Awaited Break Quotes

A Plan B life can be just as good or better than a Plan A life. You just have to let go of that first dream and realize that God has already written the first chapter of the new life that awaits you. All you have to do is start reading!

Once man has lost the fundamental orientation which unifies his existence, he breaks down into the multiplicity of his desires; in refusing to await the time of promise, his life-story disintegrates into a myriad of unconnected instants.

She awaits the rain like a writer embraces metaphors, A drizzle isn't for the child who dances in the storm. Of rain that washes away the petrichor it brings, A downpour of a hail of bullets, and she calls it spring.

The fantastic breaks the crust of appearance … something grabs us by the shoulders to throw us outside ourselves. I have always known that the big surprises await us where we have learned to be surprised by nothing, that is, where we are not shocked by ruptures in the order.

I have seen the sun break through to illuminate a small field for a while, and gone my way and forgotten it. But that was the pearl of great price, the one field that had treasure in it. I realize now that I must give all that I have to possess it. Life is not hurrying on to a receeding future, nor hankering after an imagined past. It is the turning aside like Moses to the miracle of the lit bush, to a brightness that seemed as transitory as your youth once, but is the eternity that awaits you.

Everything was going according to plan. What caught me off guard, however, was the fact that this eagerly awaited phase brought a sense of loss to me that triggered a whole new wave of soul searching I had not anticipated.

The best thing about a heartbreak, you start looking for happiness elsewhere. You realize like wild flowers, happiness can grow anywhere and everywhere. And, most importantly within you. Be wild, dear heart, happiness awaits you.

From everything that I'd read, End Timers were waiting for the collapse of civilization the way fans of the Twilight series awaited the trailer for Breaking Dawn.

There, in the horseshoe drive, Kelly, gullible and mortal Kelly, awaits an explanation from a bedraggled immortal. The Minotaur accepts this temporary blessing for all it is worth. There are few things that he knows, these among them: that is is inevitable, even necessary, for a creature half man and half bull to walk the face of the earth; that in the numbing span of eternity even the most monstrous among us needs love; that the minutiae of life sometimes defer to folly; that even in the most tedious unending life there comes, occasionally, hope. One simply has to wait and be ready.

NINA Your life is beautiful. TRIGORIN I see nothing especially lovely about it. [He looks at his watch] Excuse me, I must go at once, and begin writing again. I am in a hurry. [He laughs] You have stepped on my pet corn, as they say, and I am getting excited, and a little cross. Let us discuss this bright and beautiful life of mine, though. [After a few moments' thought] Violent obsessions sometimes lay hold of a man: he may, for instance, think day and night of nothing but the moon. I have such a moon. Day and night I am held in the grip of one besetting thought, to write, write, write! Hardly have I finished one book than something urges me to write another, and then a third, and then a fourth--I write ceaselessly. I am, as it were, on a treadmill. I hurry for ever from one story to another, and can't help myself. Do you see anything bright and beautiful in that? Oh, it is a wild life! Even now, thrilled as I am by talking to you, I do not forget for an instant that an unfinished story is awaiting me. My eye falls on that cloud there, which has the shape of a grand piano; I instantly make a mental note that I must remember to mention in my story a cloud floating by that looked like a grand piano. I smell heliotrope; I mutter to myself: a sickly smell, the colour worn by widows; I must remember that in writing my next description of a summer evening. I catch an idea in every sentence of yours or of my own, and hasten to lock all these treasures in my literary store-room, thinking that some day they may be useful to me. As soon as I stop working I rush off to the theatre or go fishing, in the hope that I may find oblivion there, but no! Some new subject for a story is sure to come rolling through my brain like an iron cannonball. I hear my desk calling, and have to go back to it and begin to write, write, write, once more. And so it goes for everlasting. I cannot escape myself, though I feel that I am consuming my life. To prepare the honey I feed to unknown crowds, I am doomed to brush the bloom from my dearest flowers, to tear them from their stems, and trample the roots that bore them under foot. Am I not a madman? Should I not be treated by those who know me as one mentally diseased? Yet it is always the same, same old story, till I begin to think that all this praise and admiration must be a deception, that I am being hoodwinked because they know I am crazy, and I sometimes tremble lest I should be grabbed from behind and whisked off to a lunatic asylum. The best years of my youth were made one continual agony for me by my writing. A young author, especially if at first he does not make a success, feels clumsy, ill-at-ease, and superfluous in the world. His nerves are all on edge and stretched to the point of breaking; he is irresistibly attracted to literary and artistic people, and hovers about them unknown and unnoticed, fearing to look them bravely in the eye, like a man with a passion for gambling, whose money is all gone. I did not know my readers, but for some reason I imagined they were distrustful and unfriendly; I was mortally afraid of the public, and when my first play appeared, it seemed to me as if all the dark eyes in the audience were looking at it with enmity, and all the blue ones with cold indifference. Oh, how terrible it was! What agony!

Everything is so precariously held together here that you might want a helping hand. Nobody is going to teach you that right after a harvest, poorly paid labourers were hungry enough to smoke out rodent holes and steal back the grains of paddy pilfered by rats. But you will manage. You will learn to relate without family trees. You will learn to make do without a village map. You will learn that criminal landlords can break civil laws to enforce caste codes. You will learn that handfuls of rice of rice can consume half a village. You will loafer learn that in the eyes of the law, the rich are incapable of soiling their hands with either mud or blood. You will learn to wait for revenge with the patience of a village awaiting rain.

If tribulation is a necessary element in the redemption we must anticipate that it will never cease till God sees the world to be either redeemed or no further redeemable. A Christian cannot, therefore, believe any of those who promise that if only some reform in our economic, political, or hygienic system were made, a heaven on earth would follow. This might seem to have a discouraging effect on the social worker, but it is not found in practice to discourage him. On the contrary, a strong sense of our common miseries, simply as men, is at least as good a spur to the removal of all the miseries we can, as any of those wild hopes which tempt men to seek their realisation by breaking the moral law and prove such dust and ashes when they are realised. If applied to individual life, the doctrine that an imagined heaven on earth as necessary for vigorous attempts to remove present evil, would at once reveal its absurdity. Hungry men seek food and sick men healing none the less because they know that after the meal or the cure the ordinary ups and downs of life still await them.

If you've never shot a gun, You can’t understand how it feels in your hands. Cool to the touch, all its venom coiled inside, deadly, like a steel-scaled serpent. Awaiting your bidding. You select it’s prey… paper, tin, or flesh. You lie in wait, learn that patience is the killer’s most trustworthy accomplice. You choose the moment. What. Where. When. Decided. But the how is everything. You lift your weapon, ease it into place, cock it, to load it, knowing the satisfying snitch means a bullet is yours to command. Now, make or break, it’s all up to you. You aim knowing a hair either way means bull’s-eye or miss. Success or failure. Life or death. You have to relax, convince your muscles not to be tense, not to betray you. Sight again. Adjust. Don’t become distracted by the heat of the hunt. Instincts take over. You shoot and adrenaline screams as your target shreds or the flesh drops. And for one indescribable moment you are God.

I expected Dad to do his usual brisk thing and say something like, "Excellent. I will anxiously await your pronouncement on this significant matter." Instead, he just looked relieved and said, "Good." Thinking we were done, I moved toward the door, but Dad stepped in front of it. "We're not quite finised yet." I blinked at him, surprised. "I could try to break some more mirrors if you really want me to, Dad, but I'm kind of wiped out. Between last night and today, there's been an awful lot of magin flyin' around for me,and-" He shook his head. "No,not that. We have one more matter to discuss." I didn't need my new psychic senses to tell me something bad was coming. "What?" Dad took a deep breath and folded his arms. "I want you to tell me about Archer Cross.

no one should be allowed to stop in one place any longer than necessary. A man isn’t a tree, and being settled in one place is his misfortune. It saps his courage, breaks his confidence. When a man settles down somewhere, he agrees to any and all of its conditions, even the disagreeable ones, and frightens himself with the uncertainty that awaits him. Change to him seems like abandonment, like a loss of an investment: someone else will occupy his domain, and he’ll have to begin again. Digging oneself in marks the real beginning of old age, because a man is young as long as he isn’t afraid to make new beginnings. If he stays in the same place, he has to put up with things, or take action. If he moves on, he keeps his freedom; he’s ready to change places and the conditions imposed on him.

Some may decide to build homes somewhere new, and others have homes that await them. Like a break in a relationship, we simply needed some time apart to be better for the future.

Cultivate the soul with hope; teach her to await the break of dawn.

What the hell is taking so long?” Elijah complained. “Elijah, hush,” Legna admonished. “It is their joining. Let them be.” Legna moved to snuggle up against her brother, allowing him to keep her warm as the three of them awaited the bride and her groom. “Jacob! I swear if you don’t put me down this very instant I’m going to marry someone else!” Isabella’s voice carried shrilly through the night, half annoyed, half laughing. The three waiting at the altar turned in unison to see the couple break from the tree line. Jacob had indeed carried his bride out of the woods, but he’d done so by slinging her over a shoulder, leaving her backside displayed prominently. Elijah choked on a laugh and Legna released a horrified gasp. Noah reached out to stay her from moving. “Let it be, Legna. What did you expect from the two of them?” Serves you right, you little tease. Jacob, please! You’re embarrassing me! And having me walk out of the woods in a state of arousal would not have embarrassed me? I said I was sorry! Was that before or after the mental striptease you sent me? Isabella sighed with exasperation, and then giggled. “You know, Emily Post is having heart failure right about now.” “Good, then that makes two of us.

