Guide Me Oh Lord Quotes

Oh Allah, open my heart to receive the light of Your guidance and all-encompassing love. My Lord, guide me to the inner truths of my own being and help me to walk the spiritual path with gratitude and humility.

I don’t want to relax. I don’t want to … oh, dear Lord.” He had bent his head to her throat, searching for the visible thrum of her pulse. A light, hot shock went through her. “Don’t do that,” she said weakly, but he was insistent, his mouth wickedly soft, and her breath hitched as she felt the brush of his tongue. Her hands shot to his muscle-banked shoulders. “Mr. Rohan, you mustn’t—” “This is how to kiss, Amelia.” He cradled her head in his palms, deftly tilting it to the side. “Noses go here.” Another disorienting brush of his mouth, a wash of sensual heat. “You taste like sugar and tea.” “I already know how to kiss!” “Do you?” His thumb passed over her kiss-heated lips, urging them to part. “Then show me,” he whispered. “Let me in, Amelia.” Never in her life had she thought a man would say something so outrageous to her. And if the words were improper, the gleam in his eyes was positively immolating. “I … I’m a spinster.” She offered the word as if it were a talisman. Everyone knew that rakish gentlemen were supposed to leave spinsters alone. But it appeared no one had told Cam Rohan. A covert smile deepened the corners of his mouth. “That’s not going to keep you safe from me.” She tried to turn away from him, but his hands guided her face back to his. “I can’t seem to leave you alone. In fact, I’m reconsidering my entire policy on spinsters.

MOTHER GOOSE: Howdy, Chris! Thanks for taking the time out of your busy schedule to have a chat with me! CHRIS COLFER: How did you get inside my house? MG: This is your house? Good lord, I thought we were in Queen Victoria's tearoom Has anyone ever told you that you decorate like an old woman? CC: As a matter of fact, I - Wait! Who are you? MG: Really Chris? Is that how you greet your favorite muse? CC: Oh my God. . . You're Mother Goose! This can't be real@ I must have hit my head or something! MG: As I said to Howard Hughes, no, you're not dreaming, I'm really here.

Oh, all right,' said the old man. 'Here's a prayer for you. Got a pencil?' 'Yes,' said Arthur. 'It goes like this. Let's see now: Protect me from knowing what I don't need to know. Protect me from even knowing that there are things to know that I don't know. Protect me from knowing that I decided not to know about the things that I decided not to know about. Amen. That's it. It's what you pray silently inside yourself anyway, so you may as well have it out in the open.' 'Hmmm,' said Arthur. "Well, thank you -' 'There's another prayer that goes with it that's very important,' continued the old man, 'so you'd better jot this down, too.' 'Okay.' 'It goes: Lord, lord, lord... It's best to put that bit in, just in case. You can never be too sure. Lord, lord, lord. Protect me from the consequences of the above prayer. Amen. And that's it. Most of the trouble people get into in life comes from leaving out that last part.

You want to control me.” She spoke dispassionately as though observing the plight of another woman far distant from herself. Dragon looked up, surprised. “You are my wife.” “Say rather possession for so do you think, do you not?” He shrugged, wondering why she stated the obvious. “All wives belong to their husbands.” “I wanted to be free.” His eyes darkened. There was greater challenge here than even he had thought. “You wanted to be safe from Wolscroft and the rest of them, even from me when you though misguidedly. That is why you fled.” She shook her head. “Oh, no, safety was a convent from which not even my father could have forced me. But it was not to one such that I fled, was it? I wanted freedom, and having tasted it, however briefly, I want it still.” His hands tightened on her, driven by the sudden, piercing pain her words brought. Did she think to leave him again? To flee as she had done and leave him once more bereft. No, by heaven, she would not! “No one is free,” he said fiercely. “We are all enmeshed in duty and responsibility.” “Your duty is of your own choosing, for you did not return here after many years away and willingly take up your inheritance. Your destiny is of your own making and you the master of it as much as any man can claim to be. I want the same myself, no more, less.” “But you are a woman . . .” His bewilderment was genuine. Such yearnings as she described belonged to the realm of men. Women were for hearth and home, the nurturing of children, such ordered security of days as could be wrested from uncertain fate. A man in the thick of battle, in the fury of adventure, in the depths of night had to be able to count on that, for without it, of what purpose was anything? “You are a woman,” he repeated firmly. “And my wife. You have been too long apart from womanly ways with no proper influence to guide you. I applaud your strength and your courage; both will breed true in my sons, but—” “Your sons? Your sons? They will be my sons, Lord Vanity, and my daughters as well, mayhap only daughters, for by heaven it would suit me to thwart you so!

