Everyday Is Mother's Day Quotes

In all of your living, don't forget to live.

In the time you will live, there will be heroes around. Simple men, honest men who work two jobs, go to school, raise a family, and serve our God. An older couple who have the courage to seek out the truth while enduring the scorn and ridicule of their children and friends. A young man, a special spirit, who will take on a body that is deformed- and yet you will never see hime unhappy or without a smile on his face. A young mother who will care for a daughter while she suffers a painful death, and yet never doubt or loose faith that her Father loves them both. In your worl famous people will be hard to find. But you will be surrounded by heroes, you will meet them everyday. They will be the simple people who struggle but never give up, those who strive to be happy despite the cares of the physical world, those who dream of the day when they will find the truth, those who search for understanding as to why they were born, why there is pain, or what it all means, and yet continure to endure, knowing in their soul, somewhere deep inside, that there has to be an answer. These are the heroes that our Father needs down on earth. And you will be a hero. We already know that.

With the birth of Akash, in his sudden, perfect presence, Ruma had felt awe for the first time in her life. He still had the power to stagger her at times--simply the fact that he was breathing, that all his organs were in their proper places, that blood flowed quietly and effectively through his small, sturdy limbs. He was her flesh and blood, her mother had told her in the hospital the day Akash was born. Only the words her mother used were more literal, enriching the tired phrase with meaning: "He is made from your meat and bone." It had caused Ruma to acknowledge the supernatural in everyday life. But death, too, had the power to awe, she knew this now-that a human being could be alive for years and years, thinking and breathing and eating, full of a million worries and feelings and thoughts, taking up space in the world, and then, in an instant, become absent, invisible.

Everyday I've got is my Mother's Day!

He told her: he fell from the sky and lived. She took a deep breath and believed him, because of her father's faith in the myriad and contradictory possibilities of life, and because, too, of what the mountain had taught her. "Okay," she said, exhaling. "I'll buy it. Just don't tell my mother, all right?" The universe was a place of wonders, and only habituation, the anaesthesia of the everyday, dulled our sight. She had read, a couple of days back, that as part of their natural processes of combustion, the stars in the skies crushed carbon into diamonds. The idea of the stars raining diamonds into the void: that sounded like a miracle, too. If that could happen, so could this. Babies fell out of zillionth-floor windows and bounced. There was a scene about that in François Truffaut's movie L'Argent du Poche...She focused her thoughts. "Sometimes," she decided to say, "wonderful things happen to me, too.

In the months that followed my mother's death, I managed to look like a normal person. I walked the street; I answered my phone; I brushed my teeth; most of the time. But I was not OK. I was in grief. Nothing seemed important. Daily tasks were exhausting. Dishes piled in the sink, knives crusted with strawberry jam. At one point I did not wash my hair for ten days. I felt that I had abruptly arrived at a terrible, insistent truth about the impermanence of everyday.

Dont act like you are walking around with a Tshirt that says "I give Up!" on the front and on the back saying "I never started trying!" People can bring you down, situations happen, YOU can feel like Life is the shittiest thing to deal with. BLAH BLAH BLAH.. If you're walking through Hell, keep going! Everyday there's a new challenge. Face it! Deal with it! Move on! To every problem there is a solution or a way around it.. Stop being a sour mongral and think life owes you something.. No one will do anything for you these days. Start fighting. Get rid of ALL the shit people in your Life. Grow some balls of steel and work progressively through everything. Step by Step or what ever mad method you have to get you back in line again. Who cares, if people don't like you, BURN that mother of a bridge down. It was never meant to be.. Build New ones! Many roads to cross and new paths on life to Explore.. It starts with YOU.. And if people want to judge you, tell them to F/O and look in the mirror. Time for a new game.. It's called "Take over the World" WHOOOP WHOOOP!!

You must have been the best mother in the world. Have prayed seventeen times a day...just for me. Been the strongest woman on earth. Had a direct connection to God. Have been hand-picked to parent a daughter like me. Know how much I miss you everyday. Not a day goes by that I don't think of you. You are woven into every thought, dream and ambition I possess...... Happy Mother's Day, mom. I miss you and love you.....

