Extended Vacation Quotes

Colton, looks like your vacation is over buddy. You have drills to make up for, from when you were lounging around with my mate." Meryn heard Aiden tell Colton. "Lounging? She almost blew me up!" Colton yelled. Ryuu raised an eyebrow as he extended a hand to assist her up into the carriage. "Long story, total accident.

I didn't want to try to kill myself, didn't want the blood and the hysterical parents and the guilt, any of it. But sometimes I liked the idea of simply not having to be here anymore, not having to deal with my life. As if death could be just an extended vacation.

It was the feeling of walking through the doors of your home after an extended vacation. The feeling of the bell ringing after the last class of the day, and the taste of ice-cold water on a hot day in July.

As he read the long poem, I began thinking that, unlike him, I had always found a way to avoid counting the days. We were leaving in three days—and then whatever I had with Oliver was destined to go up in thin air. We had talked about meeting in the States, and we had talked of writing and speaking by phone—but the whole thing had a mysteriously surreal quality kept intentionally opaque by both of us—not because we wanted to allow events to catch us unprepared so that we might blame circumstances and not ourselves, but because by not planning to keep things alive, we were avoiding the prospect that they might ever die. We had come to Rome in the same spirit of avoidance: Rome was a final bash before school and travel took us away, just a way of putting things off and extending the party long past closing time. Perhaps, without thinking, we had taken more than a brief vacation; we were eloping together with return-trip tickets to separate destinations.

Sometimes I did that, thought about suicide, though not in an active way—it was more like pulling a lucky stone out of your back pocket. It was a comforting thing to have with you, so you could rub your fingers over it, reassure yourself that it was there if you needed it. I didn’t want to try to kill myself, didn’t want the blood and the hysterical parents and the guilt, any of it. But sometimes I liked the idea of simply not having to be here anymore, not having to deal with my life. As if death could be just an extended vacation.

leaping, and praising God. (Acts 3:6–8) This day was different because of the gift of healings imparted by the Holy Spirit poured out upon Peter and his fellow followers of Jesus. Has the HOLY SPIRIT gone out of BUSINESS, or is He on extended VACATION? Some people question whether the Holy Spirit still gives this gift. So I ask, has the

Extend your vacation whenever possible.

I wasn’t on vacation. I was in the bathroom for an extended length of pee.

Extend your vacation whenever possible.

The sad truth is, John and I and the kids only took Route 66 once on our trips to Disneyland. Our family, like the rest of America, succumbed to the lure of faster highways, more direct routes, higher speed limits. We forgot about taking the slow way. It makes you wonder if something inside us knows that our lives are going to pass faster than we could ever realize. So we run around like chickens about to lose our heads. Which makes our little two- or three-week vacations with our families more important than ever... As for the time that elapsed between those vacations, that’s another thing altogether. It seems to have all passed breathlessly, like some extended whisper of days, months, years, decades. (pp.39-40)

When you homeschool your children, you have to make sacrifices: of your time, of your energy, of your money. Speaking of money, you know, when I look back, living on one income all those years meant we didn’t drive expensive cars or go on extended high-end vacations. But that wasn’t important. What was important was that we had time together…nothing can replace that. You can have that time too. Concentrate on the positives, and enjoy your time with your kids. You won’t be sorry.

Will had discovered, even before coming to the City, that his muse was, like all muses, an incredibly finicky and temperamental mistress. He'd had several good short stories over the years, a few of them bordering on brilliant, and some of them had even been published; but these gifts from his imaginary goddess of inspiration were, in truth, frustratingly infrequent. She would hang around and whisper in his ears for hours, or days, or weeks, and then suddenly go off on an extended vacation without informing Will of her whereabouts or when she planned to return.