The people came to Samuel and said: Place a King over us, to guide us. And Samuel said to them: This is what a King will do if he reigns over you: he’ll take your sons and make them run with his chariots and horses. He’ll dispose them however he wants: he’ll make them commanders of thousands or captains of fifties, he’ll send them to plough, to reap, to forge his weapons and his chariots. He’ll take your daughters to make perfume for him, or cook his food or do his baking. He’ll take your fields and your vineyards and your olive groves – oh, he’ll take the very best of those and give them to his cronies. He’ll take much more. A tenth of your grain and your wine – those will go to his favourite aristocrats and faithful servants. Your manservants and your maidservants, your best men, your donkeys – yes, he’ll take those for his own use. He’ll take one tenth of your flocks “and you yourselves will become his slaves. On that day, believe me, you will cry out for relief from this King, the King you asked for, but the Lord will not answer you on that day. But the people would not listen to Samuel. They said: No. Give us a King over us. So that we can be like all the other nations. Give us a King to guide us and lead us into battle. When Samuel heard what the people said, he told it to the Lord. The Lord answered, Give them a King.

I preached at First Congregational Church of Battle Creek, Michigan, in June 2017, and they shared this version of “Come Thou Fount” with me. I share it with you here as a call to action and as an invitation to the politics of resilience in an age of the tyranny of the now: Come thou fount of every blessing, give me courage to resist. Oh dear God they came and killed you, but at death you shook your fist. Make me clever like the steward, make me angry like the poor, teach me to unbind the captive, teach me to unbar the door. O dear God, I have such power, that I never toiled to earn. Help me wield it for liberation, may the fires of your justice burn. Guide me God to read you truly, may your truth be named and heard, When I read the holy scripture, help me God to hear your Word. Moving Wind, your seed of justice, grows into a mustard tree— it is so big, and obnoxious, is there room there, God, for me? O my Jesus, come like leaven, infiltrate our hearts and minds as we struggle to be human, help us to decolonize. When the powers stand against us, when we join hands with the meek, help us God against their fury; wield the weapons of the weak. As we stand up to oppression, as we speak the truth to power— Holy One, you walk beside us: we need you every hour. While I struggle with my hatred, with my fear and bigotry: help me Lord to join your struggle, help me dance this way with thee. Give me prophets to confront me, give me comrades in the call! Give me visions of that day when we will see the powers fall!

Lottie pressed her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder. She had to stop him now, before her will was completely demolished. “No. Please stop. I’m sorry.” His hand slid from her blouse, and he touched her damp lips with his fingers. “Have I frightened you?” he whispered. Lottie shook her head, somehow resisting the urge to curl into his embrace like a sun-warmed cat. “No… I’ve frightened myself.” For some reason her admission made him smile. His fingers moved to her throat, tracing the fragile line with a sensitivity that made her breath catch. Tugging the peasant blouse back up to her shoulder, he retied the frayed ribbon that secured the neckline. “Then I’ll stop,” he said. “Come— I’ll take you to the house.” He stayed close to her as they continued through the forest, occasionally moving to push a branch out of the way, or taking her hand to guide her over a rough place on the path. As familiar as she was with the woods of Stony Cross Park, Lottie had no need of his assistance. But she accepted the help with demur. And she did not protest when he paused again, his lips finding hers easily in the darkness. His mouth was hot and sweet as he kissed her compulsively… swift kisses, languid ones, kisses that ranged from intense need to wicked flirtation. Drugged with pleasure, Lottie let her hands wander to the thick dishevelment of his hair, the iron-hard nape of his neck. When the blistering heat rose to an untenable degree, Lord Sydney groaned softly. “Charlotte…” “Lottie,” she told him breathlessly. He pressed his lips to her temple and cuddled her against his powerful body as if she were infinitely fragile. “I never thought I would find someone like you,” he whispered. “I’ve looked for you so long… needed you…” Lottie shivered and dropped her head to his shoulder. “This isn’t real,” she said faintly. His lips touched her neck, finding a place that made her arch involuntarily. “What’s real, then?” She gestured to the yew hedge that bordered the estate garden. “Everything back there.” His arms tightened, and he spoke in a muffled voice. “Let me come to your room. Just for a little while.” Lottie responded with a trembling laugh, knowing exactly what would happen if she allowed that. “Absolutely not.” Soft, hot kisses drifted over her skin. “You’re safe with me. I would never ask for more than you were willing to give.” Lottie closed her eyes, her head spinning. “The problem is,” she said ruefully, “I am willing to give you entirely too much.” She felt the curve of his smile against her cheek. “Is that a problem?” “Oh, yes.” Pulling away from him, Lottie held her hands to her hot face and sighed unsteadily. “We must stop this. I don’t trust myself with you.” “You shouldn’t,” he agreed hoarsely. -Lottie & Nick