Tal rested his forehead against Athlen's. His heart beat wildly. Magic and desire scorched through his veins, his body set aflame. "I won't leave without you. I promise." "Thank you." Tal didn't know what awaited them beyond this moment, but this was the chance he thought he'd missed. He wouldn't miss it again. Closing the scant distance between them, Tal tilted his head. His pulse thudded hard under his skin as he brushed his chapped lips over Athlen's, trembling and unsure, terrified in equal parts that he might be pushed away or pulled closer. It was the briefest of kisses, and Athlen's mouth was slippery and cool before Tal inched away, breaking the gentle suction. He shivered as Athlen cradled his face in his hands and drew him back to kiss again. Tal surged forward, bold and eager, hungry for every sensation, his fist clenched in the fabric of Athlen's shirt. Athlen returned each fervent press with an intensity of his own, lips parted, mouth hot and willing, and as clumsy as Tal felt.

Real shadow work does not leave us intact; it is not some neat and tidy process, but rather an inherently messy one, as vital and unpredictably alive as birth. The ass it kicks is the one upon which we are sitting; the pain it brings up is the pain we’ve been fleeing most of our life; the psychoemotional breakdowns it catalyzes are the precursors to hugely relevant breakthroughs; the doors it opens are doors that have shown up year after year in our dreams, awaiting our entry. Real shadow work not only breaks us down, but breaks us open.

You don’t need to pray mistreatment and abuse away. You need to leave the perpetrator. And no, it will not get better. And no, you don’t need to be forbearing. Life on the other side of infidelity, a dash of wholesomeness awaits you. Don’t waste your time trying to fix what you didn’t break in the first place.

My poor little child Karin Boye My poor child, so afraid of the dark, who has met ghosts of another kind, who always among those clad in white glimpses those with evil faces, now let me sing you gentle songs, from fright they free, from force and cramp. Of the evil they ask no repentance. Of the good they ask not for battle. See, you must know, that all that lives is deep inside of equal kind. Like trees and herbs it seeks to grow - pulled forward by its inner laws. And trees may fall and flowers wilt and branches break, their power lost, still the dream remains - awaits the call - in every living drop of sap. (205)

Closing his eyes again, standing there, glass in hand, he thought for a minute with a freezing detached almost amused calm of the dreadful night inevitably awaiting him whether he drank much more or not, his room shaking with daemonic orchestras, the snatches of fearful tumultuous sleep, interrupted by voices which were really dogs barking, or by his own name being continually repeated by imaginary parties arriving, the vicious shouting, the strumming, the slamming, the pounding, the battling with insolent archfiends, the avalanche breaking down the door, the proddings from under the bed, and always, outside, the cries, the wailing, the terrible music, the dark’s spinets: he returned to the bar.

You see that God deems it right to take from me any claim to merit for what you call my devotion to you. I have promised to remain forever with you, and now I could not break my promise if I would. The treasure will be no more mine than yours, and neither of us will quit this prison. But my real treasure is not that, my dear friend, which awaits me beneath the somber rocks of Monte Cristo, it is your presence, our living together five or six hours a day, in spite of our jailers; it is the rays of intelligence you have elicited from my brain, the languages you have implanted in my memory, and which have taken root there with all of their philological ramifications. These different sciences that you have made so easy to me by the depth of the knowledge you possess of them, and the clearness of the principles to which you have reduced them – this is my treasure, my beloved friend, and with this you have made me rich and happy. Believe me, and take comfort, this is better for me than tons of gold and cases of diamonds, even were they not as problematical as the clouds we see in the morning floating over the sea, which we take for terra firma, and which evaporate and vanish as we draw near to them. To have you as long as possible near me, to hear your eloquent speech, -- which embellishes my mind, strengthens my soul, and makes my whole frame capable of great and terrible things, if I should ever be free, -- so fills my whole existence, that the despair to which I was just on the point of yielding when I knew you, has no longer any hold over me; this – this is my fortune – not chimerical, but actual. I owe you my real good, my present happiness; and all the sovereigns of the earth, even Caesar Borgia himself, could not deprive me of this.

Only thus were we prepared for what awaited us. We did not break down, but adapted ourselves; our twenty years, which made many another thing so grievous, helped us in this. But by far the most important result was that it awakened in us a strong, practical sense of esprit de corps, which in the field developed into the finest thing that arose out of the war—comradeship.

I opted not to go to Beirut. I refused to admit it, but Damascus was the last place I wanted to go. It was as though as long as I didn't go back, I could pretend that you would be there waiting for me, having a coffee on my auntie's patio and bouncing her baby on your knee. Going back to Damascus meant facing your absence, dispelling the illusion. Facing myself in the mirror is like that. If I never cut my hair if I don't acknowledge that I've never allowed anyone to really know me, I can pretend that a perfect road awaits me. I can pretend their some medicine that will magically allow me to see myself. But going down that road might mean discovering that there is no magic strong enough to bring me into harmony. Breaking the illusion means acknowledging the parts of myself that will never be visible.

Smiling at her the boy said, "Games, then? Would that be better? There are events that I must shape. I must arouse fire that burns, that sears. Scripture says: For He is like a refiner's fire. And Scripture also says: And who can abide the day of His coming? I say, however, that it will be more than this; I say: The day comes, glowing like a furnace; all the arrogant and the evil-doers shall be chaff, and that day when it comes shall set them ablaze; it shall leave them neither root nor branch. What do you say to that, Herb Asher?" Emmanuel gazed at him intently, awaiting his response. Zina said: But for you who fear my name, the sun of righteousness shall rise with healing in his wings. "That is true," Emmanuel said. In a low voice Elias said: And you shall break loose like calves released from the stall.

Facing myself in the mirror is like that. If I never cut my hair, if I don't acknowledge that I've never allowed anyone to really know me, I can pretend that a perfect road awaits me. I can pretend there's some medicine that will magically allow me to see myself. But going down that road might mean discovering that there is no magic strong enough to bring me into harmony. Breaking the illusion means acknowledging the parts of myself that will never be visible.

Life has come to a silent pause, The fear of Virus, the slowdown, Disconnecting me from moments, Heart has taken over the mind, Light now shines upon my eyes, Dreams blocked, the roads traversed, The break has broken the barrier, Me pondering, was I living my life? The days are same and so is night, The Sun, the Moon, and the stars, still rise in the east and set in the west, Trees, plants, flowers there as before, The sky, clouds rivers and oceans, Earth's precious treasures, no different, Change is in my perspective n priorities, Is it that I am learning to live my life. Monotonous tedium chores, Unpleasant hunger for wealth, Most of us are living dead, Body just awaits the soul to leave, To be buried or cremated, Waste of life and for what price, All material things cherished, Useless in our last flight. Time to fall in love with my life, Stop living for others, their expectations, I am again the owner of my choices, Not bothered to please others, Nor what they think about me, My dreams are alive and back, My treasurers are now my deeds, I have finally learnt to live!!!

Laia, The Soul Catcher tells me I do not have enough time to get Darin out of Kauf if I remain with Afya’s caravan. I’ll move twice as fast if I go ahead on my own, and by the time you reach Kauf, I’ll have found a way to break Darin out. We—or he, at least—will await you in the cave I told Afya about. In case it doesn’t go as planned, use the map of Kauf that I drew and make a plan of your own in the time you have. If I fail, you must succeed—for your brother and for your people. Whatever happens, remember what you told me: There is hope in life. I hope I see you again. —EV

It is so rare to have a new tent appear that Celia considers canceling her performances entirely in order to spend the evening investigating it. Instead she waits, executing her standard number of shows, finishing the last a few hours before dawn. Only then does she navigate her way through nearly empty pathways to find the latest edition to the circus. The sign proclaims something called the Ice Garden. and Celia smiles at the addendum below which contains an apology for any thermal inconvenience. Despite the name, she is not prepared for what awaits her inside the tent. It is exactly what the sign described. But it is so much more than that. There are no stripes visible on the walls, everything is sparkling and white. She cannot tell how far it stretches, the size of the tent obscured by cascading willows and twisting vines. The air itself is magical. Crisp and sweet in her lungs as she breathes, sending a shiver down to her toes that is caused by more than the forewarned drop in temperature. There are no patrons in the tent as she explores, circling alone around trellises covered in pale roses and a softly bubbling, elaborately carved fountain. And everything, save for occasional lengths of whet silk ribbon strung like garlands, is made of ice. Curious, Celia picks a frosted peony from its branch, the stem breaking easily. But the layered petals shatter, falling from her fingers to the ground, disappearing in the blades of ivory grass below. When she looks back at the branch, an identical bloom has already appeared. Celia cannot imagine how much power and skill it would take not only to construct such a thing but to maintain it as well. And she longs to know how her opponent came up with the idea. Aware that each perfectly structured topiary, every detail down to the stones that line the paths like pearls, must have been planned.

In a solemn tone, like a priest chanting a mass, beating time in the air with a stiff finger, Slote quoted: " 'The German Revolution will not prove any milder or gentler because it was preceded by the Critique of Kant, by the Transcendental Idealism of Fichte.  These doctrines served to develop revolutionary forces  that only await their time to break forth.  Christianity subdued the brutal warrior passion of the Germans, but it could not quench it. When the Cross, that restraining talisman, falls to pieces, then  will break forth again the frantic Berserker rage.  The old stone gods will then arise from the forgotten ruins and wipe from their eyes the dust of centuries.  Thor with his giant hammer will arise again, and he will shatter the Gothic cathedrals.' " Slote made an awkward, weak gesture with a fist to represent a hammerblow, and went on: " 'Smile not at the dreamer who warns you against Kantians, Fichteans, and the other philosophers.  Smile not at the fantasy of one who foresees in the region of reality the same outburst of revolution that has taken place in the region of intellect.  The thought precedes the deed as the lightning the thunder.  German thunder is of true German character.  It is not very nimble but rumbles along somewhat slowly.  But come it will. And when you hear a crashing such as never before has been heard in the world's history, then know that at last the German thunderbolt has fallen.' "Heine - the Jew who composed the greatest German poetry, and who fell in love with German philosophy - Heine wrote that," Slote said in a quieter tone. "He wrote that a hundred and six years ago.

