Crafts For Kids Quotes

One thing I know for sure about raising children is that every single day a kid needs discipline.... But also every single day a kid needs a break.

You don't have to like everyone, but you don't have to be a jerk about it, either.

Never comfort someone with a lie.

John Davis smells like Play-Doh. When we were in elementary school, it wasn’t a big deal. I mean, we were kids. Play-Doh was pretty high on the awesome scale. But there comes a time when a guy should stop smelling like crafting supplies and develop a more manly scent, like campfire or gym floor.

The kids were to bring one hundred of something, and to dress like old people. Lest any twenty-first-century mother find a moment not devoted to proving maternal devotion through crafts.

Calvin's Mom confronts him as he stands at the open front door, going to school: Calvin, are you going to take that stuffed tiger to school again? Calvin: Sure. Calvin's Mom: Don't the kids make fun of you? Calvin: Tommy Chestnutt did once, and now nobody does. Calvin's Mom: Why? What happened to Tommy Chestnutt ? Calvin: Hobbes ate him! Hobbes [The stuffed tiger]: Ugh! He needed a bath, too.

A reporter once asked me why I think progressive men who earn significantly less than their breadwinning wives still won't quit their jobs to take care of their children. Why do they still hold on to their careers, even if taking care of the children would make more financial sense because the cost of childcare is higher than their net salary? I think I know the answer to that now, and it sucks. Women are not expected to live a life for themselves. When women dedicate their lives to children, it is deemed a worthy and respectable choice. When women dedicate themselves to a passion outside of the family that doesn't involve worshiping their husbands or taking care of their kids, they're seen as selfish, cold, or unfit mothers. But when a man spends hours grueling over a craft, profession, or project, he's admired and seen as a genius. And when a man finds a woman who worships him, who dedicates her life to serving him, he's lucky. But when a man dedicates himself to taking care of his children it's seen as a last resort. That it must be because he ran out of other options. That it's plan Z. That it's an indicator of his inability to provide for his family. Basically, that he's a fucking loser. I think it's one of the most important falsehoods we need to shatter when talking about women's rights.

Now we can craft a Crafting Table.

Women are not expected to live a life for themselves. When women dedicate their lives to children, it is deemed a worthy and respectable choice. When women dedicate themselves to a passion outside of the family that doesn’t involve worshipping their husbands or taking care of their kids, they’re seen as selfish, cold, or unfit mothers. But when a man spends hours grueling over a craft, profession, or project, he’s admired and seen as a genius. And when a man finds a woman who worships him, who dedicates her life to serving him, he’s lucky. But when a man dedicates himself to taking care of his children it’s seen as a last resort. That it must be because he ran out of other options. That it’s plan Z. That it’s an indicator of his inability to provide for his family. Basically, that he’s a fucking loser.

Confession: Having kids did not fix me. I was not somehow more whole, less botched-up, or more certain just because I had a kid... I was still me, with all my holes and problems and questions - only now I was also exhuasted and had a lot more laundry to do.

We had a special Construction class today. At first, they just went on about the super easy stuff. Stuff even I knew. Like how it's a really good idea to put a crafting table and a furnace next to each other. Who doesn't know that? They're made for one another. Aww.

We recently graduated from school, and the mayor gave us one last little school assignment. We had to write about our chosen profession. Twenty pages, too. Now, I love my village and all, and have absolutely zero regrets about becoming a warrior, but dude, c'mon. Who wants to write twenty pages about anything? Luckily, Runt thought of a way for us to avoid writing so much without breaking the rules, and every other student copied Runt's idea. Needless to say, the mayor wasn't too thrilled about that. Guess that's why Runt is back to crafting potato-based food items." Resisting the urge to ask 'What's a potato?', I nodded. "Hmm. Do you think I'll be able to speak with him?" "Probably,

Well, I just took a nap on an enchanting table. And when I did, I learned something very important. Enchanting tables are very, very uncomfortable. In other words, nothing happened. I feel like I’ve been scammed! I just want to be able to kick a zombie so hard it flies back thirty blocks. At least thirty. Is that too much to ask?! Hurrmmmph!

Nowadays, we're all expected to make lunches in the shape of Frozen characters, put our kids in stylish clothes, spend our weekends making elaborate Pintrest inspired balloon-animal melted-crayon ombre-cookie crafts, and having our families and homes look like they just walked out of a page from Real Simple magazine-the pressure is enormous. And its stupid.

When you accidentally mistake a kitten for a chunk of wool while trying to craft a carpet, well . . . that’s when you know you need to take a break.

I woke up before the sun

When I was a poor kid in Maine, my collection of used paperbacks was like a pile of cheap vacations.