Outside the room they found his family standing in the Great Hall, discussing something in heated whispers as Freddy nervously paced the other end. Oliver cleared his throat, and they all jumped. “My fiancée has made it clear that she doesn’t appreciate my attempt at a joke.” “Oliver enjoys shocking people,” Maria said calmly. When he looked at her, surprised that she had noticed, she arched one eyebrow at him. “I’m sure you know that about him by now. I find it a great flaw in his character.” She seemed to consider many things as flaws in his character. Not that he could blame her. Gran glanced from Maria to him. “So the two of you didn’t meet in a brothel?” “We did,” he said, “but only because poor Freddy got lost and wandered into one by mistake. I was trying to determine what he was looking for when Maria rushed in, mad with worry over where he might have gone off to. With two such Americans lost in the wicked city, hopelessly innocent of its dangers, I felt compelled to help them. I’ve been squiring them about town the last week. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” She cast him a sugary and thoroughly false smile. “Oh, yes, dearest. And you were a very informative guide, too.” Jarret arched one eyebrow. “Astonishing that after finding you in a brothel, Oliver, Miss Butterfield wasn’t put off of marrying you.” “I ought to have been,” Maria said. “But he swore those days were behind him when he pledged his undying love to me on bended knee.” When Gabriel and Jarret barely managed to stifle their laughter, Oliver gritted his teeth. Bended knee, indeed. She was determined to prick his pride at every opportunity. She probably felt he deserved it. He could only pray that Gran backed down from the right before he had to bring the chit around any of his friends, or Maria would have them taunting him unmercifully for the next decade. “I’m afraid, my dear,” he said tersely, “that my brothers have trouble envisioning me bending a knee to anyone.” She affected a look of wide-eyed shock. “Have they no idea what a romantic you are? I’ll have to show them the sonnets you wrote praising my beauty. I believe I left them in my redingote pocket.” The teasing wench actually looked back toward the entrance. “I could go fetch them if you like.” “Not now,” he said, torn between a powerful urge to laugh and an equally powerful urge to strangle her. “It’s time for dinner, and I’m starved.” “So am I,” Freddy put in. At a frown from Maria, he mumbled, “Not that it matters, mind you.” “Of course it matters,” Gran said graciously. “We don’t like our guests to be uncomfortable. Come along then, Mr. Dunse. You may take me in to dinner, since my grandson is otherwise occupied.” As they trooped toward the dining room, Oliver bent his head to whisper, “I see you’re enjoying making me out to be a besotted idiot.” A minxish smile tipped up her fetching lips. “Oh, yes. It’s great fun.” “Then my explanation of how you ended up in a brothel met with your approval?” “It’ll do for now.” She cast him a glance from beneath her long lashes. “You’re by no means out of the woods yet, sir.” But I will be by the time the night is over. No matter what it took, he would get her to stay and do this, so help him God.

The distinction between acquisition and discovery may seem like hairsplitting, but it is important to see that . . . the contemplative discipline of meditation, what I will call in this book contemplative practice, doesn’t acquire anything. In that sense, and an important sense, it is not a technique but a surrendering of deeply imbedded resistances that allows the sacred within gradually to reveal itself as a simple, fundamental fact. Out of this letting go there emerges what St. Paul called our “hidden self”: “may he give you the power through his Spirit for your hidden self to grow strong” (Eph 3:16). Again, contemplative practice does not produce this “hidden self” but facilitates the falling away of all that obscures it. This voice of the liberated hidden self, the “sacred within,” joins the Psalmist’s, “Oh, Lord, you search me and you know me. … It was you who created my inmost self. … I thank you for the wonder of my being” (Ps 138 (9):1, 13, 14).