. . .biographers tend to regard as character those elements of personality that remain constant, or nearly so, throughout. . .Like practitioners of fractal geometry, biographers seek patterns that persist as one moves from micro- to macro-levels of analysis, and back again. . . . It follows from this that the scale across which we seek similarity need not be chronological. Consider the following incidents in the life of Stalin between 1929 and 1940, arranged not by dates but in terms of ascending horror. Start with the parrot he kept in a cage in his Kremlin apartment. The dictator had the habit of pacing up and down for long periods of time, smoking his pipe, brooding, and occasionally spitting on the floor. One day the parrot tried to mimic Stalin's spitting. He immediately reached into the cage with his pipe and crushed the parrot's head. A very micro-level event, you might well say, so what? But then you learn that Stalin, while on vacation in the Crimea, was once kept awake by a barking dog. It turned out to be a seeing-eye dog that belonged to a blind peasant. The dog wound up being shot, and the peasant wound up in the Gulag. And then you learn that Stalin drove his independently minded second wife, who tried to talk back to him, into committing suicide. And that he arranged for Trotsky, who also talked back, to be assassinated halfway around the world. And that he arranged as well the deaths of as many of Trotsky's associates that he could reach, as well as the deaths of hundred of thousands of other people who never had anything to do with Trotsky. And that when his own people began to talk back by resisting the collectivization of agriculture, he allowed some fourteen million of them to die from the resulting starvation, exile, or imprisonment. Again, there's self-similarity across scale, except that the scale this time is a body count. It's a fractal geometry of terror. Stalin's character extended across time and space, to be sure, but what's most striking about it is its extension across scale: the fact that his behavior seemed much the same in large matters, small matters, and most of those that lay in between.

was hard to believe the beach could get any more crowded. But people were still streaming in from the parking lot and points beyond. Loaded for bear, too, even though these late arrivals had probably had dinner at home or in town before they came. The kids, some already in pajamas, had gotten wilder. I tripped over several little screamers and runners. One almost pitched me into a roaring campfire. I thought fires on the beach were forbidden, along with alcohol, unleashed dogs, and loud music. I saw all those rules being broken as I wove through

Why do you always call me by my full name?” “I don’t know. I guess that’s how I think of you in my head.” “Oh, so you’re saying you think about me a lot?” I laugh. “No, I’m saying that when I think about you, which isn’t very often, that’s how I think of you. On the first day of school, I always have to explain to teachers that Lara Jean is my first name and not just Lara. And then, do you remember how Mr. Chudney started calling you John Ambrose because of that? ‘Mr. John Ambrose.’” In a fake hoity-toity English accent, John says, “Mr. John Ambrose McClaren the Third, madam.” I giggle. I’ve never met a third before. “Are you really?” “Yeah. It’s annoying. My dad’s a junior, so he’s JJ, but my extended family still calls me Little John.” He grimaces. “I’d much rather be John Ambrose than Little John. Sounds like a rapper or that guy from Robin Hood.” “Your family’s so fancy.” I only ever saw John’s mom when she was picking him up. She looked younger than the other mothers, she had John’s same milky skin, and her hair was longer than the other moms’, straw-colored. “No. My family isn’t fancy at all. My mom made Jell-O salad last night for dessert. And, like, my dad only has steak cooked well-done. We only ever take vacations we can drive to.

As he read the long poem, I began thinking that, unlike him, I had always found a way to avoid counting the days. We were leaving in three days— and then whatever I had with Oliver was destined to g o up in thin air. We had talked about meeting in the States, and we had talked of writing and speaking by phone— but the whole thing had a mysteriously surreal quality kept intentionally opaque by both of us— not because we wanted to allow events to catch us unprepared so that we might blame circumstances and not ourselves, but because by not planning to keep things alive, we were avoiding the prospect that they might ever die. We had come to Rome in the same spirit of avoidance: Rome was a final bash before school and travel took us away, just a way of putting things off and extending the party long past closing time. Perhaps, without thinking, we had taken more than a brief vacation; we were eloping together with return-trip tickets to separate destinations.

If the club creates a natural bond among its members, something of that sympathy extends to their families as well. The first ladies share the unique burden of being perhaps the only person left on the planet who can keep the Leader of the Free World grounded, tell him to pull his socks and quit feeling sorry for himself. They know, and their children know, what it means to live in the bell jar; to have family vacations turned into photo ops; to wonder at the sudden surfeit of friends and absence of intimacy.