Good is to be found neither in the sermons of religious teachers and prophets, nor in the teachings of sociologists and popular leaders, nor in the ethical systems of philosophers... And yet ordinary people bear love in their hearts, are naturally full of love and pity for any living thing. At the end of the day's work they prefer the warmth of the hearth to a bonfire in the public square. Yes, as well as this terrible Good with a capital 'G', there is everyday human kindness. The kindness of an old woman carrying a piece of bread to a prisoner, the kindness of a soldier allowing a wounded enemy to drink from his water-flask, the kindness of youth towards age, the kindness of a peasant hiding an old Jew in his loft. The kindness of a prison guard who risks his own liberty to pass on letters written by a prisoner not to his ideological comrades, but to his wife and mother. The private kindness of one individual towards another; a petty, thoughtless kindness; an unwitnessed kindness. Something we could call senseless kindness. A kindness outside any system of social or religious good. But if we think about it, we realize that this private, senseless, incidental kindness is in fact eternal. It is extended to everything living, even to a mouse, even to a bent branch that a man straightens as he walks by. Even at the most terrible times, through all the mad acts carried out in the name of Universal Good and the glory of States, times when people were tossed about like branches in the wind, filling ditches and gullies like stones in an avalanche – even then this senseless, pathetic kindness remained scattered throughout life like atoms of radium.

...home is less a location than a discipline. It is a way of being, a domestic, considered attention to familiar routines and the small, essential details of everyday life. From now on, I promised myself, home would be wherever I was, not the place that I one day hoped it to be. I would create it by being present. I would try to do better.

To all the mothers out there. Happy mothers day. May the Lord give you more years to live and enough strength to face the daily challenges. May he blesses you. May he keep you, until you see your children succeed in life. Thanks for all the love and for making sure we grow up right. I have felt God’s love through you. Everyday to me it’s a Happy Mothers Day , because there is no day were you stopped being a mother to me.

Things that remind me of Mother are these: the truth ‘mid deception, a warm summer breeze, the calm within chaos, a stitch in a rip, a comforting blanket, the smile on her lip, an ocean of love in a heart big as whales, the morals in everyday stories she tells, a wink amid laughter, the wisdom in books, the peace in humility, beauty in looks, the light and the life in a ray of the sun, the hard work accomplished disguised as pure fun, concern in a handclasp, encouragement too, the hope in a clear morning sky azure blue, the power in prayers uttered soft and sincere, the faith in a promise, and joy in a tear. These things all attest to the wonder and grace of my precious mother, none else could replace.

Whether pilgrim or wayfarer, while seeking to be taught the Truth (or something), the disciple learns only that there is nothing that anyone else can teach him. He learns, once he is willing to give up being taught, that he already knows how to live, that it is implied in his own tale. The secret is that there is no secret. Everything is just what it seems to be. This is it! There are no hidden meanings. Before he is enlightened, a man gets up each morning to spend the day tending his fields, returns home to eat his supper, goes to bed, makes love to his woman, and falls asleep. But once he has attained enlightenment, then a man gets up each morning to spend the day tending his fields, returns home to eat his supper, goes to bed, makes love to his woman, and falls asleep. The Zen way to see the truth is through your everyday eyes.2 It is only the heartless questioning of life-as-it-is that ties a man in knots. A man does not need an answer in order to find peace. He needs only to surrender to his existence, to cease the needless, empty questioning. The secret of enlightenment is when you are hungry, eat; and when you are tired, sleep. The Zen Master warns: “If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him!” This admonition points up that no meaning that comes from outside of ourselves is real. The Buddhahood of each of us has already been obtained. We need only recognize it. Philosophy, religion, patriotism, all are empty idols. The only meaning in our lives is what we each bring to them. Killing the Buddha on the road means destroying the hope that anything outside of ourselves can be our master. No one is any bigger than anyone else. There are no mothers or fathers for grown-ups, only sisters and brothers.

Occasionally, especially at celebratory times, the whole gang of us would launch into a spontaneous mental game. For example, my mother used to send me to the back porch (a room containing no furniture but a simply incredible mass of Stuff) to get flour for holiday cakes or pies. I often returned to the kitchen, cringing with disgust, to announce that the flour was full of worms. No matter how sick this made me, I knew it wuoldn't bother my mother. She always just sifted the worms out, saying that even if she missed a few and they got into the food, they would simply be an excellent source of protein. Just as we were all beginning to feel thoroughly downtrodden, my father would save the day. "Everyone come up with a literary reference about worms!" he would shout.