Oh Lord, remove from me this veil of evil tendencies. I am not powerful, but I am connected to You who are almighty. Your light enters me and I receive your wisdom. Any wrath, greed, envy and attachments disappear in the light of your wisdom. On the very day that your sight falls upon me, my lower nature and my human limitations shall be transformed into divine nature. My transformation is in your hands alone. Have compassion for me, come to me wherever I may be and reach through this veil.

March 16 MORNING “I am a stranger with thee.” — Psalm 39:12 YES, O Lord, with Thee, but not to Thee. All my natural alienation from Thee, Thy grace has effectually removed; and now, in fellowship with Thyself, I walk through this sinful world as a pilgrim in a foreign country. Thou art a stranger in Thine own world. Man forgets Thee, dishonours Thee, sets up new laws and alien customs, and knows Thee not. When Thy dear Son came unto His own, His own received Him not. He was in the world, and the world was made by Him, and the world knew Him not. Never was foreigner so speckled a bird among the denizens of any land as Thy beloved Son among His mother’s brethren. It is no marvel, then, if I who live the life of Jesus, should be unknown and a stranger here below. Lord, I would not be a citizen where Jesus was an alien. His pierced hand has loosened the cords which once bound my soul to earth, and now I find myself a stranger in the land. My speech seems to these Babylonians among whom I dwell an outlandish tongue, my manners are singular, and my actions are strange. A Tartar would be more at home in Cheapside than I could ever be in the haunts of sinners. But here is the sweetness of my lot: I am a stranger with Thee. Thou art my fellow-sufferer, my fellowpilgrim. Oh, what joy to wander in such blessed society! My heart burns within me by the way when Thou dost speak to me, and though I be a sojourner, I am far more blest than those who sit on thrones, and far more at home than those who dwell in their ceiled houses. “To me remains nor place, nor time: My country is in every clime; I can be calm and free from care On any shore, since God is there.” “While place we seek, or place we shun, The soul finds happiness in none: But with a God to guide our way, ’Tis equal joy to go or stay.

Lillian was nearly overcome by nausea as Westcliff took her to an outdoor conservatory. The sky had turned plum-colored, the gathering darkness relieved only by starlight and the flares of newly lit torches. As the clean, sweet evening air swept over her, she gulped in deep breaths. Westcliff guided her to a cane-backed chair, exhibiting far more compassion than Daisy, who staggered against a column and shook with spasms of laughter. “Oh…good Lord…” Daisy gasped, blotting tears of hilarity from her eyes, “your face, Lillian…you turned as green as a pea. I thought you were going to cast your crumpets in front of everyone!” “So did I,” Lillian said, shuddering. “I take it you’re not fond of calf’s head,” Westcliff murmured, sitting beside her. He extracted a soft white handkerchief from his coat and blotted Lillian’s damp forehead. “I’m not fond of anything,” Lillian said queasily, “that stares back at me just before I’m supposed to eat it.” Daisy recovered her breath long enough to say, “Oh, don’t carry on so. It only stared at you for a moment…” She paused and added, “Until its eyeballs were flipped out!” She convulsed with mirth once again. Lillian glared at her howling sister and closed her eyes weakly. “For God’s sake, do you have to—” “Breathe through your mouth,” Westcliff reminded her. The handkerchief moved over her face, absorbing the last traces of cold sweat. “Try putting your head down.

Abide with me; fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide; When other helpers fail and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, Oh, abide with me.