Other labs have extended his work, finding that women recall more emotional autobiographical events, more rapidly and with greater intensity, than men do. Women consistently report more vivid memories for emotionally important events such as a recent argument, a first date, or a vacation.

having specific things to look forward to massively increases your enjoyment of them. “It extends the experience,” says Cassie Mogilner, a professor of marketing at the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School, who specializes in happiness research. “The whole time you’re looking forward to it and anticipating it, you’re getting some of the benefits of the experience itself.” This is one of the reasons why people love vacation travel. You generally have to figure it out at least a few days ahead of time. Indeed, research published in the journal Applied Research in Quality of Life in 2010 found that vacation anticipation boosted happiness levels for eight weeks—an argument for planning more shorter trips rather than a few longer ones. Plan a four-day weekend every other month and the happiness boost could last all year. I know this anticipation factor is why I always have great birthday weeks. Not only do I think ahead of time about what I’d like to do—meeting up with friends, taking the kids somewhere fun, getting a massage—I plan these activities in advance and then enjoy seeing them on my calendar, knowing that tickets are purchased and babysitters are booked.

He ignored me at first. No words other than our first terse, “Hello,” passed between us until I ordered a drink from the flight attendant. My seatmate turned to me and said, “You’re Dutch.” I smiled politely and nodded. “Yes, that’s correct.” He said, “I didn’t pick it up from the way you speak English. It’s something about the sounds that form around the words. It’s hard to explain to someone who isn’t a linguist. Anyway, I did business in Amsterdam for many years. I’ve known a lot of people from your country.” I said, “Most people don’t notice, or they assume that I might be Swedish when they see my hair.” He nodded and asked, “What enticed you to cross the Atlantic? Was it vacation time? I’m assuming that you live in Europe.” “I do. I was visiting my sister. She married an American and lives in Chicago. It was my first visit since she left home.” I knew that an extended conversation was on the way when the man reached a hand toward me and said, “I’m Harold. It’s good to meet you. I usually stick to myself on flights, but this is a long one.” “I’m

I wouldn’t trade them,” I finally said. “I’d just send them on extended vacations from time to time.

I had never before been so tortured by the slowness of the Mexico City traffic; the irritability of the drivers; the savagery of the dilapidated trucks that ought to have been banned ages ago; the sadness of the begging mothers carrying children in their shawls and extending their calloused hands; the awfulness of the crippled and the blind asking for alms; the melancholy of the children in clown costumes trying to entertain with their painted faces and the little balls they juggled; the insolence and obscene bungling of the pot-bellied police officers leaning against their motorcycles at strategic highway entrances and exits to collect their bite-size bribes; the insolent pathways cleared for the powerful people in their bulletproof limousines; the desperate, self-absorbed, and absent gaze of old people unsteadily crossing side streets without looking where they were going, those white-haired, but-faced men and women resigned to die the same way as they lived; the giant billboards advertising an imaginary world of bras and underpants covering small swaths of perfect bodies with white skin and blonde hair, high-priced shops selling luxury and enchanted vacations in promised paradises.

Traveling to India on a long vacation or on a gap year is a great idea. However Your Indian visa may impose various penalties if you extend your stay beyond the stated period. Travelers need to be reminded to check their travel documents' dates so often, because such cases occur so frequently. To avoid ruining their trip, travelers should also check the expiration date of their visas and the maximum duration allowed in the country.

The coconut smell of his skin and his breath in my hair washed away the panic, and all that remained was the peace. It was the feeling of walking through the doors of your home after an extended vacation. The feeling of the bell ringing after the last class of the day, and the taste of ice-cold water on a hot day in July. Peace.