Taking us by and large, we're a queer lot We women who write poetry. And when you think How few of us there've been, it's queerer still. I wonder what it is that makes us do it, Singles us out to scribble down, man-wise, The fragments of ourselves. Why are we Already mother-creatures, double-bearing, With matrices in body and in brain? I rather think that there is just the reason We are so sparse a kind of human being; The strength of forty thousand Atlases Is needed for our every-day concerns. There's Sapho, now I wonder what was Sapho. I know a single slender thing about her: That, loving, she was like a burning birch-tree All tall and glittering fire, and that she wrote Like the same fire caught up to Heaven and held there, A frozen blaze before it broke and fell. Ah, me! I wish I could have talked to Sapho, Surprised her reticences by flinging mine Into the wind. This tossing off of garments Which cloud the soul is none too easy doing With us to-day. But still I think with Sapho One might accomplish it, were she in the mood to bare her loveliness of words and tell The reasons, as she possibly conceived them of why they are so lovely. Just to know How she came at them, just watch The crisp sea sunshine playing on her hair, And listen, thinking all the while 'twas she Who spoke and that we two were sisters Of a strange, isolated little family. And she is Sapho -- Sapho -- not Miss or Mrs., A leaping fire we call so for convenience....

Every town has a psychopath or two. Not just the everyday crazy person, either. Not like Crazy Larry, the paint huffing weirdo peddling around town on a child-sized Huffy ranting about the end of the world, or the old lady dressed in rags who hands out filthy doll clothes to the kiddies. I'm talking about the cold, never remorseful lunatic, who may never have seemed insane up until the day he hacked apart his mother and shoved her stinking corpse into the attic. This town is overflowing with them; bloodcurdling murderers like Kenny Wayne Hilbert, Charlie Fender…Orland Winthro. And Al, the crazy had to come from somewhere.

I definitely think mothers of children with disabilities have to have extraordinary courage every day...Because we all know our children have value and worth and potential, but the everyday world sometimes doesn’t.' —Linda Strobel in Up: A Love Letter to the Down Syndrome Community

And I don't have a present for you.' 'A present?' said Artemis. 'Of course,' sang his mother, spinning him around. 'Don't you know what day it is?' 'Day?' 'It's Christmas Day, you silly boy. Christmas Day! Presents are traditional, are they not?' Yes, thought Artemis. Traditional. San D'Klass. […] 'Now Arty, I want to know everything. First of all, what happened here?' 'Remodeling,' said Artemis. 'The old doorway was riddled with damp.' Angeline frowned, completely unconvinced. 'I see. And how about school? Have you decided on a career?' While his mouth answered these everyday questions, Artemis's mind was in turmoil. He was a boy again. His life was going to change utterly. His plans would have to be much more devious than usual if they were to escape his mother's attention. But it would be worth it. Angeline Fowl was wrong. She had brought him a Christmas present.

share the same bad traits: They drink too much, or cheat on you. Maybe you have been trying to improve your health by going on a diet and exercise program. Except that you’ve started and stopped this same exercise and diet program about eleven times. You can stay on the diet for about six days and then you go on a feeding frenzy! And you wake up at 6 A.M. for three days and go for a run but on day four it’s raining and you never make it to the park again. Until the twelfth time you start the program. Or perhaps you’ve been meaning to get along better with your mother. You love her and

