Karen Will And Grace Quotes

Nightfall. “What a strange word. ‘Night’ I get. But ‘fall’ is a gentle word. Autumn leaves fall, swirling with languid grace To carpet the earth with their dying blaze. Tears fall, like liquid diamonds Shimmering softly, before they melt away. Night doesn’t fall here. It comes slamming down.

Karen was radiant in a beautiful blue gown. Even her mother, for once, had said so. “Not just pretty, honey—you reek of class. Like Princess Grace from Morocco,” she’d said, beaming at her daughter.

Don't lose yourself to anger. It's gasoline. You can burn it as fuel, or you can use it to torch everything you care about and end up standing on a scorched battlefield, with everybody dead, even you-only your body doesn't have the good grace to quit breathing

Leaves grow old gracefully, bring such joy in their last lingering days. How vibrant and bright is their final flurry of life.

My city. I pondered that phrase, wondered why Barrons felt that way. He never said “our world.” He always said “your world.” But he called Dublin his city. Merely because he’d been in it so long? Or had Barrons, like me, been beguiled by her tawdry grace, fallen for her charm and colorful dualities? I looked around “my” bookstore. That was what I called it. Did we call the things of our heart our own, whether they were or not?

Dear Karen, I've been thinking about Us, the story of us. How the fuck do I sum it up? Has it been perfect? Hardly. Any story with me at the center of it will never be anything less than a big smiling mess. But here's what I know for sure—our time in the sun has been a thing of absolute fucking beauty. The nightmares, the hangovers, the fucking and the punching. The gorgeous shimmering insanity of the city of ours. Where for years I woke up, fucked up, said I was sorry, passed out and did it all over again. As a writer, I'm a sucker for happy endings. The guy gets the girl, she saves him from himself, fade to fucking black. As a guy who loves a girl, I realize there's no such thing. There's no sunset. There's just now, and there's just the two of us, which can be scary fucking ugly sometimes. But if you close your eyes and listen for the whisper of your heart—if you simply keep trying and never ever give up, no matter how many times you get it wrong, until the beginning and the end blur into something called until we meet again -- and that's it. I didn't know how to finish it, because it's not over. It'll never be over, as longs as there's you, and there's me, and there's hope, and grace.

Grace, my friends, demands nothing from us but that we shall await it with confidence and acknowledge it in gratitude. Grace, brothers, makes no conditions and singles out none of us in particular; grace takes us all to its bosom and proclaims general amnesty. See! That which we have chosen is given us, and that which we have refused is, also and at the same time, granted us. Ay, that which we have rejected is poured upon us abundantly. For mercy and truth have met together, and righteousness and bliss have kissed one another!

He even moved like an animal, fluid strength and surety. And all the devil ever wants in exchange, a small voice said warningly, is a soul. Oh, puh-lease, Chloe rebuked herself sternly. He's a man, nothing more. A big, beautiful, sometimes scary man, but that's all. Graceful as a stalking tiger, the big, beautiful, scary man dropped into a crouch on the ground before her, his dark eyes glinting in the shadowy night. They knelt mere inches apart. When he spoke, his words were painstakingly articulated, as if speaking was an immense effort. His words were carefully spaced, tight, coming in rushes, with pauses between. "I will give you. Every. Artifact I own. If you kiss. Me and ask no. Questions." "Huh?" Chloe gaped. "No questions," he hissed. He shook his head violently, as if trying to scatter something from it.

Mac draws up short to keep from slamming into Barrons and her blonde hair swings back over her shoulder, brushing his face as it goes and my hearing is so good I catch the rasp of it chafing the shadow stubble on his jaw, then one of his hands grazes her breast and his eyes narrow when he looks at what he touched in a hungry way I want a man to look at me like one day and, as they continue to recover from the near-collision, their bodies move in a graceful dance of impeccable awareness of precisely where the other is at all times that is unity, symbiosis, partnership I only dream of, wolves that chose to pack up and hunt together, soldiers who will always have each other’s back no matter what, no sin, no transgression too great, ‘cause don’t we all transgress sometimes and it fecking slays me, because once I got a little taste of what that was like and it was heaven and they’re so beautiful standing there, the best of the best, the strongest of the strong that they practically glow to me, on fire with all I ever wanted in my life—a place to belong and someone to belong there with.

Don’t lose yourself in anger, Mac. It’s gasoline. You can burn it as fuel, or you can use it to torch everything you care about and end up standing on a scorched battlefield, with everybody dead, even you - only your body doesn’t have the good grace to quit breathing.

You have to leave room for God's grace. Perfect is God's job.

True faith is not hard at all. It is soft in its resilience, yielding in its certitude — the vehicle for absolute grace.

My grace is sufficient for you, my daughter. I will never leave you nor forsake you.