Throughout childhood, at home and at school they are told they are defective. They are called dumb, stupid, lazy, stubborn, willful, or obnoxious. They hear terms like “spaceshot” or “daydreamer” or “out in left field” all the time. They are blamed for the chaos of family mealtimes or the disaster of family vacations. They are reprimanded for classroom disturbances of all sorts and they are easily scapegoated at school. They are the subject of numerous parent-teacher conferences. Time and again, an exasperated teacher meets a frustrated parent in a meeting that later explodes all over the child who isn’t there. He feels the shock waves afterward. “Do you know what your teacher said? Do you know how embarrassed your mother and I were?” Or, from the teacher, “I understand you have no greater control of yourself at home than you do in school. We must work on this, mustn’t we?” Month after month, year after year, the tapes of negativity play over and over again until they become the voice the child knows best. “You’re bad,” they say in many different ways. “You’re dumb. You just don’t get it. You’re so out of it. You really are pathetic.” This voice pulls the child’s self-esteem down and down, out of the reach of the helping hands that might be extended, into the private world of adolescent self-reproach. Liking yourself in adolescence is hard enough work for any child. But for the child with ADD it is especially difficult.

Extended vacation. Taking in the sights. A little town lore. You find it interesting as well, I see. Your grandmother’s legacy.

People engage in a lot of self-deception,” she said with a firm grip on his arm to keep her balance. “They have this need to write books and get a PhD and become professors and noted intellectuals. But almost everyone’s mediocre. They’re intelligent enough to recognize genius and excellence, and with a bit of luck they may achieve something above average themselves. But the vast majority of people are middling. And they don’t want to accept that. Instead, they buy houses and build patios and have children, which serves as a watertight alibi. I never got to write that book, they say. Because I have the house and the patio and the children to take care of. And besides, they like it just fine at work. Next summer, they’re going on an extended vacation to France. They say they love to read, but how much do they really read? A book a month, if that. They say they wish they had more time to read. They say they wish they had more time to write. That they would love to write that book, but time. There’s not enough time.

CAMPBELL CHANGED MY PERSPECTIVE ON LIFE FROM that of a holding room where you wait to meet Christ later to a living room in which to commune with Christ’s consciousness here and now. It’s not just the personal-relationship “Buddy Jesus” I was taught in Sunday school, the Divine Pal we keep in our pockets, sticking His head out of our handbags like a purse dog, ready to offer help finding parking or protection from the flu that’s been going around. It’s an invitation you extend for His essence to pass through you. Active and empowering, not just “please protect me,” but transform me. Merge with me. Help me kill this overactive, critical, limiting brain of mine. Help me escape the dungeons of cultural expectation, familial expectation, all the I shoulds and I shouldn’ts, I cans and I can’ts. Help me take the small person inside me and kick his ass, leave him for dead, and resurrect to my full, connected, light-filled potential. The story is you being reborn, you getting saved from your basic, boring, limited, mundane, same-story-at-every-party, same-vacation-every-year, same-restaurant-every-birthday, same-river-of-negative-thoughts self-loathing and cruel humanity and awakening to who you really are. Go and do likewise.

Anyhow, I drove like my daddy was chasing me, which he did a few times when I was a teenager and I snuck out of the house, and made it to the airport. I stowed away on a plane, which looks a lot more fun in the movies by the way, and made it back home. Most guys would have stopped at that point but Dmitri, being stubborn, called a few times spouting off, so I had my number changed.” “But?” “But, he got my family’s number and started calling them. Which was fine. My aunts and stuff blocked him, but thing is, he showed up on my parents’ doorstep while I was out shopping. My parents are vacationing in Mexico, and so Aunt Cecily had to deal with him.” “They scared her.” She laughed. “Scare my Aunt Cecily? Not in this lifetime. She wields a mean right hook. Daddy’s sister is the one who taught me to fight dirty.” “Something had to have happened to get you banished.” “Well, she was kind of worried about me, on account of me being delicate and stuff.” He couldn’t help but snort. “Yeah, that was my reaction too, but that’s what I get for being the youngest in the family. Teena beat me into the world by like ten seconds. Anyhow, Aunt Cecily would have kept me around, except the goons trampled Mama’s flower garden during one of their kidnapping attempts.” “You got banished over flowers?” “No, I got banished before the goons did any more damage to Mama’s stuff. When my mother cries, Daddy gets a little upset, and when Daddy gets upset, things happen. Dealing with the disposal of bodies is always a pain, and law enforcement really frowns upon murder. And Daddy’s been trying so hard to stay out of jail. Anyhow, for the good of the family, it was strongly suggested I take an extended vacation in the hopes my absence would see Dmitri call off his paid thugs and give up on the whole marriage business.” “Except he realized you took off and followed you here.” A frown creased her brow. “Yeah, which is weird because I was certain I didn’t have a tail.” “Well, you’re going to have one now, twenty-four-seven, until I locate this Dmitri fellow and tell him to get the hell out of pride territory.” -Meena & Leo