Why, all our art treasures of to-day are only the dug-up commonplaces of three or four hundred years ago. I wonder if there is real intrinsic beauty in the old soup-plates, beer-mugs, and candle-snuffers that we prize so now, or if it is only the halo of age glowing around them that gives them their charms in our eyes. The “old blue” that we hang about our walls as ornaments were the common every-day household utensils of a few centuries ago; and the pink shepherds and the yellow shepherdesses that we hand round now for all our friends to gush over, and pretend they understand, were the unvalued mantel-ornaments that the mother of the eighteenth century would have given the baby to suck when he cried. Will it be the same in the future? Will the prized treasures of to-day always be the cheap trifles of the day before? Will rows of our willow-pattern dinner-plates be ranged above the chimneypieces of the great in the years 2000 and odd? Will the white cups with the gold rim and the beautiful gold flower inside (species unknown), that our Sarah Janes now break in sheer light-heartedness of spirit, be carefully mended, and stood upon a bracket, and dusted only by the lady of the house? That china dog that ornaments the bedroom of my furnished lodgings. It is a white dog. Its eyes blue. Its nose is a delicate red, with spots. Its head is painfully erect, its expression is amiability carried to verge of imbecility. I do not admire it myself. Considered as a work of art, I may say it irritates me. Thoughtless friends jeer at it, and even my landlady herself has no admiration for it, and excuses its presence by the circumstance that her aunt gave it to her. But in 200 years’ time it is more than probable that that dog will be dug up from somewhere or other, minus its legs, and with its tail broken, and will be sold for old china, and put in a glass cabinet. And people will pass it round, and admire it. They will be struck by the wonderful depth of the colour on the nose, and speculate as to how beautiful the bit of the tail that is lost no doubt was. We, in this age, do not see the beauty of that dog. We are too familiar with it. It is like the sunset and the stars: we are not awed by their loveliness because they are common to our eyes. So it is with that china dog. In 2288 people will gush over it. The making of such dogs will have become a lost art. Our descendants will wonder how we did it, and say how clever we were. We shall be referred to lovingly as “those grand old artists that flourished in the nineteenth century, and produced those china dogs.” The “sampler” that the eldest daughter did at school will be spoken of as “tapestry of the Victorian era,” and be almost priceless. The blue-and-white mugs of the present-day roadside inn will be hunted up, all cracked and chipped, and sold for their weight in gold, and rich people will use them for claret cups; and travellers from Japan will buy up all the “Presents from Ramsgate,” and “Souvenirs of Margate,” that may have escaped destruction, and take them back to Jedo as ancient English curios.

To say that Deronda was romantic would be to misrepresent him; but under his calm and somewhat self-repressed exterior there was a fervor which made him easily find poetry and romance among the events of every-day life. And perhaps poetry and romance are as plentiful as ever in the world except for those phlegmatic natures who I suspect would in any age have regarded them as a dull form of erroneous thinking. They exist very easily in the same room with the microscope and even in railway carriages: what banishes them in the vacuum in gentlemen and lady passengers. How should all the apparatus of heaven and earth, from the farthest firmament to the tender bosom of the mother who nourished us, make poetry for a mind that had no movements of awe and tenderness, no sense of fellowship which thrills from the near to the distant, and back again from the distant to the near?

On the day of Calvin’s arrival, Mark was on a business trip with our high-school kids, so I went to the airport with the younger ones. I greeted Calvin as he got off the plane; mom and son—total strangers. He smiled nervously. I loaded everyone into our van and began driving. As I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Calvin talking with the younger children, a wave of peace washed over me. Everything was going to be okay. When Mark returned with the older kids, Tyler, the same age as Calvin, was thrilled that his long-awaited “brother from the other color mother” had finally arrived. Luke, our seventeen-year-old, had persistently warned us that taking in another child would be too chaotic. Before he went to bed on Calvin’s first night, he told me, “I’m glad he’s here.” I thought we were just trying to be good Christians and help someone in need, but when I learned the rest of the story, I realized that we were the ones who had been blessed.

It was my mother, my frequent co-conspirator in the kitchen and my conduit to our past, who suggested the means to convey this epic disjunction, this unruly collision of collectivist myths and personal antimyths. We would reconstruct every decade of Soviet history - from the prequel 1910s to the postscript present day - through the prism of food. Together, we'd embark on a yearlong journey unlike any other: eating and cooking our way through decade after decade of Soviet life, using her kitchen and dining room as a time machine and an incubator of memories. Memories of wartime rationing cards and grotesque shared kitchens in communal apartments. Of Lenin's bloody grain requisitioning and Stalin's table manners. Of Khrushchev's kitchen debates and Gorbachev's disastrous antialcohol policies. Of food as the focal point of our everyday lives, and - despite all the deprivations and shortages - of compulsive hospitality and poignant, improbable feasts.