Suddenly he smiled, and the sadness was vanquished by whisky heat. “Aye, Jessica, I like you. And I’m not just stuck with you. You fit me here, woman.” He thumped his chest with his fist. Then he shook her hand from his forearm and pushed off with the cart again. Jessi watched him move down the aisle, all sleek animal muscle and dark grace. Wow. He wasn’t a man of many words, but when he used them, he certainly used the right ones. You fit me here. You are the exception to everything. Crimeny. It was how she’d always thought a relationship should be. People should fit each other: some days like sexy, strappy high-heeled shoes, other days like comfortable loafers—but always a good fit. And if you cared about someone, they should be the exception to everything; the number-one priority, the one who came before all others. He was halfway down the aisle from her now, plucking a can from the shelf—her primal hunter/gatherer procuring food by modern means, she thought, with a soft snort of amusement.

I myself prefer being called Cassie. It's so much friendlier and less pretentious than Cassandra, don't you think? ... I think both fit you right fine. One is elegant and graceful, the other fun and lively.

.Such power, and carried with such careless grace. How that must burden him.

Sometimes it takes a total break to lead to complete healing and restoration.

Surely traditions have to evolve? Surely daughters can choose their own happiness? Surely our world can handle this new virus?

Love first. Questions later. Grace beyond measure. All of it unconditional.

I can not regret what I have learned. Regardless of what you decide and what becomes of us, it will not change this belief, and whatever children I may have, I will try to teach them this: that life is meant to be more than existence. Fight for and hold on to your passion, whatever it is, but surrender gracefully when the passion is well spent. For it is through loss that we learn, and grief that we grow stronger, and living that we learn how to love. Everything is a choice, and by avoiding choices, one not only ensures that a wrong decision won't be made, but also steals a soul's chance to live, to learn, and to love.

You crazy, beautiful, maddening woman, that's because you trained yourself to live that way. And wisely so. It's what kept you alive. It's been your saving grace. You learned young the necessity of leaving the pain behind and embracing the next good thing. Few people ever achieve that clarity. Prolonged grief is self-mutilation; a blade you turn on yourself. It doesn't bring them back and only keeps you trapped in misery. You were healing the way people should heal but they punish themselves instead. For what—being the one who lived? Those we love will die. And die. And die. Life goes on. You choose how: badly or well.

Very simply, God had forgiven her...Amazing grace was something she knew personally. The only right response for the rest of her life was to extend that grace to others, to forgive the way she had been forgiven.

On the fifth night of our search, I see a plesiosaur. It is a megawatt behemoth, bronze and blue-white, streaking across the sea floor like a torpid comet. Watching it, I get this primordial deja vu, like I'm watching a dream return to my body. It wings towards me with a slow, avian grace. Its long neck is arced in an S-shaped curve; its lizard body is the size of Granana's carport. Each of its ghost flippers pinwheels colored light. I try to swim out of its path, but the thing's too big to avoid. That Leviathan fin, it shivers right through me. It's a light in my belly, cold and familiar. And I flash back to a snippet from school, a line from a poem or a science book, I can't remember which: 'There are certain prehistoric things that swim beyond extinction'.

Ms. Lane.”Barrons’ voice is deep, touched with that strange Old World accent and mildly pissed off. Jericho Barrons is often mildly pissed off. I think he crawled from the swamp that way, chafed either by some condition in it, out of it, or maybe just the general mass incompetence he encountered in both places. He’s the most controlled, capable man I’ve ever known. After all we’ve been through together, he still calls me Ms. Lane, with one exception: When I’m in his bed. Or on the floor, or some other place where I’ve temporarily lost my mind and become convinced I can’t breathe without him inside me this very instant. Then the things he calls me are varied and nobody’s business but mine. I reply: “Barrons,” without inflection. I’ve learned a few things in our time together. Distance is frequently the only intimacy he’ll tolerate. Suits me. I’ve got my own demons. Besides I don’t believe good relationships come from living inside each other’s pockets. I believe divorce comes from that. I admire the animal grace with which he enters the room and moves toward me. He prefers dark colors, the better to slide in and out of the night, or a room, unnoticed except for whatever he’s left behind that you may or may not discover for some time, like, say a tattoo on the back of one’s skull. “What are you doing?” “Reading,” I say nonchalantly, rubbing the tattoo on the back of my skull. I angle the volume so he can’t see the cover. If he sees what I’m reading, he’ll know I’m looking for something. If he realizes how bad it’s gotten, and what I’m thinking about doing, he’ll try to stop me. He circles behind me, looks over my shoulder at the thick vellum of the ancient manuscript. “In the first tongue?” “Is that what it is?” I feign innocence. He knows precisely which cells in my body are innocent and which are thoroughly corrupted. He’s responsible for most of the corrupted ones. One corner of his mouth ticks up and I see the glint of beast behind his eyes, a feral crimson backlight, bloodstaining the whites. It turns me on. Barrons makes me feel violently, electrically sexual and alive. I’d march into hell beside him. But I will not let him march into hell beside me. And there’s no doubt that’s where I’m going. I thought I was strong, a heroine. I thought I was the victor. The enemy got inside my head and tried to seduce me with lies. It’s easy to walk away from lies. Power is another thing. Temptation isn’t a sin that you triumph over once, completely and then you’re free. Temptation slips into bed with you each night and helps you say your prayers. It wakes you in the morning with a friendly cup of coffee, and knows exactly how you take it. He skirts the Chesterfield sofa and stands over me. “Looking for something, Ms. Lane?” I’m eye level with his belt but that’s not where my gaze gets stuck and suddenly my mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow and I know I’m going to want to. I’m Pri-ya for this man. I hate it. I love it. I can’t escape it. I reach for his belt buckle. The manuscript slides from my lap, forgotten. Along with everything else but this moment, this man. “I just found it,” I tell him.

