A woman’s voice, whether in song or in counsel, holds the power to command, to heal, to inspire. Her words are spun of gold, her silence a symphony in itself. She is the muse of artists, the guardian of nations, the architect of hope. In her hands is the power to nurture kings, to elevate the common into the extraordinary, to breathe life where despair once reigned.

And what is man, if not a worshipper at God's altar, streaming gratitude for the gift of her existence? What is he, if not a mere wanderer, made whole through Christ in the light of her smile? A man may wield kingdoms, may forge empires, may seek to conquer the stars themselves, yet he remains but a lost traveler unless guided by the brilliance of our Father through a woman’s love.

Ah, woman—divine, resplendent, inexhaustibly glorious! If I had a thousand lifetimes, I should spend each one in ceaseless praise of her. If I had a thousand tongues, I should employ them all in the articulation of her wonders. For nothing in all of existence—neither the stars in their grandest procession nor the oceans in their mightiest tempest—can ever compare to the singular magnificence that is… woman.

Well, son. Those are my thoughts about women that you requested. I left it on your voicemail, since it seems your are busy and I have to get some yard supplies from Menard's. Love you, son.