We do have some strong traditions of community in the United States, but it’s interesting to me that our traditionally patriotic imagery in this country celebrates the individual, the solo flier, independence. We celebrate Independence Day; we don’t celebrate We Desperately Rely on Others Day. Oh, I guess that’s Mother’s Day [laughter]. It does strike me that our great American mythology tends to celebrate separate achievement and separateness, when in fact nobody does anything alone. Nobody in this auditorium is wearing clothing that you made yourself from sheep that you sheared and wool that you spun. It’s ridiculous to imagine that we don’t depend on others for the most ordinary parts of our existence, let alone the more traumatic parts when we need a surgeon or someone to put out the fire in our home. In everyday ways we are a part of a network. I guess it’s a biological way of seeing the world. And I don’t understand the suggestion that interdependence is a weakness. Animals don’t pretend to be independent from others of their kind—I mean no other animal but us. It seems like something we should get over [laughter].

Oskar Schell: My father died at 9-11. After he died I wouldn't go into his room for a year because it was too hard and it made me want to cry. But one day, I put on heavy boots and went in his room anyway. I miss doing taekwondo with him because it always made me laugh. When I went into his closet, where his clothes and stuff were, I reached up to get his old camera. It spun around and dropped about a hundred stairs, and I broke a blue vase! Inside was a key in an envelope with black written on it and I knew that dad left something somewhere for me that the key opened and I had to find. So I take it to Walt, the locksmith. I give it to Stan, the doorman, who tells me keys can open anything. He gave me the phone book for all the five boroughs. I count there are 472 people with the last name black. There are 216 addresses. Some of the blacks live together, obviously. I calculated that if I go to 2 every Saturday plus holidays, minus my hamlet school plays, my minerals, coins, and comic convention, it's going to take me 3 years to go through all of them. But that's what I'm going to do! Go to every single person named black and find out what the key fits and see what dad needed me to find. I made the very best possible plan but using the last four digits of each phone number, I divide the people by zones. I had to tell my mother another lie, because she wouldn't understand how I need to go out and find what the key fits and help me make sense of things that don't even make sense like him being killed in the building by people that didn't even know him at all! And I see some people who don't speak English, who are hiding, one black said that she spoke to God. If she spoke to god how come she didn't tell him not to kill her son or not to let people fly planes into buildings and maybe she spoke to a different god than them! And I met a man who was a woman who a man who was a woman all at the same time and he didn't want to get hurt because he/she was scared that she/he was so different. And I still wonder if she/he ever beat up himself, but what does it matter? Thomas Schell: What would this place be if everyone had the same haircut? Oskar Schell: And I see Mr. Black who hasn't heard a sound in 24 years which I can understand because I miss dad's voice that much. Like when he would say, "are you up yet?" or... Thomas Schell: Let's go do something. Oskar Schell: And I see the twin brothers who paint together and there's a shed that has to be clue, but it's just a shed! Another black drew the same drawing of the same person over and over and over again! Forest black, the doorman, was a school teacher in Russia but now says his brain is dying! Seamus black who has a coin collection, but doesn't have enough money to eat everyday! You see olive black was a gate guard but didn't have the key to it which makes him feel like he's looking at a brick wall. And I feel like I'm looking at a brick wall because I tried the key in 148 different places, but the key didn't fit. And open anything it hasn't that dad needed me to find so I know that without him everything is going to be alright. Thomas Schell: Let's leave it there then. Oskar Schell: And I still feel scared every time I go into a strange place. I'm so scared I have to hold myself around my waist or I think I'll just break all apart! But I never forget what I heard him tell mom about the sixth borough. That if things were easy to find... Thomas Schell: ...they wouldn't be worth finding. Oskar Schell: And I'm so scared every time I leave home. Every time I hear a door open. And I don't know a single thing that I didn't know when I started! It's these times I miss my dad more than ever even if this whole thing is to stop missing him at all! It hurts too much. Sometimes I'm afraid I'll do something very bad.