Marks … I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to find your spectacles in this wreckage.” “I have another pair at home,” she ventured. “Thank God.” Leo sat up with a quiet grunt of discomfort. “Now, if we stand on the highest pile of debris, it’s only a short distance to the surface. I’m going to hoist you up, get you out of here, and then you’re going to ride back to Ramsay House. Cam trained the horse, so you won’t need to guide him. He’ll find his way back home with no trouble.” “What are you going to do?” she asked, bewildered. He sounded rather sheepish. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to wait here until you send someone for me.” “Why?” “I have a—” He paused, searching for a word. “Splinter.” She felt indignant. “You’re going to make me ride back alone and unescorted and virtually blind, to send someone to rescue you? All because you have a splinter?” “A large one,” he volunteered. “Where is it? Your finger? Your hand? Maybe I can help to … Oh, God. ” This last as he took her hand and brought it to his shoulder. His shirt was wet with blood, and a thick shard of timber protruded from his shoulder. “That’s not a splinter,” she said in horror. “You’ve been impaled. What can I do? Shall I pull it out?” “No, it might be lodged against an artery. And I wouldn’t care to bleed out down here.” She crawled closer to him, bringing her face close to his to examine him anxiously... “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “It looks worse than it is.” But Catherine didn’t agree. If anything, it was worse than it looked... Stripping off her riding coat, she tried to lay it over his chest. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Trying to keep you warm.” Leo plucked the garment off his chest and made a scoffing sound. “Don’t be ridiculous. First, the injury isn’t that bad. Second, this tiny thing is not capable of keeping any part of me warm. Now, about my plan—” “It is obviously a significant injury,” she said, “and I do not agree to your plan. I have a better one.” “Of course you do,” he replied sardonically. “Marks, for once would you do as I ask?” “No, I’m not going to leave you here. I’m going to pile up enough debris for both of us to climb out.” “You can’t even see, damn it. And you can’t move these timbers and stones. You’re too small.” “There is no need to make derogatory remarks about my stature,” she said, lurching upward and squinting at her surroundings. Identifying the highest pile of debris, she made her way to it and hunted for nearby rocks. “I’m not being derogatory.” He sounded exasperated. “Your stature is absolutely perfect for my favorite activity. But you’re not built for hauling rocks. Blast it, Marks, you’re going to hurt yourself—” “Stay there,” Catherine said sharply, hearing him push some heavy object aside. “You’ll worsen your injury, and then it will be even more difficult to get you out. Let me do the work.” Finding a heap of ashlar blocks, she picked one up and lugged it up the pile, trying not to trip over her own skirts. “You’re not strong enough,” Leo said, sounding aggravated and out of breath. “What I lack in physical strength,” she replied, going for another block, “I make up for in determination.” “How inspiring. Could we set aside the heroic fortitude for one bloody moment and dredge up some common sense?” “I’m not going to argue with you, my lord. I need to save my breath for”—she paused to heft another block—“stacking rocks.” Somewhere amid the ordeal, Leo decided hazily that he would never underestimate Catherine Marks again. Ounce for ounce, she was the most insanely obstinate person he had ever known, dragging rocks and debris while half blind and hampered by long skirts, diligently crossing back and forth across his vision like an industrious mole. She had decided to build a mound upon which they could climb out, and nothing would stop her.

(2) The sense of their own sinfulness will be overruled for the good of the godly. Thus our own sins shall work for good. This must be understood warily, when I say the sins of the godly work for good - not that there is the least good in sin. Sin is like poison, which corrupts the blood, infects the heart, and, without a sovereign antidote, brings death. Such is the venomous nature of sin, it is deadly and damning. Sin is worse than hell, but yet God, by His mighty over ruling power, makes sin in the issue turn to the good of His people. Hence that golden saying of Augustine, ‘God would never permit evil, if He could not bring good out of evil.’ The feeling of sinfulness in the saints works for good several ways. (a) Sin makes them weary of this life. That sin is in the godly is sad, but that it is a burden is good. St. Paul’s afflictions (pardon the expression) were but a play to him, in comparison of his sin. He rejoiced in tribulation (2 Corinthians 7:4). But how did this bird of paradise weep and bemoan himself under his sins! ‘Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?’ (Romans 7:24). A believer carries his sins as a prisoner his shackles; oh, how does he long for the day of release! This sense of sin is good. (b) This inbeing of corruption makes the saints prize Christ more. He that feels his sin, as a sick man feels his sickness, how welcome is Christ the physician to him! He that feels himself stung with sin, how precious is the brazen serpent to him! When Paul had cried out of a body of death, how thankful was he for Christ! ‘I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord’ (Romans 7:25). Christ’s blood saves from sin, and is the sacred ointment which kills this quicksilver.

Dear lord My Gawd on my knees I pray may your grace and mercy abound as you rain forever, quench within me oh! my soul and let the flames of high be my guide, the faint star my watch. Reveal to me the decrees of thy hearth and set my coarse fast past the morning dew, sweet flavor riches the choice of a Prince saver's the tongue from bitterness and curses , withstand not the glory of thy hands oh! lord for my tuitions I beseech Remedy the flavor of the wise. Limitless my countless days are numbered in thee oh! lord , count me inn as thy first choice of silver and Precious Mineral, You Rain forever oh! lord in thee I Pray, Amen