As we have seen, the phrase “in accordance with the Bible” has little to do with isolated proof-texts and everything to do with the meaning of the long, dark, puzzling narrative of Israel ending with the question mark at the end of the books of Malachi and Chronicles. “Exile” was still in operation. The first Christians saw the message and accomplishment of Jesus as the long-awaited arrival of God’s kingdom, the final dealing-with-sin that would undo the powers of darkness and break through to the “age to come.” The whole point, as in Galatians 3, was that Israel’s long and sad story was not just a rambling muddle, an accumulation of irrelevant but damaging mistakes of generations that had more or less lost the plot. Paul never saw Israel’s past history like that, though many readers of Paul have assumed that he did.

Historically, holism had been a break from the reductionist methods of science. Holism (...) is a way of viewing the universe as a web of interactions and relationships. Whole systems (and the universe can be seen as an overarching system of systems) have properties beyond those of their parts. All things are, in some sense, alive, or a part of a living system; the real world of mind and matter, body and consciousness, cannot be understood by reducing it to pieces and parts. 'Matter is mind' – this is perhaps the holists' quintessential belief. The founding theories of holism had tried to explain how mind emerges from the material universe, how the consciousness of all things is interconnected. The first science, of course, had failed utterly to do this. The first science had resigned human beings to acting as objective observers of a mechanistic and meaningless universe. A dead universe. The human mind, according to the determinists, was merely the by-product of brain chemistry. Chemical laws, the way the elements combine and interact, were formulated as complete and immutable truths. The elements themselves were seen as indivisible lumps of matter, devoid of consciousness, untouched and unaffected by the very consciousnesses seeking to understand how living minds can be assembled from dead matter. The logical conclusion of these assumptions and conceptions was that people are like chemical robots possessing no free will. No wonder the human race, during the Holocaust Century, had fallen into insanity and despair. Holism had been an attempt to restore life to this universe and to reconnect human beings with it. To heal the split between self and other. (...) Each quantum event, each of the trillions of times reality's particles interact with each other every instant, is like a note that rings and resonates throughout the great bell of creation. And the sound of the ringing propagates instantaneously, everywhere at once, interconnecting all things. This is a truth of our universe. It is a mystical truth, that reality at its deepest level is an undivided wholeness. It has been formalized and canonized, and taught to the swarms of humanity searching for a fundamental unity. Only, human beings have learned it as a theory and a doctrine, not as an experience. A true holism should embrace not only the theory of living systems, but also the reality of the belly, of wind, hunger, and snowworms roasting over a fire on a cold winter night. A man or woman (or child) to be fully human, should always marvel at the mystery of life. We each should be able to face the universe and drink in the stream of photons shimmering across the light-distances, to listen to the ringing of the farthest galaxies, to feel the electrons of each haemoglobin molecule spinning and vibrating deep inside the blood. No one should ever feel cut off from the ocean of mind and memory surging all around; no one should ever stare up at the icy stars and feel abandoned or alone. It was partly the fault of holism that a whole civilization had suffered the abandonment of its finest senses, ten thousand trillion islands of consciousness born into the pain and promise of neverness, awaiting death with glassy eyes and murmured abstractions upon their lips, always fearing life, always longing for a deeper and truer experience of living.

exchanging practically all the British infantry and artillery in India for Territorial batteries and battalions, and the formation of the 27th, 28th and 29th Divisions of regular troops. The New Zealand contingent must be escorted to Australia and there, with 25,000 Australians, await convoys to Europe. Meanwhile the leading troops of the Canadian Army, about 25,000 strong, had to be brought across the Atlantic. All this was of course additional to the main situation in the North Sea and to the continued flow of drafts, reinforcements and supplies across the Channel. Meanwhile the enemy’s Fleet remained intact, waiting, as we might think, its moment to strike; and his cruisers continued to prey upon the seas. To strengthen our cruiser forces we had already armed and commissioned twenty-four liners as auxiliary cruisers, and had armed defensively fifty-four merchantmen. Another forty suitable vessels were in preparation. In order to lighten the strain in the Indian Ocean and to liberate our light cruisers for their proper work of hunting down the enemy, I proposed the employment of our old battleships (Canopus class) as escorts to convoys. Besides employing these old battleships on convoy, we had also at the end of August sent three others abroad as rallying points for our cruisers in case a German heavy cruiser should break out: thus the Glory was sent to Halifax, the Albion to

IN THE NAME OF GOD, THE MOST GRACIOUS, THE DISPENSER OF GRACE: (1) IT IS NOT [conceivable] that such as are bent on denying the truth – [be they] from among the followers of earlier revelation or from among those who ascribe divinity to aught beside God5268 – should ever be abandoned [by Him] ere there comes unto them the [full] evidence of the truth: (2) an apostle from God, conveying [unto them] revelations blest with purity, (3) wherein there are ordinances of ever-true soundness and clarity.5269 (4) Now those who have been vouchsafed revelation aforetime5270 did break up their unity [of faith] after such an evidence of the truth had come to them.5271 (5) And withal, they were not enjoined aught but that they should worship God, sincere in their faith in Him alone, turning away from all that is false;5272 and that they should be constant in prayer; and that they should spend in charity:5273 for this is a moral law endowed with ever-true soundness and clarity.5274 (6) Verily, those who [despite all evidence] are bent on denying the truth5275 – [be they] from among the followers of earlier revelation or from among those who ascribe divinity to aught beside God – will find themselves in the fire of hell, therein to abide: they are the worst of all creatures. (7) [And,] verily, those who have attained to faith and do righteous deeds – it is they, they who are the best of all creatures. (8) Their reward [awaits them] with God: gardens of perpetual bliss, through which running waters flow, therein to abide beyond the count of time; well-pleased is God with them, and well-pleased are they with Him: all this awaits him who of his Sustainer stands in awe!

The thunder howled and the rain splashed, the leaves played with the breeze and the lightning flashed, and the tigress growled at last. She looked here and she looked there, she hadn't seen so much rain anywhere, a desire suddenly came in her heart, a mad longing that had to start, she felt deep love in the rain, looking at her cubs all over again But two years ago she had been wounded, By cowardly men who wanted her grounded, They were afraid of her power, they wanted to capture her and to enslave her in their tower They laid traps and they waited in the trees, The jungle was full of birds and the bees, The tigress was out hunting for meat, her cubs awaiting in the cave for their treat There was something missing in the air, the fragrance of jasmine was not there, The tigress looked up into the trees and saw the men's faces painted in grease, She challenged them looking into their eyes, And saw fear, fright , and faces full of lies! She roared with all her might, This was her land, She had all the right! The cowardly men crouching behind the trees, Fired their guns in twos and threes, The brave Tigress looked them in the eye, She was the fire and she was the sky, Indomitable force, invincible power, She was the Tigress, The Queen in her Empire None of the bullets could break her Spirit, Only one could graze her right leg a bit, She roared with all her heart's might, For she was the Queen for all to sight! The guns emptied and no more bullets to shoot, The cowardly men jumped from the trees and ran away in two hoots! The Tigress laughed and loudly roared, For she was the power and her Spirit soared She is the Tigress inside every Woman, She has the Power to defeat any Man, Love her and she would love you back, Respect her and she would respect you back, Dare to harm her and she would defeat you till the Last!

We receive a fatal imprint in childhood, at the time of our greatest plasticity, of our passive impressionism, of our helplessness before suggestion. In no period has the role of the parents loomed as immense, because we have recognized the determinism, but at the same time an exaggeration in the size of the Enormous Parent does not need to be permanent and irretrievable. The time has come when, having completed the scientific study of the importance of parents, we now must re-establish our power to revoke their imprint, to reverse our patterns, to kill our fatal downward tendencies. We do not remain smaller in suture than our parents. Nature had intended them to shrink progressively in our eyes to human proportions while we reach for our own maturity. Their fallibilities, their errors, their weaknesses were intended to develop our own capacity for parenthood. We were to discover their human weakness not to overwhelm or humiliate them, but to realize the difficulty of their task and awaken our own human protectiveness toward their failures or a respect for their partial achievement. But to place all responsibilities upon them is wrong too. If they gave us handicaps, they also gave us their courage, their obstinacy, their sacrifices, their moments of strength. We cannot forever await from them the sanction to mature, to impose on them our own truths, to resist or perhaps defeat them in our necessity to gain strength. We cannot always place responsibility outside of ourselves, on parents, nations, the world, society, race, religion. Long ago it was the gods. If we accepted a part of this responsibility we would simultaneously discover our strength. A handicap is not permanent. We are permitted all the fluctuations, metamorphoses which we all so well understand in our scientific studies of psychology. Character has ceased to be a mystery and we can no longer refuse our responsibility with the excuse that this is an unformed, chaotic, eyeless, unpredictable force which drives, tosses, breaks us at will.