After thirty minutes of Mob History II, Runt will turn into a zombie. Runt will make moaning sounds. Runt will head toward the nearest door and break it down.

But Pebble, Donkey, and Rock said it was the stupidest-looking house they’d ever seen. Um, wasn’t that the point … ? Noobs!

We're still family-owned, which keeps life a whole lot simpler. When my wife and kids and I decide to make a business move, we don't have to ask Wall Street about it.

Children are the future of a nation. If the children are intelligent, the country will be prosperous. Thai proverb

An author who adds a prologue to his novel is kidding himself if he thinks the reader won’t recognize it for what it is: backstory.

As if that wasn’t enough, a creeper rushed in and exploded.

Then creepers climbed the staircase. Oh, yeah, that iron golem was still hanging around. He looked really sad, too, with his head always lowered like that. Anyway, back to the cube—

All Persians are liars and lying is a sin. That's what the kids in Mrs. Miller's class think, but I'm the only Persian they've ever met, so I don't know where they got that idea. My mom says it's true, but only because everyone has sinned and needs God to save them. My dad says it isn't. Persians aren't liars. They're poets, which is worse. Poets don't even know when they're lying. They're just trying to remember their dreams. They're trying to remember six thousand years of history and all the versions of all the stories ever told. In one version, maybe I'm not the refugee kid in the back of Mrs. Miller's class. I'm a prince in disguise. If you catch me, I will say what they say in the 1,001 Nights. "Let me go, and I will tell you a tale passing strange." That's how they all begin. With a promise. If you listen, I'll tell you a story. We can know and be known to each other, and then we're not enemies anymore.

I think if a writer is being honest they’d admit to a file full of a dozen or more stories that are all started to varying degrees. They’re like the kid who wants to be a firefighter and a police officer and an astronaut.

There's no way around it. Motherhood is hard. And you young moms put more pressure on yourselves than we ever did, with your crafts and your activities. Do you know what we called crafts when David was young? Chores. We didn't play with our kids, we sent them outside. All day. They'd only come back in when the streetlights came on. You moms have it different. You're expected to be on 24/7 and look good doing it. My advice is this. Stop being so hard on yourself. And drink more vodka.

They walked on into the dark and they slept like dogs in the sand and had been sleeping so when something black flapped up out of the night ground and perched on Sproule's chest. Fine fingerbones stayed the leather wings with which it steadied as it walked upon him. A wrinkled pug face, small and vicious, bare lips crimped in a horrible smile and teeth pale blue in the starlight. It leaned to him. It crafted in his neck two narrow grooves and folding its wings over him it began to drink his blood. Not soft enough. He woke, put up a hand. He shrieked and the bloodbat flailed and sat back upon his chest and righted itself again and hissed and clicked its teeth. The kid was up and had seized a rock but the bat sprang away and vanished in the dark. Sproule was clawing at his neck and he was gibbering hysterically and when he saw the kid standing there looking down at him he held out to him his bloodied hands as if in accusation and then clapped them to his ears and cried out what it seemed he himself would not hear, a howl of such outrage as to stitch a caesura in the pulsebeat of the world. But the kid only spat into the darkness of the space between them. I know your kind, he said. What's wrong with you is wrong all the way through you.

Most people say, “Show, don’t tell,” but I stand by Show and Tell, because when writers put their work out into the world, they’re like kids bringing their broken unicorns and chewed-up teddy bears into class in the sad hope that someone else will love them as much as they do.

And so, for the rest of the day, I learned a few things from Steve. While we were crafting tools, he asked if he could borrow the wooden stick I’d been playing with earlier. I told him it’d be his for the low, low price of just twenty emeralds . . . Yeah. I’m definitely learning.

He never looks at comics these days, even though they’ve become fashionable to the point where adults are allowed to read them without fear of ridicule. Ironically, in David’s view, this makes them a lot more ridiculous than when they were intended as a perfectly legitimate and often beautifully crafted means of entertaining kids. At age thirteen, David’s idea of heaven was somewhere that comics were acclaimed and readily available, perhaps with dozens of big budget movies featuring his favourite obscure costumed characters. Now that he’s in his fifties and his paradise is all around him he finds it depressing. Concepts and ideas meant for the children of some forty years ago: is that the best that the twenty-first century has got to offer? When all this extraordinary stuff is happening everywhere, are Stan Lee’s post-war fantasies of white neurotic middle-class American empowerment really the most adequate response?