They Just Don’t Do That Anymore He used to wake me, oh so often. He’d had a bad dream, or a cough, or something felt funny inside. I would grumble, or be patient, depending on the night and how tired I was. Back to his room and tuck him in. Rinse and repeat, through many moons. But he doesn’t do that anymore. He used to be our pickiest eater. Though we’d always fed all three the same, he turned up his nose more frequently. I would grumble about this, or be patient, depending on the day and all that had happened up until that point. Trying not to make it worse, we encouraged him to taste new flavors. We also honored his preferences and didn’t force it. Now he gobbles down chili, curry, many of his former not-favorites. He doesn’t do that anymore. They used to argue every day: shout, bite, whine, hit. Clamoring for position and power, each in his or her own way. I would grumble about this, or be patient, depending on the state of my heart and energy level. These days plenty of disagreements occur, but so do apologies, ones I don’t always have to oversee or manage. They don’t do that anymore. The tantrums, oh dear Lord, the tantrums. “Don’t give in and they’ll soon learn that tantrums don’t work.” Ha. I never gave in, but that didn’t stop these daily events that pushed me to my limit and beyond. For years. I would grumble about this, or be patient, depending on how many times we’d been down this road in the past twenty-four hours. At times I found myself sitting through the screaming, my own tears of helplessness running like rivers. Too drained to even wipe them away. Convinced I must be doing everything wrong. But they don’t do that anymore. Some mamas are reading this after multiple times up in the night. Or you’ve stumbled across these words soon after yet another shouting match. Or maybe the dinner you poured weary energy into met with a resounding lack of applause. I don’t want to minimize the stage you’re in. Don’t want to tell you, “Enjoy these days, they go by so fast.” I’m not here to patronize you. Instead let me pour a little encouragement your way: Go ahead and grumble, or be patient. You don’t have to handle all the issues perfectly. Go ahead and cry, and wonder if it’s even worth it. Go ahead and pray, for strength to make it through the next five minutes. Because one day, often when you least expect it, often when you’ve come to peace with the imperfections and decided to be happy anyway, you’ll wake up, look around in amazement and realize: They just don’t do that anymore.

[Editor’s Note: Snorri Sturluson has had issues with accuracy in the past. To ensure this is not an issue with this and other interviews recorded in this book, a raven scribe accompanied him to his meetings. The transcripts therefore include impartial observations as well as the conversations themselves.] SNORRI STURLUSON: Thank you, my lord, for agreeing to talk with me. I’m certain readers will be extremely interested in whatever you say. ODIN: Probably. SS: May I ask my first question? O: You just did. SS [laughing delightedly]: Oh, you got me that time! Wise and witty, all in one package! But now to the question. Odin, tell us, in your own words…what was it like when you lost your eye? O [cheerfully]: I didn’t lose it, Snorri. I gouged it out with my own fingers. SS [looking green]: In…deed. And, erm, what was that like? O: Not fun. But I got something worthwhile in exchange for it. SS: And that was? O: This cool eye patch. SS: Ah. Nothing else?

JUNE 16 SUGGESTED READING: EPHESIANS 5:1–15 Ah sinful nation, a people laden with iniquity, a seed of evildoers, children that are corrupters: they have forsaken the LORD, they have provoked the Holy One of Israel unto anger, they are gone away backward (Isa. 1:4). Be careful about how you guide your Christian life. You must do more than follow the ordinary standards of the world. It is very tempting to follow the world’s standards in your business and to say, “Oh, well, they all do it. I must do the same.” But if that standard conflicts in the tiniest degree with the clear standard of God, beware! It is an attempt to make a judicious blend of corrupting worldliness and godliness. Compromising Christians spread their disease quicker than any other kind. One backslider exerts an influence over the community that is tenfold worse than the influence of a hundred sinners who have never been saved. PRAYER THOUGHT: If my conduct has provoked You, Lord, I pray that You will reveal my fault and forgive me.

Surely she knows the effect she has on me, he thought. He was close enough to smell her orange blossom perfume. Oh! What a glorious scent. He brought himself back into focus, leaned in, and with the large serving tongs carefully lifted the lobster from the tray. Dear Lord, guide my hand. Do not let me make a fool of myself this day. Do not let me flip the spoon into her lap, please, please, guide my hand. Not a crumb of lobster's stuffing escaped as he laid it gently upon the exquisite maiolica plate decorated with scenes of pastoral life. Relief. "Thank you," she said again. Her soft voice was a chorus of angels. She touched his arm in thanks and a thrill ran through him. He wanted nothing more than to lean down and brush her white neck with his lips, but instead he departed before she could see the heat of embarrassment rising to his cheeks.