Damn, Mari, it’s cold!” Carrow chafed her arms. “I dig the whole Narnian vibe you’ve got going on, I do. And I’ve been dutifully keeping an eye out for talking beavers wearing armor—but come on, this is getting ridiculous! If you miss the Scot so much, then just break free.” Elianna said, “Do you know he’s bought the property just next door to Andoain so he can scent you the minute you come home. And, well, because his house got blown up.” “Look, Mari, you have to come out of this and do something,” Carrow said. “Put him out of his misery—or—allow me to make him fall in love with dryer lint. You decide.” She shrugged. “I know you’d worried about Bowen not wanting to come near the coven, but we can’t get him to leave. Apparently, some of the witches admitted to him that you’re on a different plane—he can be really dogged with the questions—and now he’s determined to reach you here. Interestingly, he believes the information about the plane’s existence—but not about the fact that he can’t travel to it.” “He returns to Adoain daily, sometimes hourly, researching witchery,” Elianna said. Carrow glared, “Well, maybe if you and the others would stop sneakily setting out food for him, he wouldn’t keep coming back!” Crossing her arms over her chest, Elianna said in a mulish tone, “He wouldn’t eat otherwise.” “Whatever. But seriously, Mari, he’s having such a hard time with all this that even Regin feels sorry for what he’s been through.” Elianna added, “He’s watched your graduation video so many times, I’m sure he’s memorized your school’s alma mater.” “I don’t know what he does with the videos of your college cheerleading he brings back to his place”—Carrow waggled her eyebrows—“but I have suspicions.” Elianna coughed delicately. “Now that you’ve done what you were Awaited to do—well, part one at least—everyone’s grasping about for a new name for you,” Carrow said. “If you don’t kick this enthrallment, then I’m going to campaign for Mariketa the Glass Witch, or ‘Glitch.’ Come kick my ass if you don’t like it, otherwise . . .” Elianna squinted at Mari and sighed. “I think she wants to be called Mariketa MacRieve.

An Aside   To break with this routine I have written this manuscript in a way that challenges my reader to explore on the edge of language instead of drowning in devices intending to take for granted meanings and draw false assumptions burdened by planted biases. In your face are thrown one lie after another that defy what is actually seen and offer nothing of balance to either perspective or clarity on a daily basis... yet, it seems natural to you. Because there is no power to your sense of expectation. None. You are boxed into what is possible and what is not, even unsure of the shape of the earth. Led into debates over something as idiotic as that while you balk at having neighbors from elsewhere. So enormous is this Universe and yet you would limit its possibility to produce any of the wonders on some tiny grain of sand found on a beach in comparison. From written history anomalies have been spied and reported accomplishing what nothing today can. Trans Lunar Phenomena, recorded hundreds of years with thousands of reports demonstrate intelligent presence on the moon while nothing of this is factored into your narrow credulity. When one emerges who can answer resolution to so many anomaly, predicts events with accuracy, and offers what is needed to help you survive a planet crippled to the point of extinction, you cannot quit your routine of acquired preference for the mundane suited to a boxed-in comfort zone long enough to check him out. The few above this are too few. I feel quite privileged to have found four. Others are awakening yet still not shown to be at a point of no return to stifling group thought. If you are, then show me. Show me you are aware we near the point where nothing is left to lose. Where resolute action need not be possessed of fear. I will say this, unified consciousness would have no trouble with accepting this challenge I throw at your feet, but then conditions so favorable to enslavement here may be your problem and not that solely attributable to split consciousness. I am willing to engage with you to the very end of hope to find out. Wake up to the signs and ramifications of the trends set I have touched upon. Help awaits a world ready to receive it.

This is…mad…” Anything this wonderful had to be some form of insanity. “Then I’ve been mad for twelve years.” He tugged at her nipple with his teeth, and she gasped. “Because I imagined this often. Holding you…touching you.” He laved her nipple with his tongue as if to soothe it. “I tried not to torture myself, but…it was impossible that I should never indulge in…the fantasy of you like this, in my arms again.” He’d thought of her all these years? And done nothing about it? “You could have…had me whenever you wanted,” she choked out, even as she thrilled to his words. “You just didn’t…want me.” “Not true.” His breathing labored, he dragged his mouth from her breast to kiss his way back up to her throat. “I couldn’t allow myself to want you. There’s a difference.” None that she could see. But just now, she could hardly think. One of Dom’s hands worked its magic on her breast, his mouth snaked around to cup her derriere and pull her flush against him. Something hard pressed into her through her skirts. What the devil? “Jane,” he rasped against her lips. “My darling Jane…still mine…” The possessive note in his voice drove out every other thought. She was losing the fight against him. Sweet Lord, she couldn’t. Mustn’t, until she was sure he wouldn’t become Dom the Almighty again. Until she was sure he wouldn’t trample her into dust, the way he had before when things hadn’t been exactly how he wanted them. She couldn’t go through that again. She pushed him back, breaking his hold on her. “Not yours,” she said firmly. Her breath still came in heavy gasps, and she fought to get it under control. To get herself under control. “Not anymore.” He stared at her a long moment, his eyes ablaze and his hands flexing at his sides as if regretting the loss of her already. “Will you never forgive me for what I did so long ago, Jane?” The soft question caught her off guard. “Would you do it again if you had the chance?” She could hardly breathe, awaiting his answer. With a low oath, he glanced away. Then his features hardened into those of the rigid and arrogant Dom he had become. “Yes. I did the only thing I could to keep you happy.” Her breath turned to ice in her throat. “That’s the problem. You still really believe that.” His gaze swung to her again, but before he could say anything more, noises in the hall arrested them both.

The Poetry that Searches Poetry that paints a portrait in words, Poetry that spills the bottled emotions, Gives life to the feelings deep inside, Breaks through all the times wept, To sweep you in a whirling ecstatic delight. The chiseled marble of language, The paint spattered canvas, Where colors flow through words, Where emotions roll on a canvas, And it all begins with you. The canvas that portrays the trembling you, Through the feelings that splash, Through the words that spatter, All over the awaiting canvas. Such is the painting sketched with passion, Colored with the heart's unleashed emotions. The poetry that reads your trembling heart, The poetry that feeds the seed of your dreams, That poetry that reveals light within rain, Takes you to a place where beauty lies in stain. The poetry that whispers- "May you find the stars, in a night so dark, May you find the moon, so rich with silver, May you sip the madness and delight In a night berserk with a wailing agony". Such words that arise from spilling emotions, So recklessly you fall, in love with life again. So, you rise shedding your fears, To chase after your dreams, As you hear thunder in the rain, That carries your pain, Through the painting of words, colored with courage, Splashed with ferocity, amidst the lost battles. Such is the richest color splash in words, Laid down on papers, that stayed so empty, For ages and ages. At times, you may feel lost, Wandering homeless in the woods, But poetry that you write, To drink the moonlight and madness, Poetry that you spill on a canvas with words, Calls you to fall, for life again. The words that evoke the intense emotions, The painting that gives the richest revelation, The insight that deepens in a light so streaming, Is the poetry that reveals the truth and beauty, In a form so elemental, in a way so searching, For a beauty so emotive, Which trembles, With the poetry's deepest digging. The words that take your eyes to sleep, The poetry that stills your raging feelings, Is the portrait of words that carries you, In emotions bottled within, held so deep, For an era so long. Forgotten they seemed, yet they arose, With the word's deepest calling, To the soul sleeping inside. The poetry that traces your emotions with words, Is a poetry that traces your soul with its lips, To speak a language that your heart understands. The Ecstatic Dance of Soul Copyright 2020 Jayita Bhattacharjee

In the uncertain hour before the morning Near the ending of interminable night At the recurrent end of the unending After the dark dove with the flickering tongue Had passed below the horizon of his homing While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin Over the asphalt where no other sound was Between three districts whence the smoke arose I met one walking, loitering and hurried As if blown towards me like the metal leaves Before the urban dawn wind unresisting. And as I fixed upon the down-turned face That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge The first-met stranger in the waning dusk I caught the sudden look of some dead master Whom I had known, forgotten, half recalled Both one and many; in the brown baked features The eyes of a familiar compound ghost Both intimate and unidentifiable. So I assumed a double part, and cried And heard another's voice cry: 'What! are you here?' Although we were not. I was still the same, Knowing myself yet being someone other— And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed To compel the recognition they preceded. And so, compliant to the common wind, Too strange to each other for misunderstanding, In concord at this intersection time Of meeting nowhere, no before and after, We trod the pavement in a dead patrol. I said: 'The wonder that I feel is easy, Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak: I may not comprehend, may not remember.' And he: 'I am not eager to rehearse My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten. These things have served their purpose: let them be. So with your own, and pray they be forgiven By others, as I pray you to forgive Both bad and good. Last season's fruit is eaten And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail. For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice. But, as the passage now presents no hindrance To the spirit unappeased and peregrine Between two worlds become much like each other, So I find words I never thought to speak In streets I never thought I should revisit When I left my body on a distant shore. Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us To purify the dialect of the tribe And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight, Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort. First, the cold friction of expiring sense Without enchantment, offering no promise But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit As body and soul begin to fall asunder. Second, the conscious impotence of rage At human folly, and the laceration Of laughter at what ceases to amuse. And last, the rending pain of re-enactment Of all that you have done, and been; the shame Of motives late revealed, and the awareness Of things ill done and done to others' harm Which once you took for exercise of virtue. Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains. From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire Where you must move in measure, like a dancer.' The day was breaking. In the disfigured street He left me, with a kind of valediction, And faded on the blowing of the horn. -T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding

The past weeks had made her tougher—or perhaps the strength had been in her all along, awaiting the chance to show itself.

Is there any gentler awakening than the breaking light of dawn? It streams through the window and tiptoes across rumpled sheets. Diaphanous, charming and innocent. Just about anything seems possible as the day awaits.

Not everyone is capable of thinking in real, concrete terms. Many seek refuge in religious beliefs. In their weakness, they place their trust in "relics," awaiting salvation at the hands of one stronger than themselves. Anyone who claims to be a strong and knowledgeable authority for such people, and to be acting on their behalf, has the duty to be conscious of the appropriate facts. If they aren't, if they ignore or neglect that duty, claiming instead that their palpable lack of information and their abstract conceptions of "life" are sanctioned by God and practiced in the name of humanity, they are acting against life, by misusing the weakness and truth of the faithful and dangerously confusing them.