We began crafting ways to apply defusion and self skills to coping with the fear and pain of acceptance. Learning to defuse from the voice of the Dictator helps us keep a healthy distance from the negative messages that pop uninvited into our minds, like “Who are you kidding, you can’t deal with this!” It also helps diminish the power of the unhelpful relations that have been embedded in our thought networks, which are often activated by the pain involved in acceptance. For example, the relation between smoking a cigarette and feeling better will be triggered by the discomfort of craving a smoke. Reconnecting with our authentic self helps us practice self-compassion as we open up to unpleasant aspects of our lives, not berating ourselves for making mistakes or for feeling fear about dealing with the pain. We see beyond the image of a broken, weak, or afflicted self to the powerful true self that can choose to feel pain.

Listen, kid. I know you understand more than everyone thinks. Now, I’m gonna tell you what I told Ellie on her first day of school. Everything worth doing starts out scary. You’re gonna make friends and play games and do crafts and eat snacks, and you’re gonna have so much fun you won’t even wanna leave, but you’ve gotta take that first step. And I’m going to be right down the hall.

We don’t think about how we want to spend our time, and so we spend massive amounts of time on things—television, Web surfing, housework, errands—that give a slight amount of pleasure or feeling of accomplishment, but do little for our careers, our families, or our personal lives. We spend very little time on things that require more thought or initiative, like nurturing our kids, exercising, or engaging in the limited hours we do work in deliberate practice of our professional crafts. We try to squeeze these high-impact activities around the edges of things that are easy, or that seem inevitable merely because we always do them or because we think others expect us to. And consequently, we feel overworked and underrested, and tend to believe stories that confirm this view.

Send it and end it, kid.” Court would fire, sending a boat-tail round across fields and lakes, over cabins and farms, and, more often than not, much more often than not, he’d hit his target, thereby ending the “threat.” He’d send it, and he’d end it. He thought back to those days, the fundamentals of the craft, and he fought again to remain calm. He forced himself not to feel any emotion at all. Any increase in heart rate, fluctuation in breathing, new sweating on his skin that could cause reflex muscle contractions. Anything different with his body at the moment he fired would affect his shot. It could send the round out of the barrel one hundredth of an inch from where he wanted the muzzle positioned for firing, but translated out across 1.81 miles, the round would end up several feet off target.

The value of the tape was also the crafting of a mixtape. I am from an era when we learned not to waste songs. If you are creating a cassette that you must listen to all the way through, and you are crafting it with your own hands and your own ideas, then it is on you not to waste sounds and to structure a tape with feeling. No skippable songs meant that I wouldn’t have to take my thick gloves off during the chill of a Midwest winter to hit fast-forward on a Walkman, hoping that I would stop a song just in time. No skippable songs meant that when the older, cooler kids on my bus ride to school asked what I was listening to in my headphones, armed with an onslaught of jokes if my shit wasn’t on point, I could hand my headphones over, give them a brief listen of something that would pass quality control, and keep myself safe from humiliation for another day.

As we leave our youth, there’s a pull toward complacency. We can start to coast, settle for what’s familiar and lose the juicy desire to expand our frontiers. We adopt the paradigm of a victim. We make excuses and then recite them so many times we train our subconscious mind to think they are true. We blame other people and outer conditions for our struggles, and we condemn past events for our private wars. We grow cynical and lose the curiosity, wonder, compassion and innocence we knew as kids. We become apathetic. Critical. Hardened. Within this personal ecosystem the majority of us create for ourselves, mediocrity then becomes acceptable. And because this mindset is running within us each day, the viewpoint seems so very real to us. We truly believe that the story we are running reveals the truth—because we’re so close to it. So, rather than showing leadership in our fields, owning our crafts by producing dazzling work and handcrafting delicious lives, we resign ourselves to average.

Great teaching is the ability to distinguish between what can and needs to be explained and what cannot be explained. The working of a computer needs to be explained as it is made by the human mind. But a butterfly need not always be explained. A butterfly has to be seen with gleaming eyes of wonder as it is a natural expression of life and not of the mind. Great teaching is more like a craft than a technique. To evoke the curiosity in the learner, to care for the learner and to take the learner on a journey of discovery are some of the most critical elements of this craft.

And this isn’t high school. Now that you’re not worried that (a) your skirt is too short or too long and the other kids will laugh at you, (b) you’re not going to make the varsity swimming team, (c) you’re still going to be a pimple-studded virgin when you graduate (probably when you die, for that matter), (d) the physics teacher won’t grade the final on a curve, or (e) nobody really likes you anyway AND THEY NEVER DID… now that all that extraneous shit is out of the way, you can study certain academic matters with a degree of concentration you could never manage while attending the local textbook loonybin.

Max cooked up a story about an enderman who wants to be a professional swimmer. The enderman is willing to pay 500 emeralds for a Potion of Water Resistance (so he doesn't burn while in the water). ② After hearing about the enderman, tons of kids at school freaked out. They wanted to brew that potion. Kids kept bugging the Brewing teacher about it. How do I craft one? What's the secret recipe? And so on. (The Brewing teacher got so annoyed, he called in sick today.) ③ Max and I dug up most of the sand around the village. (You need sand to make glass, glass to craft bottles, and bottles to brew potions.) ④ Yesterday, we spent hours crafting bottles.

