the march, I went to the little park across the street from the house.  There, facing the house, I read the verse aloud and then crossed the street to place the io-ti card on the porch at the spot where the evil spirit had peed—trying to frighten me (see Boring Business?).  The card I placed there was Io ti conosco—I know you.

Then like Miriam after crossing the Red Sea, an original song came bubbling up out of my spirit.  It went:

The march is done

The race is run

Victory’s sure

The battle’s won.

Praise God!!!

OK, I know I’m no Steven Curtis Chapman, but it was full of spontaneous joy and I sang it over and over again.

And now?  Well, the missions team from my home church in Asheville will be here in a week.  There is plenty to do to get ready for them.  I hadn’t thought about it seven days ago when I started all this, but it’s seven days now until they arrive.  Nice prophetic symmetry.  God is good!

[1] We call these io-ti cards because they all start with the words Io ti . . . and they’re signed God.  The cards have various phrases: Io ti perdono, I forgive you.  Io ti capisco, I understand you.  Io ti conosco, I know you.  Io ti amo, I love you.  Io ti ascolto, I am listening to you.  Io ti cerco, I am looking for you.  On the back is an explanation of how God really loves the reader, and is interested in his or her life.  There is also a website where the person can explore further.

Blessing the Block

The house on the day the anarchists were evicted and the gun they had dangling from a fishing pole just days before the eviction

19 September 2016

Today the Lord had me bless the block: the residents, the businesses, the new owners of the block of houses, and to pray for the salvation of each person and all their family members.  This was a very pleasant and easy task, and I sang aloud (aloud, but not loud).  Even when a woman peered out of her door, I continued to sing.

[And today as I am writing this post (months later), I discovered a story in the news last week about the anarchist group (it is in Italian, however): Anarchist Group.  Since the first time they were evicted from the house (in September 2014, see The Neighborhood Anarchists), they had never completely left the property.]

Tomorrow is the last day of the Jericho March.  Who knows what God has in store?  But since that predawn encounter with the evil spirit (fallen angel, whatever it was, see Boring Business?), things have been so much easier, lighter, freer.

Blessed are all who fear the Lord, who walk in obedience to Him.  You will eat the fruit of your labor; blessings and prosperity will be yours, (Psalm 128:1-2, NIV, emphasis mine).

Yes, I am blessed indeed!  Hallelujah!  God is good!

Bringing God’s Presence

IMG_20161007_104026 (1).jpg

Elevator selfie, on my way to take God’s Presence to Zurich last fall

18 September 2016

Yesterday was the March for Jesus, and it was a huge success—emphasis on the word huge.  There was such a huge crowd of marchers that we almost filled Piazza Duomo, the big central piazza of Milan.  Instead of being engulfed by the crowd, we engulfed them.  The March (in Italian: Marcia per Gesù) was noisy fun.  I went with friends who were staying with me.  Since my guests were unaffiliated with any church in Milan, we marched with my church.  They gave us lots of evangelistic material to pass out to the crowd, but many people already had a handful of fliers and tracts from marchers ahead of us.  My church is particularly fun to march with because the youth are almost all trained in clowning, juggling, fire-spitting, and other circus-type acts.  Others dance and do flagging.  One brave guy marched on stilts.  Every so often the march would stop and entertain the watching crowd with a song or a circus act.  As we marched, we sang the chorus to a lively song by our music pastor:

O-lay[1]!  O-lay, o-lay, o-lay!

Gesù!  Gesù!

O-lay!  O-lay, o-lay, o-lay!

Gesù!  Gesù!

Or chanted:

Noi abbiamo Gesù nel cuore!

(clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)

Noi abbiamo Gesù nel cuore!

(clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)

Here’s a video someone posted on You Tube: 2016 March for Jesus[2].  Good fun!

Starting today (day five) things in the Jericho March were all quiet.  The anarchist group had their second and final fundraising party last night.  I prayed for the fundraiser to fail, and without even checking (how would I check?), I know that my prayer was heard.  How do I know?  Because for the first time the march seemed more like a session of morning exercise than prayer walking and spiritual battle.

Sometimes God tells me: “It’s enough that you’re here.”  Since I carry the presence of the Holy Spirit inside of me, I am bringing Him.  I brought Him to the March for Jesus (as did a whole lot of others), and I am daily bringing Him to this part of my neighborhood, and I will continue to do so until the job is finished and He takes me home.

Only two more days to go on the Jericho March.  God is good!

[1] O-lay has no meaning in Italian, it’s just a song word like fa-la-la.