Breathtaking beauty awaits each one of us if we but allow ourselves to surrender to this vast unknown Source that created us, and, IS us!

the individual is morally obliged to stand up and tell the truth of his or her own experience. But something new and radical is still almost always wrong. You need good, even great, reasons to ignore or defy general, public opinion. That’s your culture. It’s a mighty oak. You perch on one of its branches. If the branch breaks, it’s a long way down—farther, perhaps, than you think. If you’re reading this book, there’s a strong probability that you’re a privileged person. You can read. You have time to read. You’re perched high in the clouds. It took untold generations to get you where you are. A little gratitude might be in order. If you’re going to insist on bending the world to your way, you better have your reasons. If you’re going to stand your ground, you better have your reasons. You better have thought them through. You might otherwise be in for a very hard landing. You should do what other people do, unless you have a very good reason not to. If you’re in a rut, at least you know that other people have travelled that path. Out of the rut is too often off the road. And in the desert that awaits off the road there are highwaymen and monsters. So speaks wisdom.

appeal to you to seek the Lord with me concerning the place of fasting and prayer in breaking through the darkened mind that engulfs the modern world, in regard to abortion and a hundred other ills. This is not a call for a collective tantrum that screams at the bad people, “Give me back my country.” It is a call to aliens and exiles in the earth, whose citizenship is in heaven and who await the appearance of their King, to “engage in business” until he comes (Luke 19:13). And the great business of the Christian is to “do all to the glory of God” (1Corinthians 10:31), and to pray that God’s name be hallowed and his kingdom come and his will be done in the earth (Matthew 6:9–10). And to yearn and work and pray and fast not only for the final revelation of the Son of Man, but in the meantime, for the demonstration of his Spirit and power in the reaching of every people, and the rescuing of the perishing, and the purifying of the church, and the putting right of as many wrongs as God will grant.

External or unforeseen forces can either break you or make you. You decide; for they can never enter the arena of your soul; there your power lies – there your dream awaits.

Prisons by Stewart Stafford There are prisons of bars and jailers, There are dungeons of the mind, And of family blackmailers. Some sit manacled in a marriage cell, Thunderous isolation next door, All aflame in loveless hell. Misery, with no parole in poverty's trap, While in privileged ivory towers nearby, Elite confinement in luxury's lap. Inmates break free to a new golden age, Other jailbirds await merciful luck, Destined never to escape the cage. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

It is so easy to stay within one’s group, especially for Catholics, cutting ourselves off from our Orthodox brothers, Protestants, Jews, Muslims, believers or non-believers in other religions. But I have to tell you that in the light of the Gospel and Catholic principle, this logic of division makes no sense. Jesus came to break down the barriers; he died to proclaim universal brotherhood; the central point of his teaching is charity – that is, the love that binds all human beings to him as the elder brother and binds us all with him to the Father.1

A listening person tests your talking (and your thinking) without having to say anything. A listening person is a representative of common humanity. He stands for the crowd. Now the crowd is by no means always right, but it’s commonly right. It’s typically right. If you say something that takes everyone aback, therefore, you should reconsider what you said. I say that, knowing full well that controversial opinions are sometimes correct—sometimes so much so that the crowd will perish if it refuses to listen. It is for this reason, among others, that the individual is morally obliged to stand up and tell the truth of his or her own experience. But something new and radical is still almost always wrong. You need good, even great, reasons to ignore or defy general, public opinion. That’s your culture. It’s a mighty oak. You perch on one of its branches. If the branch breaks, it’s a long way down—farther, perhaps, than you think. If you’re reading this book, there’s a strong probability that you’re a privileged person. You can read. You have time to read. You’re perched high in the clouds. It took untold generations to get you where you are. A little gratitude might be in order. If you’re going to insist on bending the world to your way, you better have your reasons. If you’re going to stand your ground, you better have your reasons. You better have thought them through. You might otherwise be in for a very hard landing. You should do what other people do, unless you have a very good reason not to. If you’re in a rut, at least you know that other people have travelled that path. Out of the rut is too often off the road. And in the desert that awaits off the road there are highwaymen and monsters. So speaks wisdom.

Break free from the chains of your past self and unleash the boundless potential that lies within. Embrace the present moment and work diligently towards becoming the extraordinary person you can be. Success and fulfillment await those who dare to shed the limitations of who they were and step boldly into the realm of who they can become.

Himalayan Sonneteer Sonnet 100 (Naskar Sonnet 1000) It's the little everyday acts of justice, That bring most change in society. It's the little everyday acts of justice, That actually eliminate inhumanity. One big revolution in five years, Brings no lasting change. But one small act of uncompromise everyday, Makes the whole world gain conscience. Hence, reformation of a nation isn't measured, By how many big revolutions it has to face. Reformation of a nation is predicated on, How many citizens it has who refuse to bend. So I say - break the chains, take off the blinkers. The whole world awaits, for it needs to be tinkered.

In Minnesota, they were seizing cars from every siding, from the Mesabi Range, from the ore mines of Paul Larkin where the cars had stood waiting for a dribble of iron. They were pouring wheat into ore cars, into coal cars, into boarded stock cars that went spilling thin gold trickles along the track as they clattered off. They were pouring wheat into passenger coaches, over seats, racks and fixtures, to send it off, to get it moving, even if it went moving into trackside ditches in the sudden crash of breaking springs, in the explosions set off by burning journal boxes. They fought for movement, for movement with no thought of destination, for movement as such, like a paralytic under a stroke, struggling in wild, stiff, incredulous jerks against the realization that movement was suddenly impossible. There were no other railroads: James Taggart had killed them; there were no boats on the Lakes: Paul Larkin had killed them. There was only the single line of rail and a net of neglected highways. The trucks and wagons of waiting farmers started trickling blindly down the roads, with no maps, no gas, no feed for horses—moving south, south toward the vision of flour mills awaiting them somewhere, with no knowledge of the distances ahead, but with the knowledge of death behind them—moving, to collapse on the roads, in the gullies, in the breaks of rotted bridges. One farmer was found, half a mile south of the wreck of his truck, lying dead in a ditch, face down, still clutching a sack of wheat on his shoulders. Then rain clouds burst over the prairies of Minnesota; the rain went eating the wheat into rot at the waiting railroad stations; it went hammering the piles spilled along the roads, washing gold kernels into the soil.

What kind of visa can a person get in Australia during a partner visa process? The Partner Visa application process can be a lengthy journey that often takes months or even years to complete. During this time, you may be wondering what visa options are available to you while you await the outcome of your partner visa application. This blog will explore the different visa options that can give you legal status in Australia during the waiting period. Understanding partner visas Before delving into alternative visa options, it is essential to understand the basics of partner visas in Australia. A partner visa allows the partner of an Australian citizen, permanent resident or eligible New Zealand citizen to live in Australia. There are two subclasses: Temporary Partner Visa (Subclass 820): This visa is granted while your Permanent Partner Visa (Subclass 801) is being processed. Permanent Partner Visa (Subclass 801): This visa allows you to live in Australia permanently after a temporary visa has been held for a certain period of time. If you have applied for a partner visa but have not yet received a decision, you may be eligible for additional visa options to ensure you can stay in Australia legally. Visitor visa (subclass 600) One of the most common options while waiting for a partner visa is a visitor visa (subclass 600). This visa allows you to stay in Australia temporarily for tourism, family visits or other short-term purposes. Key Features: Length: Usually allows stays of up to 3, 6 or 12 months, depending on your specific situation. Work rights: This visa generally does not allow you to work in Australia. Eligibility: You must demonstrate that you are a genuine visitor and intend to return to your home country. Considerations: While a visitor visa may grant you temporary status, keep in mind that it is not intended for long-term stay. If you intend to work or study, this visa may not be suitable for your needs. Bridging visa (subclass BVA) If you are already in Australia on a valid visa and have applied for a partner visa, you may be automatically granted a bridging visa (subclass BVA) which allows you to remain in Australia legally while your partner visa application is in place. Key Features: Duration: A bridging visa remains valid until your application for a partner visa is decided. Work rights: Depending on the circumstances, you may be allowed to work. You may need to prove financial hardship to get work rights. Conditions: You must meet the conditions set out in your bridging visa, which may include reporting to immigration authorities. Considerations: Bridging visas are temporary and specific to your situation. If you are using a bridging visa, make sure you understand its terms and conditions to avoid any breach that could affect your application for a partner visa. Student visa (subclass 500) If you want to study while waiting for a partner visa, you can consider applying for a student visa (subclass 500). This visa allows you to enroll in full-time study in Australia. Key Features: Duration: Valid for the duration of your course plus a short period afterwards to prepare for departure. Work rights: Generally allows you to work up to 40 hours per fortnight during the school year and unlimited hours during breaks. Eligibility: You must be enrolled in a registered course and meet the financial and health requirements. Considerations: Studying in Australia can be a great way to improve your skills and make the most of your time while waiting for your partner visa. However, make sure that your study plans are in line with your long-term goals and financial capabilities. Temporary Work Visa (Subclass 482) If you have skills that are in demand in Australia, you may be eligible for a temporary work visa (subclass 482). This visa allows skilled workers to work for an approved employer in Australia.

At that, every boy on that side of the hall let out a big cheer for the two of them. This went on for about three or four hours before the cold had got the better of the two of them. Without breaking any rooftop siege records, the bedraggled and wet pair came down into the arms of the awaiting riot screws. And surprisingly, for a change, they never suffered any beatings; they got taken to the digger and put on a rule, pending police investigation. Some nine months later, the two kings of the roof stood trial and received eighteen months apiece on top of their sentence … oh, and the roofing contractor was ecstatically happy.