She was. It was just the two of us, though. You have a big family and everyone is always into everyone else’s business. I think it’s fun.” “It’s only fun when it’s not you.” “I don’t think you’d trade them for another family, though, would you?” I considered his question for a moment. “I wouldn’t trade them,” I finally said. “I’d just send them on extended vacations from time to time.

I hope I’m not intruding on his work. I’m happy to pitch in if I can.” “No worries,” Hannah said, then smiled at her inadvertent use of his Australian colloquialism. “And you’re on vacation so we aren’t going to make you pitch hay.” Calder smiled. “Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind a bit of hard labor. Feels odd not to be putting in the hours.” “Your body is probably thanking you.” Cooper looked down at his booted toes at that, not wanting Kerry’s sister to spy even a hint of just how spent his body had felt when he’d woken up that morning, much less why. “Big Jack--my dad--would tell you that taking so much as a day off makes a man soft.” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he realized the double entendre, then realized she wouldn’t get that it was a double entendre and decided maybe he’d just stare at his booted feet all day long. Then he thought he caught just a hint of a knowing smile on Hannah’s lovely face before she too decided to check out her footwear for an extended moment. Cheeky, like her sister, he thought. And sharp, like a defense attorney. The afternoon had barely gotten underway, too. Sweet Mary. Another few minutes of this and he wouldn’t be surprised to see Logan pulling up with the paddy wagon, ready to haul him off for putting his hands--and a whole lot more--on his baby sister.

I want the same things out of life you do,” I admit. “I just go about them in a different way. You adapt to your environment, I adapt to mine.” I put my hand back on hers. “Let me show you I’m different. Oye, would you ever date a guy who couldn’t afford to take you to expensive restaurants and buy you gold and diamonds?” “Absolutely.” She slips her hand out from under mine. “But I have a boyfriend.” “If you didn’t, would you give this Mexicano a chance?” Her face turns a deep shade of pink. I wonder if Colin ever makes her blush like that. “I’m not answering that,” she says. “Why not? It’s a simple question.” “Oh, please. Nothing about you is simple, Alex. Let’s not even go there.” She puts the car in first gear. “Can we go now?” “Si, if you want. Are we cool?” “I think so.” I hold my hand out for her to shake. She eyes the tattoos on my fingers, then extends her hand toward mine and shakes it, her enthusiasm apparent. “To hand warmers,” she says with a smile on her lips. “To hand warmers,” I agree. And sex, I add silently. “Do you want to drive back? I don’t know the way.” I drive her back in comfortable silence while the sun sets. Our truce brings me closer to my goals: graduating, the bet…and something else I’m not ready to admit. As I pull her kick-ass car into the dark library parking lot, I say, “Thanks for, you know, lettin’ me kidnap you. I guess I’ll see you around.” Taking my keys out of my front pocket, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to afford a car that isn’t rusted, used, or old. After I step out of her car, I pull out Colin’s picture from my back pocket and toss it on the seat I just vacated. “Wait!” Brittany calls out as I’m walking away. I turn around and she’s right in front of me. “What?” She smiles seductively as if she’s wanting something more than a truce. Way more. Shit, is she gonna kiss me? I’m taken off guard here, which usually doesn’t happen. She bites her bottom lip, as if she’s contemplating her next move. I’m totally game to making out with her. As my brain goes through every scenario, she steps closer to me. And snatches my keys out of my hand. “What do you think you’re doin’?” I ask her. “Getting you back for kidnapping me.” She steps back and with all her might whips my keys into the woods. “You did not just do that.” She backs up, facing me the entire time, as she moves toward her car. “No hard feelings. Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it, Alex?” she says, trying to keep a straight face. I watch in shock as my chem partner gets into her Beemer. The car drives out of the lot without a jolt, jerk, or hitch. Flawless start. I’m pissed off because I’m going to have to either crawl around in the dark woods trying to find my keys or call Enrique to pick me up. I’m also amused. Brittany Ellis bested me at my own game. “Yeah,” I say to her even though she’s probably a mile away and can’t hear me. “Payback is a bitch.” ¡Carajoǃ