When traditional cultures are outlawed, that is the homogenization of culture. It’s an old story, which could be told by any Native American, or by my grandparents, who fled pogroms and saw the Eastern European Yiddishkeit they were born into disperse and disappear in a single generation. By the time I headed home to the land of obscenely stocked supermarket shelves, I had come to the conclusion that no matter what I said or did, my presence in Africa served only to glamorize the capitalist world order, adding to the seductive allure that if you abandon your traditional culture, educate your kids in colonial languages at missionary schools, and grow cacao beans for export, maybe someday you’ll accumulate the kind of excess wealth to travel to the other side of the globe, just for fun and stimulation.

Golden Rule #17 Don’t mine stone with your bare hands. Long, long ago, there was a noob named Steven. He harvested wood with his bare hands because he thought using tools was a waste of resources. Why reduce tool durability? Why bother crafting axes at all? Steven’s hands had no durability, as far as he knew. Even if it took him longer to chop down trees this way, he could save materials. He could punch and punch all day and never waste any crafting tools. Steven was the kind of guy who, after loaning his best friend a wooden sword six months earlier, would ask for exactly one stick and two oak planks to be returned. Once, Steven and two friends bought a cake together. The cake cost six emeralds and was cut into six slices. That meant each person had to pay two emeralds. However, one of Steven’s cake slices was slightly smaller than the rest, so he argued that he should have to pay only 1.75 emeralds instead.

When, one day, Kamaswami held against him that he had learned everything he knew from him, he replied: “Would you please not kid me with such jokes! What I’ve learned from you is how much a basket of fish costs and how much interests may be charged on loaned money. These are your areas of expertise. I haven’t learned to think from you, my dear Kamaswami, you ought to be the one seeking to learn from me.” Indeed his soul was not with the trade. The business was good enough to provide him with the money for Kamala, and it earned him much more than he needed. Besides this, Siddhartha’s interest and curiosity was only concerned with the people, whose businesses, crafts, worries, pleasures, and acts of foolishness used to be as alien and distant to him as the moon. However easily he succeeded in talking to all of them, in living with all of them, in learning from all of them, he was still aware that there was something which separated him from them and this separating factor was him being a Samana. He saw mankind going through life

I stood next to Breeze in a small quartz room. A sea lantern served as the only light source, bathing the room in its pale blue light. Against the center of one wall stood a mysterious object. It was three meters tall, three meters wide, and flat, like a banner. However, instead of dyed wool was a surface like the calmest pool of water. Breeze reached out with her right hand. Her fingers touched those of her reflection. After she lowered her arm, we continued staring at ourselves in silence. In awe. It was the first time we'd seen ourselves this way. But more than that were our outfits. Our clothes were made of spider silk, a type of cloth crafted using spider string. Puddles, the owner of the Clothing Castle, had worked with the humans for days to craft perfect recreations of Earth fashion. Then, to make us look even more majestic, our cloaks had been modified to fall over our shoulders. Poster children. Symbols of hope. Villagetown's biggest stars. That's what we've become. Some say it's sweet: a budding romance between two young heroes fighting valiantly against all odds. I'd say that's an exaggeration. Although Breeze and I are close, we haven't had much time for anything beyond battle or preparing for the next. I guess the mayor wants to change that, though. The people need something to believe in, he says. I suppose that's why he whisked us away in

Your story isn’t powerful enough if all it does is lead the horse to water; it has to inspire the horse to drink, too. On social media, the only story that can achieve that goal is one told with native content. Native content amps up your story’s power. It is crafted to mimic everything that makes a platform attractive and valuable to a consumer—the aesthetics, the design, and the tone. It also offers the same value as the other content that people come to the platform to consume. Email marketing was a form of native content. It worked well during the 1990s because people were already on email; if you told your story natively and provided consumers with something they valued on that platform, you got their attention. And if you jabbed enough to put them in a purchasing mind-set, you converted. The rules are the same now that people spend their time on social media. It can’t tell you what story to tell, but it can inform you how your consumer wants to hear it, when he wants to hear it, and what will most make him want to buy from you. For example, supermarkets or fast-casual restaurants know from radio data that one of the ideal times to run an ad on the radio is around 5:00 P.M., when moms are picking up the kids and deciding what to make for dinner, and even whether they have the energy to cook. Social gives you the same kind of insight. Maybe the data tells you that you should post on Facebook early in the morning before people settle