78.3 Affability. Optimism and cheerfulness. Another virtue which makes social life more pleasant is affability. It may express itself in the form of a friendly greeting, a small compliment, a cordial gesture of encouragement. This virtue leads us to overcome our inclination to irritability, rash judgments and actions ... , basically, to live as though other people didn’t matter. Elizabeth’s start of joy at the Visitation emphasizes the gift that can be contained in a mere greeting, when it comes from a heart full of God. How often can the darkness of loneliness, oppressing a soul, be dispelled by the shining ray of a smile and a kind word! A good word is soon said; yet sometimes we find it difficult to utter. We are restrained by fatigue, we are distracted by worries, we are checked by a feeling of coldness or selfish indifference. Thus it happens that we may pass by persons, although we know them, without looking at their faces and without realizing how often they are suffering from that subtle, wearing sorrow which comes from feeling ignored. A cordial word, an affectionate gesture would be enough, and something would at once awaken in them: a sign of attention and courtesy can be a breath of fresh air in the stuffiness of an existence oppressed by sadness and dejection. Mary’s greeting filled with joy the heart of her elderly cousin Elizabeth (cf Luke 1:44).[496] This is how we can lighten the load of the people around us. Another aspect of affability lies in the practice of kindness, in understanding towards the defects and mistakes of other people (we don’t have to be constantly correcting others), in good manners evinced by our words and behaviour, in sympathy, cordiality and words of praise at an opportune moment ... The spirit of sweetness is truly the spirit of God ... It makes the truth understandable and acceptable. We have to be intransigent towards every form of evil; nevertheless, we have to deal kindly with our neighbour.[497] A truck-driver once pulled over at a highway rest stop for a cup of coffee. He needed a break because he had many miles ahead of him. He sat at the counter and a young boy came to wait on him. The truck-driver asked with a smile, Busy day? The young fellow looked up and smiled back. Some months later, the truck-driver returned to the same stop. Much to his surprise, the young fellow remembered him as if they were old friends. The truth is that people have a great thirst for smiles. They have an enormous longing for cheerfulness and encouragement. Every day we encounter a good number of people who await that momentary gift of our joy. Through the practice of the social virtues we can open up many doors. We cannot allow ourselves to be cut off from any of our neighbours or colleagues. The Lord wants us to do an effective apostolate of friendship and confidence. We need to introduce other people to that greatest of all gifts which is friendship with Jesus.  

Periodically, all hell breaks loose in all these places simultaneously, and then we have a flap, or wave, of UFO sightings, apparitions, poltergeists, sudden inexplicable disappearances of animals and human beings, mysterious fires, and even a form of mass madness.

Andy’s Message Around the time I received Arius’ email, Andy’s message arrived. He wrote: Young, I do remember Rick Samuels. I was at the seminar in the Bahriji when he came to lecture. Like you I was at once mesmerized by his style and beauty, which of course was a false image manufactured by the advertising agencies and sales promoters. I was surprised to hear your backroom story of him being gangbanged in the dungeon. We are not ones to judge since both of us had been down that negative road of self-loathing. This seems to be a common thread with people whom others considered good-looking or beautiful. In my opinion, it’s a fake image that handsome people know they cannot live up to. Instead of exterior beauty being an asset, it often becomes a psychological burden. During the years when I was with Toby, I delved in some fashion modeling work in New Zealand. I ventured into this business because it was my subconscious way of reminding me of the days we posed for Mario and Aziz. It was also my twisted way of hoping to meet another person like me, with the hope of building a loving long-term relationship. It was also a desperate attempt to break loose from Toby’s psychosomatic grip on my person. Ian was his name and he was a very attractive 24 year old architecture student. He modeled to earn some extra spending money. We became fast friends, but he had this foreboding nature which often came on unexpectedly. A sentence or a word could trigger his depression, sending the otherwise cheerful man into bouts of non-verbal communication. It was like a brightly lit light bulb suddenly being switched off in mid-sentence. We did have an affair while I was trying to patch things up with Toby. As delightful as our sexual liaisons were there was a hidden missing element, YOU! Much like my liaisons with Oscar, without your presence, our sexual communications took on a different dynamic which only you as the missing link could resolve. There were times during or after sex when Ian would abuse himself with negative thoughts and self-denigration. I tried to console him, yet I was deeply sorrowed about my own unresolved issues with Toby. It was like the blind leading the blind. I was gravely saddened when Ian took his own life. Heavily drugged on prescriptive anti-depressant and a stomach full of extensive alcohol consumption, he fell off his ten story apartment building. He died instantly. This was the straw that threw me into a nervous breakdown. Thank God I climbed out of my despondencies with the help of Ari and Aria. My dearest Young, I have a confession to make; you are the only person I have truly loved and will continue to love. All these years I’ve tried to forget you but I cannot. That said I am not trying to pry you away from Walter and have you return to me. We are just getting to know each other yet I feel your spirit has never left. Please make sure that Walter understands that I’m not jeopardizing your wonderful relationship. I am happy for the both of you. You had asked jokingly if I was interested in a triplet relationship. Maybe when the time and opportunity arises it may happen, but now I’m enjoying my own company after Albert’s passing. In a way it is nice to have my freedom after 8 years of building a life with Albert. I love you my darling boy and always will. As always, I await your cheerful emails. Andy. Xoxoxo

I have not given up. I have not quit. I have followed my truth, which speaks so loudly from within and is rooted core-deep in my spirit: I deserve a life I love, where I wake up every single day, excited about the possibilities and experiences that await me, and one in which I feel valued, appreciated, and noticed. I

The kiss, to put the twinkle in the stars of all the Universes within her eyes. A long awaited lingering, to set the passion of the muse alight again. What words pressed to her mouth, whispered on the tendrils of fervency, aroused? Touching her face, then laying a hand upon her chest, spoke words flecked with such regret: "How anyone could ever dare to break such a beautiful heart- I will never know.". Twasn't the saying of those words- it was that her lover meant it so. And thus she kissed her lover; slowly, deliberately, reciprocally- in equal measure to the genuine care and rapt passion. A returned affection for the ardor from her new companion. Hail truth in love. Hail, hail, the springs which quench the parched lips of loneliness. Hail freedom to be, in vivacity. Hail trust and unencumbered twining of spirit." From the book "The spark (of a muse)"- by Cheri Bauer

Some may decide to build homes somewhere new, and others have homes that await them. Like a break in a relationship, we simply needed some time apart to be better for the future.

Muslims in general were aware of the fate that awaited them. Their desparate attempt, en masse to break through Bosnian Serb lines from the night of 11-12 July onwards reflected this. Very few politicians and soldiers ever questioned this premise of impartiality. Few accepted that one could force such an obstreperous party into allowing convoys through and still remain impartial. General Janvier in particular has unjustly been much maligned. He is often blamed for loosing Srebrenica because he did not authorize massive air strikes.

TO BE LOVED   She seeks to feel again as beautiful as before. She seeks to feel those things within her that she can feel no place else. For a moment her need for my warmth remains contrasted against the brittle branches that hang from the dawn of winter’s turn. Her eyes have become enchanted as if it were I whom she’d been waiting for her entire life. Seeing her look at me this way causes my soul to leap from its rest and give of what I too have been feeling. Her eyes compare to that still river raising light from the moon that passes through the sky. I am now as indestructible and as fragile as I’ve ever been as she reaches out for me to grab her and hold her tightly. The burning inside of me initiates a pure joy and peace that I have never felt before. To love and be loved has become the most incredible experience ever granted unto me. She is now my every breath and the very beating of my heart. I hold her close as the tense weave of my muscles break free and give warmth to every part of her. She calls for me to come and be by her side. Her lips are like the wild meadow awaiting the lonely traveler to experience her rich redolence after a heavy rain under a vermilion sky. With no demure of delay she imbues me with a sure kiss.

Confession Of Defeat *** I remember; I realize; I confess I am indebted to your love, Your prayers and awaiting Believe my truth and sincerity Fragrance your kindness Some compulsions, some weaknesses In the circumstances and realities Cause escaping from promises Keep far away from assurances I wanted it many times Pay off your debts In the form of true love with Living such a life What to do, thinking every time? Holding tears in eyes, Clutching the heart, by heartbeats The poverty of age became an issue, Life stayed at the grave of decision Listen, there's nothing left now Stop waiting for me Break all the bonds I can neither make you happy Nor ruin you Journey of tiredness And in the rotten journey Don't be my journey mate Don't risk your life pleasure I am afraid to say Perhaps you do it knowingly In a boiling stream of emotions Perhaps you become unfaithful Before that happens I line up my tears I still love you But I am a dry leaf of autumn Not a pure green leaf of spring Do the last support and mercy With pure feelings Forgive me heartily For my incapabilities and flaws And become courageous To leave me forever For looking back never.

Clydinius believed Fae were not worthy of the greatness we gifted them, for it was wasted and spoiled in the hands of your kind, every empire rising only to surely fall. So Clydinius came to the Court of Caelestina where the fates are woven thread by thread, and destiny spins upon a coin of iron. There, he spoke treasonous words, expressing the very desire which could unbalance the bedrock of the world. Clydinius wished for us all to descend from the heavens, to claim a place upon the earth and walk among the Fae as gods. In response to this declaration, Arcturus of the Sixth House cast Clydinius from the sky, where only one fate awaited him. Or so we thought. For we were fooled… Clydinius had wished for this all along, and instead of releasing his powers upon impact with the earth, Clydinius made a deal with a Fae, breaking all the laws of old and blaspheming against the teachings of the Origin.” “The Origin?” Tory questioned. “The Origin is the beginning and end of all things. She is the giver of life, of fate, of all reality. She is the oldest star in our universe, a creator and destroyer. She set the laws of reality itself.