Although many people of the United States receive a two- or three-week vacation, the individual vacation time periods are staggered so that businesses will not be closed for an extended period. Upper-level management workers often do not take all their vacation time each year. Because of these attitudes toward work, the culture of the United States is referred to as a “live to work” culture in contrast to the cultures in countries such as Mexico that are “work to live” cultures.

As I sat alone at my desk in the dark, I thought about suicide. Sometimes I did that, thought about suicide, though not in an active way—it was more like pulling a lucky stone out of your back pocket. It was a comforting thing to have with you, so you could rub your fingers over it, reassure yourself that it was there if you needed it. I didn’t want to try to kill myself, didn’t want the blood and the hysterical parents and the guilt, any of it. But sometimes I liked the idea of simply not having to be here anymore, not having to deal with my life. As if death could be just an extended vacation. But now what I thought about suicide was this: If I died tonight, everyone would believe this journal was true. Like Amelia, Chava, and Sally, everyone would forever believe that I had written that diary. Everyone would believe they knew how I “really felt.” And how dare they?

But his liquor cabinet was empty, his apartment devoid of anything female since Cecilia had walked out in a huff last Tuesday and his vocabulary had been missing the words “extended vacation” since he’d taken over the top spot at TweedleDee Toys.

One of the largest obstacles to true Sabbath-keeping is leisure. It is what cultural historian Witold Rybczynski calls “waiting for the weekend,” where we see work as only an extended interlude between our real lives. Leisure is what Sabbath becomes when we no longer know how to sanctify time. Leisure is Sabbath bereft of the sacred. It is a vacation—literally, a vacating, an evacuation. As Rybczynski sees it, leisure has become despotic in our age, enslaving us and exhausting us, demanding from us more than it gives.2

It appears that Tilsim Hoshruba is not just a vacation destination for peace but rather a realm where tranquility takes an extended leave, and danger becomes the eager host.

might try to harm Trixie to get more information—or use her as leverage to manipulate the Hales. “There’s an easy solution to this problem,” Mike assured me. “Lie. All we have to do is be completely dishonest with Erica about what happened for the rest of our lives, and everything will work out just fine.” I stared at him in disbelief. “It’s not that simple. Erica is like a human lie detector. She always finds out the truth. The only reason she hasn’t learned about Trixie yet is because I’ve been avoiding her. But if we go on that ship, I won’t be able to keep that up.” “I’m not so sure about that. This ship is freaking enormous.” Mike unfolded a map of the Emperor that had been contained in the brochure. It was so long, he had to fully extend both his arms to hold it up. “There’s over three thousand guest rooms, plus all the restaurants and pools and everything else. It’ll be like vacationing in a floating city.” “I still won’t be able to avoid Erica the entire time!

Did you know that credit cards automatically give you amazing consumer protection? Here are a few examples you might not know about: ■ Automatic warranty doubling: Most cards extend the warranty on your purchases. So if you buy an iPhone and it breaks after Apple’s warranty expires, your credit card will still cover it up to an additional year. This is true for nearly every credit card for nearly every purchase, automatically. ■ Car rental insurance: If you rent a car, don’t let them sell you on getting the extra collision insurance. It’s completely worthless! You already have coverage through your existing car insurance, plus your credit card will usually back you up to $50,000. ■ Trip-cancellation insurance: If you book tickets for a vacation and then get sick and can’t travel, your airline will charge you hefty fees to rebook your ticket. Just call your credit card and ask for the trip-cancellation insurance to kick in, and they’ll cover those change fees—usually between $3,000 to $10,000 per trip. ■ Concierge services: When I couldn’t find LA Philharmonic tickets, I called my credit card and asked the concierge to try to find some. He called me back in two days with tickets. They charged me (a lot, actually), but he was able to get them when nobody else could.

maybe he’s planning to stay for an extended period. I know that’s how Europeans do things. Their vacations are always a couple of months it seems.