lived in the house. There were aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and friends. A grill was set up on the patio, and delicious smells wafted from platters of burgers on picnic tables in the yard. It was the perfect sort of day for Munchy to get her fill of people blood. Who would have thought that giving a person one tiny bite could result in such a delightful snack? Munchy was aware that most people thought she was a pest. They tried to swat her whenever she got near, but Munchy was fast and an expert at dodging humans’ flailing fingers. I don’t want to hurt anyone, Munchy thought. But a mosquito bite just takes a second, and then I fly off to find the next person. Satisfied at last, Munchy buzzed back to the garden where she lived with her best friends Wiggly Worm, Rattles Snake, and Snarky Snail. “I’m full!” she announced. “I don’t think I’ll eat for a week!” “There’s some kind of celebration going on over there,” remarked Wiggly, who was playing in the dirt. “I know!” smiled Munchy. “The family has so many guests over—so many guests with delicious blood.” Snarky made a face. “I think it’s the Fourth of July or something—but, Munchy, do you really have to do that to people? Mosquito bites make them awfully uncomfortable.” “Only for a second,” Munchy replied. “It’s just an itty-bitty sting.” “No, it isn’t,” protested Snarky, who ventured into the backyard more than any of his friends. “Mosquito bites are itchy and uncomfortable for a long time—sometimes several days. I’ve seen those two little kids scratching and complaining about bites you’ve given them.” “I think that’s true,” agreed Rattles, who also went into the yard more often, now that the humans knew he was a friendly rattlesnake. “Oh, no,” murmured Munchy. Mosquito bites hadn’t seemed like a big deal before—but they did now. She didn’t want to be responsible for making people feel itchy all the time! With a sigh, Munchy said, “I guess I’ve got to quit. From now on, I’ll stick to sugar-water shakes at the Garden Town soda fountain—but it isn’t going to be easy!” With some help from her friends, Munchy was able to stop biting people once and for all. And, when the other mosquitoes that lived in the garden heard about her new lifestyle, they decided to give it a shot, as well. In no time, the backyard was practically a mosquito-safe zone! The kids and their friends could now play in the yard for hours with no worries about being bitten. They had no more itchy skin and no more discomfort. Munchy felt like she had done a wonderful thing. And no one ever tried to swat her away again! Just for Fun Activity Make itty-bitty bugs using circles of Fun Foam for bodies, tissue paper cut-outs for wings, googly eyes (you can find them at craft stores), and shortened pipe cleaners for long, skinny noses and legs. Have fun!

I think so. My father has had those dreams, too. He thinks

Meanwhile, I thought: After thirty minutes of Mob History II, Runt will turn into a zombie. Runt will make moaning sounds. Runt will head toward the nearest door and break it down.

Well done," he said. "Well done … like a noob hugging a blaze!

(Wow, that analogy was even worse than my mooshroom one! I feel a lot better now.)

By the way, the zombie was eating a blue orchid, which was roughly the same color as his shirt. So in this picture, it kinda looks like he’s eating his own shirt. He wasn’t, though. Of course, I could have changed the flower to, say, a pink tulip or something. But I’m going for accuracy here.

Over the past 40 years, the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights (USCCR), an independent government agency, has held numerous hearings on discrimination in border towns surrounding reservations.… In South Dakota, the commission heard testimony about a police department that found reasons to fine Natives hundreds of dollars, then “allowed” them to work off the debt on a ranch. USCCR Rocky Mountain director Malee Craft described the situation as “slave labor.

You may enrich the world with your craft, with your loving relationships or by raising great kids.

Well done," he said. "Well done … like a noob hugging a blaze!" (Wow, that analogy was even worse than my mooshroom one! I feel a lot better now.)

Ohhhhh, we’re gonna dig under it! Ohhhh, we’re clever! Then they discovered—oh, so there is an obsidian floor. LOL

Build, you fools!

If just one more crazy thing had happened, I'd have started mumbling about pufferfish cookies: how to align the eggs, milk and sugar pixel by pixel on the crafting table in a purrfect way to achieve a five star rating from the International Minecraftian Baker's Society, in not only consistency but form and texture, the lightness of the bread, crisp yet never crumbling, with each tiny cube of sugar and baked pufferfish spread evenly throughout the biscuits to achieve a pastry both magnificent to the eye and simply bursting with flavor. But then I wasn't sure if the International Minecraftian Baker's Society had such a refined taste as a Nether Kitten's, and soon I began to wonder if any of them would appreciate the elegance of a cookie made of equal parts sugar and fish.

Oh, okay. That’s all, then. We’ll just go outside and wave to the mobs. Maybe go into their cozy little forest and join them for some tea and cookies.