Rollo cleared his throat. “If you will excuse me, Princess Gwendafyn, Her Majesty Queen Luciee has some questions for you.” “I’ll translate for her,” Benjimir said in Elvish. “No,” Queen Luciee said in Calnoric, her voice encased in ice. “….don’t trust you…change words.” “Rollo, did the queen just imply Benjimir might not tell her the truth?” Gwendafyn murmured. “Um…yes,” the translator said. A muscle in Gwendafyn’s eyebrow jumped in irritation. “I see.” It’s a shame Queen Luciee was not bonded to Aunt Lorius. I’m certain they would get along splendidly. No, she is worse than my aunt. At least Aunt Lorius believes in what she presses upon me. Queen Luciee enjoys crushing the spirit of others. Gwendafyn had not missed the way the queen had shot down Princess Claire… “….Unnecessary, Luciee,” King Petyrr said. “Benjimir and Gwendafyn married….love each other,” he said. Queen Luciee narrowed her eyes. “I’ve thought…suspicious…an elf could love Benjimir.” Benjimir stiffened next to her, the expression on his face unreadable. In that moment, Gwendafyn wished she could wipe the smug look off the queen’s face. She knows Benjimir loves Yvrea—she must have been informed of it when he was sent into exile. How could she say such a hurtful thing to him when she is his mother? Anger rolled off Gwendafyn in waves. It was only years of experience in shoving her rage down that kept her from glaring. Instead, she fixed an unconcerned smile on her lips. Rollo cleared his throat. “Queen Luciee wishes to ask if it is true you sing a ballad to Prince Benjimir after lunch every day.” Benjimir squeezed her hand, but Gwendafyn ignored it and made a show of widening her eyes and fluttering them. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I’m not going to let her try and make Benjimir look like an idiot. “Of course,” she said in Calnoric. When she glanced from Queen Luciee to King Petyrr she saw their look of confusion. Bother the grunts of Calnoric! They are so hard to achieve. I must be mangling this. “Rollo, could you tell them I said of course?” Rollo nodded. “Yes, Princess Gwendafyn.” He addressed the royal family across the table in flawless Calnoric. “In fact,” Gwendafyn continued in Elvish. “It is one of the most enjoyable parts of my day. We laugh—and once he even cried over a tragic ballad, though he will deny it—and enjoy each other’s company. I love spending time with Ben.” Benjimir twitched at the as-of-yet-unused nickname, but he managed to stare adoringly at her. Yvrea placed a hand over her heart. “How touching! I know you do not normally like to sing for others, sister. It is a testament to your love for Benji,” Yvrea said. “Yes,

He [Peter] went to the house of Mary the mother of John, also called Mark, where many people had gathered and were praying. Peter knocked at the outer entrance, and a servant girl named Rhoda came to answer the door. When she recognized Peter’s voice, she was so overjoyed she ran back without opening it and exclaimed, “Peter is at the door!” “You’re out of your mind,” they told her. When she kept insisting that it was so, they said, “It must be his angel.” But Peter kept on knocking, and when they opened the door and saw him, they were astonished. (Acts 12:12–16 NIV)

Compassionate Father, today we bring before you those we love, especially members of our families. How we long for you to be gracious on behalf of our children, our parents, our siblings, our extended families, and our friends. O Lord, there are so many for whom we carry heartbreaking concerns and heavy burdens. Gracious Father, thank you not only for forming us in our mother’s womb but also for revealing Jesus in our inner hearts. This gives us great courage in asking you to pour out your Spirit on a vast array of people we know: for our children, siblings, and parents who don’t know you, Father, bring them to a saving knowledge of Jesus. Above all, we are praying that a very real knowledge and experience of the grace and truth of the gospel will capture their hearts. More than anything else, we long to hear those we love say, “I belong to the Lord.

Every town has a psychopath or two. Not just the everyday crazy person, either. Not like Crazy Larry, the paint huffing weirdo peddling around town on a child-sized Huffy ranting about the end of the world, or the old lady dressed in rags who hands out filthy doll clothes to the kiddies. I'm talking about the cold, never remorseful lunatic, who may never have seemed insane up until the day he hacked apart his mother and shoved her stinking corpse into the attic. This town is overflowing with them; bloodcurdling murderers like Kenny Wayne Hilbert, Charlie Fender…Orland Winthro. And Al, the crazy had to come from somewhere.