Leaving that which you love breaks your heart open. But you will find a jewel inside, and this precious jewel is the opening of your heart to all that is new and all that is different, and it will be the making of you—if you allow it to be.” Maisie could feel her eyes fill with tears. The woman before her, serene in her confidence, continued. “It is like the fracture of a delicate blue egg, when the bird-chick is ready to face the world. Such a struggle, such a rent in the casing that has most protected the small creature; but look what awaits—the learning to fly, and the grand adventure

Laia, The Soul Catcher tells me I do not have enough time to get Darin out of Kauf if I remain with Afya’s caravan. I’ll move twice as fast if I go ahead on my own, and by the time you reach Kauf, I’ll have found a way to break Darin out. We—or he, at least—will await you in the cave I told Afya about. In case it doesn’t go as planned, use the map of Kauf that I drew and make a plan of your own in the time you have. If I fail, you must succeed—for your brother and for your people. Whatever happens, remember what you told me: There is hope in life. I hope I see you again. —EV Seven sentences. Seven bleeding sentences after weeks of traveling together, of saving each other, of fighting and surviving. Seven sentences and then he disappears like smoke in a north wind.

The first version of a computer using the PARC architecture, the Lisa, was a commercial failure, but when Jobs introduced the Macintosh in an iconic advertisement that aired during the 1984 Super Bowl, the long-awaited vision of the future arrived.

There will always be people who think suffering leads to enlightenment, who place themselves on the verge of what’s about to break, or go dangerously wrong. Let’s resist them and their thinking, you and I. Let’s not rush toward that sure thing that awaits us, which can dumb us into nonsense and pain.

That is why she is the Cultivator, as much a custodian of living things as inert materials. One day, far into the future, the entire ship will be a single amorphous organism. She is helping to make this a reality, to coax and to nurture. It is hard work, back-breaking and relentless, but it gives her a certain measure of pride. She has sons and daughters growing up in the lower decks, already learning to grasp a ratchet and siphon a fuel sump. If they survive the mutations and the plagues, one of them might one day become Cultivator. And if they are blessed with fertility, in centuries to come one of their progeny might be there, on that mystical and long-awaited day when Solace speaks for the first time, not in hisses of steam or scrapes of iron but in a real voice with real words.

Break the chains, Take off the blinkers. The whole world awaits, For it needs to be tinkered.

Sixth Army and elements of the Fourth Panzer Army had been encircled in an offensive that was an ominous sign for the Wehrmacht. Joachim Wieder wrote: ‘We have never imagined a catastrophe of such proportions to be possible.’ The Sixth Army was in dire straits. Caught with no winter clothing and little food and fuel, it was too weak to try to break out of its confines. But Hitler did not want Paulus to break out and instead directed him to establish ‘Festung Stalingrad’ – Fortress Stalingrad – and to ‘dig in and await relief from outside’. Although he was placing this formation in a desperate situation, Hitler demanded that the Sixth Army pin and fix as many Soviet troops as possible around the Volga in order to give Army Group A the best possible chance to extract itself from the Caucasus. In the meantime, Field Marshal Erich von

Overcoming Inertia The human mind is hardwired to favor the familiar. Yet new ideas ask people to embrace the unknown. This is an ever‐present Friction for the innovator. To tame this Friction, we need to transform the unfamiliar into the familiar. Inertia tends to be greatest under two conditions: when the innovation or change represents a major break from the status‐quo and when people don't have time to acclimate to change. To determine the level of Inertia that awaits your next idea, ask these three questions. Does the innovation represent a major break from the status quo or is it a slight tweak on what has been done before? Radical ideas are likely to run into heavy Inertia headwinds because people inherently distrust and reject unfamiliar and untested ideas. Have people had time to acclimate to the idea? If people haven't had time to adjust to new ways of thinking, expect resistance. Does the proposed change happen gradually or in one big step? Big, abrupt changes of practice or thinking are the most unfamiliar and therefore produce strong resistance. If Inertia threatens your innovation, you need to transform the unfamiliar into the familiar. Because as familiarity grows, Friction eases. The aim is to make a new idea feel less like a foreign invader and more like an old friend.

I said I had two things to tell you. Now, scientifically, that's how it breaks down. But we're complex animals, and we're constantly changing. Things I thought ten years ago seem like absolute bullshit now. So there's no scientific formula to predict how things are going to work out with a marriage, because a marriage in year one is completely different from the same marriage ten years later. So when you're dealing with something incredibly unpredictable, like human beings, numbers and formulas don't mean shit. The best you can do is take all the information you have and, scientifically speaking, do what?" he asked, staring at me, awaiting an answer. "Uh . . . I don't know," I said, unsure if this was a rhetorical question. "I should buy you a fucking sign that says 'I don't know' to save you time. The best you can do is make an educated guess, son. "So I'll tell you what I did right before I asked your mother to marry me. I took a day and I sat and I thought about all the things I had learned about myself, and about women, up to that point in my life. Just sat and thought. I may have smoked marijuana as well. Anyway, at the end of the day, I took stock of everything I'd gone through in my head, and I asked myself if I still wanted to propose to your mother. And I did. So that's what I humbly suggest you do, unless you think you're somehow smarter than I am, which, considering you share my genetics, is unlikely," he said, laughing as he sat back and took a big sip of Diet Coke.

How long until they return?” Bleddyn asked, his gruff voice drawing Fiadh out of her thoughts. She cast him a sidelong glance, narrowing her eyes. Hours ago, she had sent out two of her birds to scout ahead of them, and Bleddyn had been impatiently awaiting their return ever since. Cigfran’s power was changing him, making him more temperamental and volatile than he has ever been before. His weak mortal blood could not withstand such power without breaking.

The road is never over and if it was, there lies the ocean and there are still ships a-plenty. And should the ocean end and ships crash, there begins the sky and there are wings to fly far and wide right into adventures not known yet. And if the sky breaks open after the storms, clouds will part to reveal a universe that always awaits and yearns to be explored by hands that appreciate its unchartered worlds.

She laughed, swinging her dark curtain of hair over a shoulder. “The Cauldron is not for transporting grunt armies. It is for remaking worlds. It is for bringing down this hideous wall and reclaiming what we were.” I merely crossed my legs. “I’d think that with an army of ten thousand you wouldn’t need any magical objects to do your dirty work.” “Our army is ten times that, girl,” Brannagh sneered. “And twice that number if you count our allies in Vallahan, Montesere, and Rask.” Two hundred thousand. Mother save us. “You’ve certainly been busy all these years.” I surveyed them, utterly nonplussed. “Why not strike when Amarantha had the island?” “The king had not yet found the Cauldron, despite years of searching. It served his purposes to let her be an experiment for how we might break these people. And served as good motivation for our allies on the continent to join us, knowing what would await them.” I finished off my apple and chucked the core into the woods.

the world under man’s rule was rapidly deteriorating. It wasn’t just man’s evil deeds that were breaking down all of society, but man’s attempt to reign supreme without the God of the Bible ruling as sovereign. Everything on earth was temporary and trials in this life couldn’t be taken too seriously, she knew. Eternity awaited them.

Nesta surged to her feet, staggering across the clearing, blood at her mouth from where he'd hit her, and threw herself to her knees before Cassian. 'Get up,' she sobbed, hauling at his shoulder. 'Get up.' He tried- and failed. 'You're too heavy,' she pleaded, but still tried to raise him, fingers scrabbling in his black, bloodied armour. 'I can't- he's coming-' 'Go,' Cassian groaned. Her powers had stopped hurling the king across the forest. He now stalked toward them, brushing off splinters and leaves from his jacket- taking his time. Knowing she would not leave. Savouring the awaiting slaughter. Nesta gritted her teeth, trying to haul Cassian up once more. A broken sound of pain ripped from him. 'Go!' he barked at her. 'I can't,' she breathed, voice breaking. 'I can't.' The same words Rhys had given him. Cassian grunted in pain, but lifted his bloodied hands- to cup her face. 'I have no regrets in my life, but this.' HIs voice shook with every word. 'That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta.' She didn't stop him as he leaned up and kissed her- lightly. As much as he could manage. Cassian said softly, brushing away the tear that streaked down her face. 'I will find you again in the next world- the next life. And we will have that time. I promise.' The King of Hybern stepped into that clearing, dark power wafting from his fingertips. And even the Cauldron seemed to pause in surprise- surprise or some... feeling as Nesta looked at the king with death twining around his hands, then down at Cassian. And covered Cassian's body with her own. Cassian went still- then his hand slid over her back. Together. They'd go together.

Your path will show you where to go, and it will show you everybody you have realized as Selfhood in other body form. That’s how you can consider yourselves now, tumbling into the twenty-first century without a life preserver, tossed about like a bottle on the waves, full of nature and envy and clouds of distrust. Break the bottle and allow yourselves the best gift you can give yourselves: the freedom to melt into the grander oceans of your reality and allow this to take you into the beautiful new lives you have awaiting you. - James Baldwin (attrib.)

I loved the love and i still love of it, because it's a light break in endless darkness, the lake that awaits you on the desert, the rose that cannot wither, the warm nest of birds. Love, between hello and goodbye we never are alone.

180. Saint Augustine’s prayer for the dead is particularly beautiful: If you knew the gift of God and what heaven is. If you could hear the song of the angels from here and see me in the midst of them. If you could see unfolding before your eyes the horizons and eternal fields, the new paths where I walk! If, for a moment, you could contemplate as I do the beauty before which all beauties pale. What? You saw me, you loved me in the country of shadows, and you could not see me or love me in the country of immutable realities! Believe me, when death comes to break your bonds as it broke those that chained me and when, on a day that God knows and that he has determined, your soul comes into this heaven where mine has preceded, on that day you will see me again, you will find my affection purified. God forbid that upon entering a happier life, unfaithful to the memories and the true joys of my other life, I became less loving. You will see me again, then, transfigured into ecstasy and happiness, no longer awaiting death, but advancing moment to moment with you into new paths of Light and Life. Wipe away your tears, and weep no more if you love me.

This time, in protest, they plan a funeral for the landlord. They prepare his pyre, they lament his effigy corpse on its final farewell. The women beat their breasts and break their bangles. They sing the dirges of disgust, they mourn a monster, who, being alive, understands what awaits him after death. They curse, and it is written in their blood that their curses will come true. They call upon death to visit him at the earliest and, sometimes, the Buffalo Rider keeps his appointment. When women take to protest, there is no looking back.