The mayor looked super scared, like a noob who’d built a small base but forgot to light one small section, and a creeper spawned there, and the base had a hole in the roof, so lightning struck the creeper, turning it into a charged creeper, which blew up the noob’s entire … base.

I think that a book can be the best place for a kid to first encounter some of the evils of the world. Better in the safe confines of a book than in real life.

Rather than teaching you tips and tricks so that you, too, can conform to my predetermined core movements, what if we align around a larger, shared goal? What if we adopted the goal to be with our kids as they get to know God and discover if God can be trusted. To do this, you’ll craft a family faith culture, an intentional set of habits and practices that help you live connected to God and what God is doing in your lives and the world. This is your web.

One family described their core value of hospitality, lived out as they cleaned the house together each Friday for the express purpose of welcoming people over the weekend. They wanted to be able to spontaneously invite others over, knowing their space was ready to receive them. All this was explained to their kids by connecting the dots between the practice of keeping house and the immense welcome of God. They talked about their apartment as a gift and a refuge, and how important it was for it to feel inviting. Hosting people was not about living some Magnolia life; it was how they loved their neighbors. Thus, Friday night cleanup was a faith practice. One family used the tradition of a summer road trip to visit relatives as a means to support being who God uniquely made each of them to be. Each family member got to design the itinerary for one day of the trip. On that day, everyone else went along with that person’s choices for restaurants and an activity. They talked about the wonder of God’s image in each person and how this was a fun way to see each member of the family just as God made them to be. Thus, a family trip was a faith ritual. What about your family? What unique characteristics need to be accounted for as you craft a vision for faith? • Who makes up your family? List the members. You may share a living space with them or not, live in the same town or not, be relationally close or not. • Next to each person on the list, jot down a few distinguishing key traits of that person. What are they like? What are they interested in? • What are some of your family’s strengths and loves as a group? Do you love a good party? Cheer for a certain team? Love a particular place or meal? • What are some of your family’s unique challenges right now? Do you have a child who doesn’t “fit the mold,” for whatever reason? Are finances tight? Have any of the relationships been strained or broken? • List anything else that feels important to you about who your family is and what they are like. What other traits make you, you?

want the other girls

Predetermined prayers work much like that trail, I find. They don’t need to be fancy or crafted, but having them there at the ready can help us find our way to God’s presence. This is especially true in times of hardship. We don’t always remember that kids experience times of hardship (unless they, sadly, have gone through a particular trauma in life). But, as with adults, children have challenging seasons when they don’t know how to pray. During periods of sadness or confusion, we can introduce a ritual of praying one set prayer that can serve as a path to God’s presence.

Since I had two brand new Ender Pearls, all I needed was Blaze powder. I fished around inside my magic expandable pocket and pulled out the yellow Blaze rod I had picked up when I visited the nasty Nether a few worlds back. I plunked it down on the crafting table, and two little piles of yellow powder appeared! That was the easy part. Then came the hard part—putting everything together! Making stuff in Minecraft usually means arranging every single ingredient on a crafting table in EXACTLY the right way. And if just one little thing is out of place, you get NOTHING! Let me tell you, I was NOT looking forward to hours and hours of trial and error and error and error and... But I psyched myself up by remembering that Eyes of Ender were my only way back home! I took a deep breath, and got ready for a long and boring day of flailing around at a crafting table. So of course, after getting myself all worked up, the second I put the ingredients on the crafting table an Eye of Ender instantly appeared! I guess you could say it was “Eye-ronic!” (Heh. Get it? Eye-ronic = ironic!) Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining! I’m just glad that the Minecraft irony worked in MY favor for once! Then quick as a flash, I had two brand new Eyes of Ender! Unfortunately, that didn’t mean my problems were over just yet. The torn page made it sound like I’d need a bunch of Eyes, and I was fresh out of Blaze powder! I couldn’t go back to the Nether (no Nether Portal… and no DEATH WISH either!), so there wasn’t any way for me to get more! Hmm. Or was there? Hanging all over the walls inside the tower, were all kinds of framed pictures. One of them was a Blaze rod, and another one was Blaze powder. They looked totally life-like. Then a crazy idea popped into my head. I reached out, and tapped a picture. The Blaze rod went POP! out of the frame, and onto the floor! It WAS real! I tapped the “picture” of the Blaze powder, and it popped out too! WOW! Man, if I had known the items in the frames were REAL, I’d have pulled out stuff in the other hacker kid houses, and saved myself TONS of time and trouble and, more importantly… PAIN!

The eastern wall … will not fall

They punched the cube. (Why?!)

Eat that, Pebble. We captured the Eye of Herobrine.

If I ever find out which one of you did this," he roared at the students, "after you’re done doing push-ups, you’re gonna resemble a creeper!!" (I’m guessing he meant their arms were going to fall off?)