Then the mother of the sons of Zebedee came up to him [Jesus] with her sons, and kneeling before him she asked him for something. And he said to her, “What do you want?” She said to him, “Say that these two sons of mine are to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your kingdom.” Jesus answered, “You do not know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I am to drink?” They said to him, “We are able.” (Matt. 20:20–22)

For no one ever hated his own flesh, but nourishes and cherishes it, just as Christ does the church, because we are members of his body. “Therefore a man shall leave his father and mother and hold fast to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.” This mystery is profound, and I am saying that it refers to Christ and the church. (Eph. 5:29–32)

In the middle of the everyday conversation between mother and daughter, Lillia suddenly remembered something. “Wait! You said you’re going to be doing test flights for twenty days straight!” “Yeah. Maybe even longer, depending on the weather.” “Then… does that mean you’re gonna stay there the whole time, Mom?” Allison nodded. “It’s not an ordinary base, honey. I can’t tell you the details, but it’s a little far from the Capital District. I can’t commute there every day.” “Th-then—” Lillia glared at the boy in the apron drinking tea next to her. Then, she pointed at him. “Then I have to stay with Treize the whole time? Here, just the two of us?” “I guess so.” Allison replied nonchalantly. Lillia raised her voice again. “No way! With this sorry guy?!” “Now, now, be nice, Lillia. And what’s wrong with Treize? He’s a good cook and an excellent housekeeper. You have no idea how much I appreciate all his help.” Lillia nodded, sullenly agreeing. But she quickly shot back. “But still! You want a teenaged guy and a teenaged girl to live in a house together, just the two of them? As a mother, aren’t you worried? What if we have an accident or something?” Treize quietly sipped his tea. “Don’t worry, Treize is a gentleman.” “How can you be so sure?” “Because I’m good friends with Treize’s father, who is a gentleman.” Treize quietly sipped his tea. Lillia shot him a glance, then replied dubiously. “Still…” Allison gave a loving smile. “It’ll be fine as long as you don’t force yourself on Treize.” “Why would I?!” “For example, when he’s asleep and defenseless.” “Are you out of your mind, Mom?! I would not!” Treize quietly sipped his tea.

When they [the Magi] saw the star, they rejoiced exceedingly with great joy. And going into the house they saw the child with Mary his mother, and they fell down and worshiped him. Then, opening their treasures, they presented him gifts, gold and frankincense and myrrh. (Matt. 2:10–11)

After the shattering events of the past ten days, I was happy to fly home and return to my normal, everyday life. Pat met me at the airport, then we picked up a very unhappy Caroline after school. She’d been missing Patrick desperately since he’d left for college. In my short absence, she’d experienced an unexpectedly rough adjustment to her new high school. This had been a bad time for me to be away. She felt abandoned. Caroline burst into tears of relief the minute she stepped into the car. I just held her close for the twenty-minute ride home. We went straight up to her cozy pink bedroom to talk. She sobbed that she’d been miserable while I was away. “Daddy has been wonderful, but a daddy is not a mommy. I really needed you.” I choked back my own tears. “But, Caroline, darling,” I said, “I was only gone for five days. Just think of William and Harry. Their mummy is never coming back.

Mad is an everyday, ordinary word. It is compact. It fits into songs. As the old Hindi film song has it, M-A-D, mad mane paagal. It can become a phrase-'Maddaw-what?' which began life as 'Are you mad or what?'. It can be everything you choose it to be: a mad whirl, a mad idea, a mad March day, a mad heiress, a mad mad mad mad world, a mad passion, a mad hatter, a mad dog. But it is different when you have a mad mother. Then the word wakes up from time to time and blinks at you, eyes of fire. But only sometimes, for we used the word casually ourselves, children of a mad mother. There is no automatic gift that arises out of such a circumstance. If sensitivity or gentleness came with such a genetic load, there would be no old people in mental homes.

Jesus Christ has no need to shed his blood for a mother’s need to depend on other women for fellowship. The eternal Son of God did not go to the cross and suffer crucifixion and the wrath of God to atone for a mom’s inability to accomplish everything she wants to do in a day. The Lamb of God was not esteemed stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted for the sake of women who simply don’t know everything there is to know about nutrition, or the Bible, or childhood development, or whatever. Before we call upon the great doctrine of justification by faith alone to redeem us out of our so-called calamity, or before we herald the massive truth that we are counted righteous in Christ by faith in him, we ought to consider the nature of our need.

Don't wait until the second week in May to celebrate Mother's Day, Let's celebrate these heroes every day

We grow in holiness in the honing of our specific vocation. We can't be holy in the abstract. Instead we become a holy blacksmith or a holy mother or a holy physician or a holy systems analyst. We seek God in and through our particular vocation and place in life. Each kind of work is therefore its own kind of craft that must be developed over time, both for our own sanctification and for the good of the community. As we seek to do our work well and hone our craft, we are developed and honed in our work. Our task is not to somehow inject God into our work but to join God in the work he is already doing in and through our vocational lives. Therefore, holiness itself is something like a craft—not an abstract state to which we ascend but an earthy wisdom and love that is part and parcel of how we spend our day.