[2] My church are the ones in yellow t-shirts.  If you want to spot me I’m at the left, shaking hands with a guy in a red shirt at 11:43.

God’s Gift to a Missionary Grandmother


Dahlia (in her father’s lap) getting a trim.  (We don’t say c-u-t because it scared her.)  With two of her own, this professional has had lots of practice cutting hair on a moving target.  Dahlia was fast, but the beautician was faster.

And everyone who has given up houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children [or grandchildren] or property, for my sake, will receive a hundred times as much in return and will inherit eternal life, (Matthew 19:29, emphasis and addition mine).

Every year it is the hardest thing I do: leaving behind my family, especially my grandchildren.  But every year, God gives me a special gift through those grandchildren.  For example:

  • The first time I went to see my first grandchild, Orion, he was two months old. He laughed out loud for the very first time while playing with me.  God knew that I would love that particular milestone.
  • A year later, his parents and I were playing with Orion. My son said, “Say da-da!”  Orion responded: “Da-da!”  His mother said, “Say ma-ma!”  Orion responded: “Ma-ma!”  Then both of them said, “Say gramma!”  Orion looked at me and said: “Gramma!”  It was the first time he said that name, and he said it to me!  It absolutely melted my heart.
  • The next year my daughter-in-law pointed the camera at me, with Orion next to me. She said, “Smile!”  Orion grabbed my hand, turned, and smiled for the picture.
  • That same day, I noticed something different about my daughter-in-law. I asked her if she had news for us.  She smiled and turned away.  About a month later, they made their announcement that they were expecting their second child.  But I had been the first to know.
  • On my next visit, I made my annual trip to Texas to visit churches, prayer partners, and family. I spent my last night there with my cousin.  He invited me to stay another night, but I answered that I had a grandchild due soon, and needed to return to North Carolina.  That day I drove as far as I could, but finally had to stop for the night.  The next day, as I was crossing the border from Tennessee into North Carolina, my phone started dinging and dinging with notifications.  It makes the same tone for text messages that it does when entering a Wi-Fi zone.  Since that border is a high mountain pass, Wi-fi seemed unlikely, and since I was driving, I couldn’t look to see what it was.  When I got to Asheville, I looked at my phone and the first message I saw was a picture of a newborn baby.  When I scrolled through the other messages, there were more pictures, and a message saying that my granddaughter had been born: Dahlia Luna.  She was the first girl born on either side of the family since my own birth in 1955.
  • Last year, little Dahlia took her first steps on Christmas day as I watched: thirteen steps!
  • I often have wondered if my grandchildren might forget who I am, given that I am gone most of the year. But that question was answered this year.  When I arrived to visit, Dahlia came over and sat beside me.  She looked up at me and said, “You’re my friend!”
  • I have also wondered about my grandchildren’s spirits, given that their parents are not Christians. After their bath, Orion turned on the radio in their room.  Dahlia, wrapped in a hoodie towel wiggled free from her mother’s embrace and began to dance.  The radio was playing a Christian song.  Dahlia danced and whirled, swinging her arms and swaying through the whole song[1].  Later, as I was thanking the Lord for that moment, He assured me that while I attend to His business in Europe, He is attending to my family members.  I feel certain that their parents and other family members will also eventually come along.  After all, nobody knows a person’s heart better than the Lord does.  And He knows how to set things up in the very best way to bring them to that moment of decision to full advantage for making the right decision at the right time—after all, He did it for me.
  • Two years ago I gave Orion a placemat that is a laminated map of Europe. This year he began to be interested in all the different places that I have been.  So my son handed him a dry-erase marker and we marked all the places I had been.  Then he colored in the whole boot of Italy because it’s where I live.  He said that he wants to come visit me in Italy.

In addition to these precious times with my grandchildren, I have countless others, the children of missionaries, who have adopted me as their grandma.  Last year I wrote about being dubbed Grandma Brownies (see My Grandmother Anointing and Grandma Brownies Rides Again!).


Let me interpret this for you (I understood it!): I (am) shining (for) my sister.  I am hugging my sister.  Sweetness!!!  And at the top of the picture, under Orion’s drawing, you can see the placemat of Europe

People sometimes assume that I am lonely because I mostly travel alone.  Are you kidding?  There is too much to do and lots of grandchildren all around to love.  Who has time to get lonely?  God is good!

[1] It was a beautiful moment of joyful innocence that I couldn’t capture on video because the world is so crazy that carrying around a video of a naked two-year-old dancing in my phone would be seen in a bad way.