Take Pebble. Multiply his bad attitude by ten. Give him the ability to cast crazy spells. Now you have Herobrine, the Ultimate Bad Guy.

You know, I’ve been thinking about quitting,” Steve said. “Quitting teaching and building a redstone robot.” “And what would the purpose of this . . . redstone robot be, Steve?” “A food-crafting robot. Night and day, it’d set random types of food on the crafting table, until it finally found a new recipe.” “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Mike said, turning back to the window. “Not even Marky could build something like that! And the guy’s a crafting master!” Steve’s eyes lit up. “Marky! Yes! If only Marky was here! He’d know how to craft pizza!” “But he’s not here, Steve. Accept it. Until we figure out a way to get back to Earth, it’s potatoes and bread.” “I’ll teach a golem to craft food for me!” “No, you won’t.” “Yes, I will! It will craft while I sleep!” Mike groaned, but Steve just laughed. “Supreme pizza, here I come!!

After several months of existing in the Overworld, a zombie will turn into a skeleton. The skeleton will grow smarter. The skeleton will run away if injured." Meanwhile, I thought: After thirty minutes of Mob History II, Runt will turn into a zombie. Runt will make moaning sounds. Runt will head toward the nearest door and break it down.

I’d skated too close to the sun, an Icarus who thought she was Nancy Kerrigan. God heard my self-aggrandizing thoughts and pushed me down on the ice. No, just kidding, that’s not how God works. (I don’t know how God works, but I have to assume that’s not it. Right?)

Pebble, Donkey, and Rock said it was the stupidest-looking house they’d ever seen. Um, wasn’t that the point … ? Noobs!

I.

You know those DIY craft kits for kids, where they supply the blank ceramic base and it's just screaming out for the paint and glitter?" She relented when he cast his eyes ceiling-ward. "It's lovely. Elegant, chic, and perfect for the brief. And inspiringly executed. If I had my Operation Cake crown coin, I'd award you the thousand quid." He addressed her with typically crisp brevity. "Your ingenuity was never in question. But your technical ability now---" "Is neck and neck with yours.

Seconds later the craft took off into the sky and was gone in seconds.

Over the years, Bill has seen hundreds of kids who had relatively low academic motivation but were extremely motivated about something else—crafting, music, sports, or making Star Wars replicas. What he says to the parents of these kids is that so long as they are working hard at something they really enjoy doing, he’s not worried, because he knows they’re shaping a brain that will eventually enable them to be successful.

(By the way, Steve said that in the original game the villagers didn’t have fingers. But here they do. They’re blocky, though. Steve said our fingers look like big French fries. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. And hey, if it’s bad, well … in this world, his fingers look just the same!)

Tonight, she was trying out a nightmare-based match service, which sorted Prospective Matches by “probabilistically verified demonic algorithms,” which were the magic words kids were using to summon and bind investors this year.

Do you want kids?” “I don’t know.” The answer surprised him. “It’s easy to die for someone. You push your chips, and that’s it. It’s harder to imagine living for them, day by day. The responsibility would work you like sand on stone. You set aside your life, your dreams, your fears, the change you wanted to make in this mess of a world. Not all at once, but a little at a time—because they’re sick, they’re scared, they need help with school. You’re needed now, here, by this one person. You do what you can. Work with things as they are. Your kids love you. Maybe a hundred years ago, or even thirty, that would have been enough.” He looked out the window at the dark. “It doesn’t have to be that way.” “Maybe not. But the world is full of people who think they can do better. And it all still looks like this.

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It was a beautiful fall day at the soccer fields when I met Stacy for the first time. The game had just begun when she arrived carrying homemade pumpkin spice muffins with cream cheese frosting for everyone, photos of the jack-o’-lantern she had elaborately carved earlier that morning into the shape of a witch stirring a bubbling cauldron with the rising steam spelling out the word “Boo,” enough material and glue for each of the siblings not playing soccer to make adorable “easy no-sew” bat wings as a fun craft to fill their time, as well as little gift bags for every mother full of Halloween-themed wine charms and sleep masks that were embroidered with “Sleeping for a spell.” Besides her generous gifts, she also looked terrific. She was wearing the perfect fall outfit with just the right number of layers and textures and cool boots. Her hair was beautifully twisted into a loose braid casually thrown over one shoulder. While everyone sat in their lawn chair and screamed at their kid to “attack the ball,” Stacy ran up and down the sidelines taking (no doubt fabulous) photos of her son and overseeing the siblings’ craft bonanza. At this point I should also mention, in case you don’t feel bad enough about yourself, that Stacy has a full-time job outside the home. Like a really important one. I’m not sure what she does exactly, but from the thirty seconds that she slowed down long enough to talk to me, I learned that she works fifty hours a week or so and travels around the country every few days and then comes home and makes her kids pancakes in the shape of clovers for breakfast, because it’s International Clover Day or some shit like that.