This was notably the case of the Matronalia on 1 March, 'the calends of the women' (Juv., 9, 53), a solemn occasion said to have been instituted in honour of the Sabine women and the anniversary of the temple dedicated to Juno Lucina in 375 BC. It was, in fact, a kind of mothers' day when their daughters, and also their husbands, gave them presents

Carlotta’s spiritual mother is deceased. How sad. How fortunate the younger Miss Ulansky is so well equipped to dress for mourning. I wonder how old Bertha Ulansky was at the end? Not a day younger than 90, I’d estimate. Once she was Carlotta’s age, with her whole life ahead of her. Now she’s a disturbing interruption to her neighbors, an everyday inconvenience for the coroner. At least she will live on anonymously in her 400 films. Death: the final censor. He waits for us all with his editing shears—as our colors fade and our celluloid slowly dissolves. Bummed out by the transience of life, I resolved to take the afternoon off from school and savor every golden, fleeting moment. Twenty minutes later, tiring of living life to the fullest, I picked up a Penthouse, leafed through it for a while, dealt peremptorily with a sudden T.E., squeezed several erupting zits, then took a nap. Life, I decided as time dissolved into clockless unconsciousness, must go on.

Prayer Works Lessons from a prayerful Mother In the darkest hour of the night During the hardest time of life When unsure if things will be all right You should pray! When your mind lacks peace And your heart is too broken to beat When you struggle to stand on your feet You ought to pray! When some things do not make sense And everyone close becomes distant When your faith is shaken in an instant You must pray! When the sun is about to set And your noontime is filled with tears When the midnight is covered with fear Wake up and pray! When in the battlefield And you have misplaced your shield When there is no sign you could win Look upon the hills and pray! When the race becomes too long And you cannot keep going on When everything seems over Kneel and pray! For prayer will: Put you back together Set you in a good place forever Keep you going no matter what Give you something to smile about Remove the weight off your shoulders Relieve you from discomfort Heal even a gaping wound Help you follow the right way Take you through another day Each and everyday Remember to pray Because prayer works!

Mom’s approach to cuisine came from her art school days, inspiration hitting her on the spot. The ingredients she chose were paints you’d throw at a canvas, each chosen for its color and texture rather than its taste. If your fava beans didn’t click with the polenta? All you had to do was toss in a kilo of shrimp and the pink would bring out the dull off-white.

God can’t heal your leg?” the boy challenged. “Ben!” The mother snapped out of her stupor. “Sure God can heal my leg--” started the Reverend. “Then why don’t He?” Silence. Only the sounds of the axe. Chock. Chock. Chock. Desire welled up in the Reverend. Fierce, caressing lust. The woodpile. The feel of his own axe handle. Worn from using it every single day. Using it everyday in front of his own house. Chopping. Chopping wood for his fire-- Suddenly a small pop. The mother had hit the child -- flat hand against right ear. The boy’s head rocked. The boy named Ben glanced at his glowering mother. Then he retreated. Crying. “Reverend, I am so sorry. He doesn’t know any better, and we’ve been meaning to get him to church, but we just -- ” “Ma’am,” said the Reverend. He touched his hat. The woman did not say another word. The Reverend’s leg brace squeaked as it touched Samson’s flank, almost as if it laughed and tattled on the preacher’s desire to move on. Which they did.

Those were the good old days, when life was full of you everyday assholes instead of ghoul, ghost, and golem assholes. " 12/29 page 14 5.0% "It didn't help that freezing cold ghost goop smeared me from head to toe,. My hair was plastered to my scalp, my clothes hung heavy thanks to lumpy black jelly. "Holy shit! gross!" "Maggie!" my mother snapped. "Holy crap! Gross!" "Better.

She was trying to free her mother, who had recently been deported to Auschwitz. The lawyer responded bluntly, “You can file a petition, but you will not see your mother again. Auschwitz is an extermination camp.” When she received notification of her mother’s death a few months later—“died of sepsis and phlegm in Auschwitz”—she considered this plausible. “Later, I found out that it was just one of many death notices issued on that day.