The night pulsed through him. He knew she saw something different in his eyes by the way she jerked back. He held her tight. "Don't you know when a guy wants to kiss you?" She swallowed and seemed unsure. "Put your arms around me," he ordered softly. Her hands slipped tentatively up his chest and clasped his neck. He pulled her body next to his and she closed her eyes in anticipation. What little resistance remained inside him slipped down into a cold abyss where his soul had once been. He eased into her mind with a suddenness that surprised her. Her eyes burst open with a shock and she stared at him. He saw the astonishment on her face and cherished the sensuous fear exploding inside her. She tried to break away from him. "Too late," he whispered and held her with his eyes. Each time she tried to pull away, he drew her to him until he had her spellbound. He could hear her whimpering, but it was as if she was far away. Now sweet one, turn and face the Atrox. She struggled against his caressing, but soon she stopped fighting and her fear left her. The lies of the Atrox soothed her and filled her with promises. Stanton smiled triumphantly and pressed his hand over her mouth so she couldn't cry out when she finally saw the black future that awaited her. Her communion with the Atrox filled his emptiness, but he knew the ecstasy he felt from devouring her luxurious hope would only last for a short time. Soon, the aching need would return, but for now it was satisfied. He wondered now why he had denied himself for so long. He was a creature of the night and he relished his evil existence.

In the fringes of our yard, daffodils await their triumphant chorus. The golden bells have just opened on our forsythia, and clusters of hyacinth flowers await flourish in purple blooms. By aesthetic standards, any of these blossoms would have outshone the fistful of yellow spikes my little boy offered. In the coming months, dozens of its cousins, cast away as weeds, will meet an untimely end beneath the blades of a lawnmower. Their brazen head will be lopped off, their awkward petals demolished and scattered. They will be declared a nuisance, expendable. Yet when gripped within Pip's fingers, how perfect, how precious became this paltry bloom. He had put aside the torrent of irritability and overwhelm that trouble him hourly, and found grace in a spiral of petals. Through a humble weed, love had broken through. God works this way. He does great things with the meager, and beautiful things with the misshapen. He chooses the smallest, the humblest, the most broken as his servants. (1 Sam 16:10-12, Numbers 12:3, 1 Tim 1:15) He works for good through the greatest calamity. (Gen 50:20) With his most beloved broken and crushed, he reaches through the firmament, and in love makes things new. (Rev 21:5) Where we see weakness, he offers grace. (2 Cor 12:9) He shatters pride, so new blossoms can burst forth. I've spent the past few months wrestling with God. After Pip's evaluation, as we clumsily felt out life with special needs, the questions of why wrapped around my heart, infusing me with daily bitterness. Resentment broiled to the surface. I'd left medicine to follow God's call, but a large part of me, in shocking arrogance, wanted to comply on my terms. Over the past two years, God has compelled me to confront my idols. I thrived on productivity. But now I inevitably find grime in corners I have just cleaned. I prized efficiency. But it now takes 30 minutes of wrangling over potty... I'm an introvert, who needs alone time to rejuvenate. But is anyone less alone than a mom with young kids? A "save the world" mentality drives me. But my daily life fodder is now the mundane. I relish instant gratification. But this business of shepherding hearts is long, with few immediate rewards. I relished accolades... I consider God's graciousness to us, and in the stillness of a springtime morning, I struggle for breath. His mercy toward us in this season -- in the face of my arrogance, despite the brokenness to which I've so stalwartly clung -- is stunning. During all the years of my training and career, homeschooling was never the plan. God inexplicably placed the idea in my heart, like a shadow that deepened daily. But now, I see how perfect were his methods. I shudder to think of how our family would struggle if I was still barreling ahead at the hospital, subsumed with my own self importance, while Pip fought daily to deal with every crowd... Homeschooling was never the plan. . . but oh, what a plan! That he called us this way, was mercy manifest. That he has equipped us to continue, is the greatest gift. Even on the hard days, I count it all joy. On the days when Pip, after a week of handling things so well, has a meltdown in the grocery store, complete with screaming and a blow to my chin -- there is joy there. God can work even with our ugliness. Through Christ, God redeems even the most corrupt. He assembles the stray petals, the unseemly stems, and makes things new. He strips away the idolatry of a surgeon desperate to prove her own worth, and points her toward the fount of all worth -- Christ Jesus. There is a deep well of peace in serving God where he has placed you. There is a refining grace, in realizing his work even in the hard moments. There is a profound beauty in redemption -- in the love that breaks forth through brokenness -- if we can only put away our preoccupations, and embrace his will. "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." -- 2 Cor 12:9

So we have a twofold challenge to the social task of forging life in common: the deep, confessional diversity that shapes how we think about a life well lived and the norms for a good society; and the corrosive, antisocial forces—often fostered by the pseudo-community of the market and the state—that incline us toward Randian self-interest and self-preservation. Atlas shrugs while the ties that bind fray to breaking.

The worldly body is a prison for the believer, not because this life is miserable for the believing soul, but because that soul yearns to be somewhere greater. It yearns to be Home. No matter how wonderful this life is for a believer, it is a prison compared to the Perfect life that awaits them.

the long-deferred breaking of the storm with a courage and embittered calm that had come to her in her extremity. Hope had not died. Doubt and fear, subservient to her will, no longer gave her sleepless nights and tortured days. Love remained. All that she had loved she now loved the more. She seemed to feel that she was defiantly flinging the wealth of her love in the face of misfortune and of hate. No day passed but she prayed for all—and most fervently for her enemies. It troubled her that she had lost, or had never gained, the whole control of her mind. In some measure reason and wisdom and decision were locked in a chamber of her brain, awaiting a key. Power to think of some things was taken from her. Meanwhile, abiding a day of judgment, she fought ceaselessly to deny the bitter drops in her cup, to tear back the slow, the intangibly slow growth of a hot, corrosive lichen eating into her heart.

External forces or unforeseen events can either break you or make you. You decide what happens. However, know that none of them can ever touch your soul, wherein lies your power and wherein your dream awaits.

I’ve been up close,’ said Agnes. ‘It looks like she is standing still but actually she is walking. She is breaking out of the chains of the past. Of slavery. Of civil war. And she is heading towards liberty. But she is caught for ever in that moment of stopped time. Look, can you see? Stop looking at the torch and look at her feet. She’s moving, but not moving. Heading towards a better future, but not quite there yet. Like you, Tom. You’ll see. Your new life awaits.

I want to share with you some other words from my friend Ray. I hope they will be as big an encouragement to you as they are to me. This is our ultimate accountability. Let’s get ready. Let’s live with purpose. Let’s live in repentance. Let’s be aware, moment by moment, that right now counts forever. What we think, what we say, what we feel, what we do and don’t do—we matter. We matter to Christ. We will matter forever. And very soon we will “report in.” This is solemnizing. This is dignifying. It is also encouraging. What if, as you stand there before Christ your Judge on that great and final day, surrounded by all the redeemed, each one awaiting his or her moment before the Lord—what if, standing there before him, he asks, “Everyone, I want to know who among you appreciated this person’s ministry? Who would like to bear witness to how he helped you for my sake?” And no one says anything. Total silence. Awkward silence. Everyone is embarrassed. Everyone is thinking, Would somebody please say something? You are standing there wondering, So my entire life comes down to this? What a failure I am! But then one voice does break that terrible silence. The Lord himself stands and says, “Well, I appreciated his ministry!” It’s an improbable scenario. But putting it like that does isolate the most urgent question of all. Is the approval of Jesus enough for you and for me? Do we love him enough, do we revere him enough, that his judgment is the one we’re living for? We care what others think. We want to please them (1 Cor. 10:33). But only one opinion will count finally and forever.5 And if I could add one more thing to what Ray has said here, it would be this: The devil has a file on us, to be sure. But the Lord’s got one too (Rev. 21:27).

The diagnostic enterprise hinges on an optimistic notion: that disease is part of a natural world that only awaits our understanding. But even if this is true, nature gives up its secrets grudgingly, and our finite senses are in some ways ill suited to extracting them. More important, our prejudices lead us to tear nature where we want it to break. Science, especially modern medicine, is founded on this equally optimistic idea: that experts can purge their inquiry of prejudice and desire, and map the landscape of suffering along its natural boundaries.

That come Saturday, when you don’t show in Samara, he’ll come looking, even if it means violating his leave policy. You’re pinning your hopes that he’ll break the rules for you. That he’ll save you, since your own mother hasn’t lifted a finger for you.” My throat moves even though I’m too dehydrated to swallow. “He won’t wait until Saturday,” Liam promises. “That’s what I’m counting on.” Varrish nods. “I waited all year for you to break a rule so I could question you under Codex. Your mom’s a real rule follower that way. But you have no idea the joy it gives me to know that Fen Riorson’s son will break Codex by abandoning his post to come to your aid, that he’ll be strapped to this chair next. And he will give me the answers I seek.” Wait. What? “Shit. He’s not just questioning you. He’s setting a trap for Xaden.” Liam tenses. My heart starts to pound. “You have so much power here, Sorrengail. You alone can save Lieutenant Riorson from what awaits him should he arrive. Tell me what I want to know, and I won’t hurt him.” For a heartbeat, I’m tempted. The thought of Xaden being tortured makes my hand curl and my nails catch on the rough grain of the wooden slab. “Where are you trying to ward? What are the marked ones up to?” “Hold the line, Vi.” Liam rests his hand against my side, and gods it feels so real. “Talking would lead to the deaths of every living thing on this Continent. If they had anything on Xaden, he’d already be in custody. They’re not going to hurt him. They can’t.” Logically, I know that, but emotionally…