In nature’s demonstration of tuishou (or “push hands”), conifers pose no resistance to the angiosperms in the obvious, fertile places, yielding to the rout that sends them up into the craggy, isolated places. But when the angiosperms extend too far and produce dense overgrowth that leads to wildfires, the conifer follows them back, dumping their seeds on the newly vacated ground.

Joe’s knees went weak. “But why do you still work here? Why do you still work at all?” Before Gus could answer, Joe held up one hand. “No, don’t tell me. I’ll bet I know.” He thought about Gus’s long, rambling conversations, his easy manner with potential clients, his erratic, extended vacations. He smiled. “You just love what you do. You love talking with people, asking them questions, learning all about them, finding ways you can help them, serve them, fill a need, share a resource . . .

I have a complicated spiritual history. Here's the short version: I was born into a Mass-going Roman Catholic family, but my parents left the church when I was in the fifth grade and joined a Southern Baptist church—yes, in Connecticut. I am an alumnus of Wheaton College—Billy Graham's alma mater in Illinois, not the Seven Sisters school in Massachusetts—and the summer between my junior and senior year of (Christian) high school, I spent a couple of months on a missions trip performing in whiteface as a mime-for-the-Lord on the streets of London's West End. Once I left home for Wheaton, I ended up worshiping variously (and when I could haul my lazy tuckus out of bed) at the nondenominational Bible church next to the college, a Christian hippie commune in inner-city Chicago left over from the Jesus Freak movement of the 1960s, and an artsy-fartsy suburban Episcopal parish that ended up splitting over same-sex issues. My husband of more than a decade likes to describe himself as a “collapsed Catholic,” and for more than twenty-five years, I have been a born-again Christian. Groan, I know. But there's really no better term in the current popular lexicon to describe my seminal spiritual experience. It happened in the summer of 1980 when I was about to turn ten years old. My parents had both had born-again experiences themselves about six months earlier, shortly before our family left the Catholic church—much to the shock and dismay of the rest of our extended Irish and/or Italian Catholic family—and started worshiping in a rented public grade school gymnasium with the Southern Baptists. My mother had told me all about what she'd experienced with God and how I needed to give my heart to Jesus so I could spend eternity with him in heaven and not frying in hell. I was an intellectually stubborn and precocious child, so I didn't just kneel down with her and pray the first time she told me about what was going on with her and Daddy and Jesus. If something similar was going to happen to me, it was going to happen in my own sweet time. A few months into our family's new spiritual adventure, after hearing many lectures from Mom and sitting through any number of sermons at the Baptist church—each ending with an altar call and an invitation to make Jesus the Lord of my life—I got up from bed late one Sunday night and went downstairs to the den where my mother was watching television. I couldn't sleep, which was unusual for me as a child. I was a champion snoozer. In hindsight I realize something must have been troubling my spirit. Mom went into the kitchen for a cup of tea and left me alone with the television, which she had tuned to a church service. I don't remember exactly what the preacher said in his impassioned, sweaty sermon, but I do recall three things crystal clearly: The preacher was Jimmy Swaggart; he gave an altar call, inviting the folks in the congregation in front of him and at home in TV land to pray a simple prayer asking Jesus to come into their hearts; and that I prayed that prayer then and there, alone in the den in front of the idiot box. Seriously. That is precisely how I got “saved.” Alone. Watching Jimmy Swaggart on late-night TV. I also spent a painful vacation with my family one summer at Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker's Heritage USA Christian theme park in South Carolina. But that's a whole other book…

knew he was trying to figure out what was going on and if he needed to protect me from Fiona. Which he didn’t. Fiona’s expression turned thoughtful. “I have a lot to think about. I could extend my vacation, but I don’t think my boss would like that.” “Why don’t you meet me in the theater tomorrow

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