It’s not very hard to confuse you," Max said.

Greenish-yellowish brown:

We extracted a great deal of stone for our constant building, leaving huge, dark tunnels. Now those mine tunnels extend far and wide, in confusing twists,

Just made it." And so this was the first step—

You know when you were a teenager and you’d see your mum with her best friends and they’d seem close, but they weren’t like how you were with your friends? There’d be a strange formality between them – a slight awkwardness when they first met. Your mum would clean the house before they came and they would talk about their children’s coughs and plans for their hair. When we were kids, Farly once said to me: ‘Promise we’ll never get like that. Promise when we’re fifty we’ll be exactly the same with each other. I want us to sit on the sofa, stuffing our faces with crisps and talking about thrush. I don’t want to become women who meet up once every couple of months for a craft fair at the NEC.’ I promised. But little did I know how much work it takes to sustain that kind of intimacy with a friend as you get older – it doesn’t just stick around coincidentally.” Excerpt From Everything I Know About Love Dolly Alderton This material may be protected by copyright.

When I say that your family needs to weave your own web, this is how you get there. It’s intentional and ordinary. It’s spiritual and also simple. Such is the power of weaving your own web. You get to partner with the Holy Spirit to craft a way of living life that is joyful, sustainable, and anchored to the character of God. Instead of trying to shove your family into a box, you let your web take on the unique shape and structure it needs to help you all know and trust God more and more. All the while, it feels like you, the way that weaving is ordinary for the spider. And ordinary is enough.

Burninator.” His face was covered in redstone dust. Stump was baking with his parents. His face was covered with the various ingredients required to craft a cake.

Traditionally,” Sir Bedivere continues, “we would be secure inside our castle stronghold, thoroughly protected from the enemy by high, thick walls. Our opponent would then attempt his siege in four distinct stages. First, the commander of the opposing army would call for our surrender, which we would immediately decline, resulting in a spirited exchange of well-crafted insults. Then, the enemy would attempt to scale our walls using waves of expendable foot soldiers. Of course, here we would simply deploy the usual means of repellent, such as flaming arrows, large stones, and boiling oil. Next, they would attempt to breach our defenses by hurling large objects at our walls, including rocks, boulders, and unfortunate prisoners of war. Finally, if they are successful in driving a breach, they would then dispatch their knights for hand-to-hand combat.

to

As today’s young people seek a more coherent sense of identity, the stress that formerly hit them in college, or even after college, now begins in middle school (or younger). By high school, many middle- and upper-class teenagers juggle digital calendars jammed with extracurricular activities that begin as early as 6:00 a.m., after-school study sessions, college entrance exam tutoring, and sports team practices that leave them trailing home after 10:00 p.m.11 Followed by two to three hours of homework.12 Athletes used to specialize in a single sport in high school; now that starts in elementary school. Previously, musicians and artists could freely dabble in various media and instruments throughout high school; present-day teenagers have to claim their craft in middle school. No longer can a kid flirt with a handful of hobbies, discovering various facets of their personality and passions, before choosing what they love. There’s so little time for thoughtful and measured exploration in high school that young adults end up exploring their skills and passions well into their twenties. A recent study showed that 13- to 17-year-olds are more likely to feel “extreme stress” than adults.13 Even more alarming is that the adults closest to young people are often blind to their heightened stress levels. Approximately 20 percent of teenagers confess that they worry “a great deal” about current and future life events. But only 8 percent of the parents of these same teenagers report that their child is experiencing a great deal of stress.14 Parents often don’t realize the constant heat felt by adolescents, increasing the pressure for them to figure out who they are and what’s important to them. After adolescence, emerging adults race from the proverbial stress-filled pot into the stress-fueled fire.15 Fewer college students are reporting “above-average” health since this question was first asked in 1985.16

You can craft out an invisible block by using 1 ladder, 1 block of your choice, 1 grass block and 1 bone meal. How cool is that?        

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ARE YOU READY FOR THIS?!

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You see, God wants you to be alive and share in that life with your children. He wants to help you develop a foundation of joy, imagination, and beauty in the lives you share together. Experiences like those described above, as with any other part of life, don’t just happen. You must have a plan. What kind of home do you want to live in? How can you craft a home and a schedule that is interesting for you and your children? In taking responsibility for being a conductor of the music of your and your family’s life, you will find joy and fulfillment, and, as I did with my sweet kids, eventually find that you have developed your own best friends out of your own children, who have learned to love what you love.