When a family member’s behavior threatens to knock the nice right out of us, we can pause. Recalculate. Punch in a different destination for the words now downloading from our brains onto our tongues. We can program them to first stop at gentleness, swing by to pick up respect, and finally — arrive with grace. Then our mouths can utter pleasant words rather than those that are caustic, cutting, and unkind.

As he [Sir Malcolm Sargeant, conductor of the London Philharmonic] stood in waist deep in the shallows of Whaler's Cove, the littler spinners came drifting over, sleek and dainty, gazing at him curiously with their soft dark eyes. Malcolm was a tactful, graceful man in his movements, and so the spinners were not afraid of him. In moments, he had them all pressing around him, swimming into his arms, and begging him to swim away with them. He looked up, suffused with delight, and remarked to me, 'It's like finding out there really are fairies at the bottom of the garden!

We drank wine, he was charming, but that’s all it was. Wine and Will & Grace. No touching! Finally, after a few weekends of laughing and watching Jack-and-Karen hijinks while sipping chardonnay, I asked, “So, uh, what’s going on here?” He then proceeded to tell me—are you ready for this?—that he was just trying to figure out if he still loved his husband while they were on a break. I have never left an apartment faster. I may have left a shoe behind. MEN!

love in grace and truth.

Justice and grace were hard concepts for anyone, especially for a person young in her faith.

slowly, “You care too much, Will. Do not let His Grace

Thank You, Lord, for giving us a place in Your heart, not by our works, but by Your mercy and grace. —KAREN VALENTIN

Freedom is not an endless sea of choices, but an acceptance, embrace even, of both the nature and the grace at the core of our being and our becoming.

Grace beyond measure. All of it unconditional. Because love like this was from God.

idea that all of us are caterpillars, really. Furry little creatures scooting along the ground wondering why we can't seem to fly. And then God, in all His goodness, encourages us to crawl in a hole, bury our old selves, and die to the life we once knew. If we'll do that, if we'll trust Him with our entire existence, then He'll give us something beautiful in exchange. He'll give us wings. The ultimate wings come when we give our lives to Christ and let Him be Lord of our lives, our Savior. Without those wings, a person cannot see heaven—a tragedy none of us need face if only we accept God's gift of grace. If this idea is confusing to you, if you've never considered Jesus' second chances, then make a phone call. Find a Bible-believing church and find out more about the God who made you, the One who created a plan for your salvation. But if you've known God and find yourself stuck on the ground again, remember this. Second chances happen throughout our lives. Jesus told us to forgive seventy times seven—in other words, to always forgive. And in return He promised us the same. No matter where you're at in life, no matter what you've done, God waits with open arms, ready to give you that second chance. Even for the seven-hundredth time.

Practice acceptance on yourself so you can be kinder with your child. Practice nonjudgmental awareness of your life so you can save your loved ones from the cruelty of your own impossible standards and your hard-hearted disappointment. Practice greater faith and lesser blame. Take this blink of time when you are still stumbling at the gate, still awkward at the tasks, to turn down the sound and tumble freely in a state of grace. Life

I selected a simple but graceful gown with a sage-colored organza overdress and a seed-pearl choker, hoping that I had chosen well, and I swept my hair up with long, pearl-dotted pins from a small ivory box on the vanity.

Our security, once and for all, lies with no one but God and our relationship with Him. And we need not be obsessed with that relationship for it to give us peace. We need do little more than seek to know God better for the grace to come.

A useful education served women best, More thought. To ‘learn how to grow old gracefully is perhaps one of the rarest and most valuable arts which can be taught to a woman.’ Yet, when beauty is all that is expected or desired in a woman, she is left with nothing in its absence. It ‘is a most severe trail for those women to be called to lay down beauty, who have nothing else to take up. It is for this sober season of life that education should lay up its rich resources,’ she argued.

I’ve been in your skin,” he taunted. “I know you inside and out. There’s nothing there. Do us all a favor and die so we can start working on another plan and quit thinking maybe you’ll grow the fuck up and be capable of something.” Okay, enough! “You don’t know me inside and out,” I snarled. “You may have gotten in my skin, but you have never gotten inside my heart. Go ahead, Barrons, make me slice and dice myself. Go ahead, play games with me. Push me around. Lie to me. Bully me. Be your usual constant jackass self. Stalk around all broody and pissy and secretive, but you’re wrong about me. There’s something inside me you’d better be afraid of. And you can’t touch my soul. You will never touch my soul!” I raised my hand, drew back the knife, and let it fly. It sliced through the air, straight for his head. He avoided it with preternatural grace, a mere whisper of a movement, precisely and only as much as was required to not get hit. The hilt vibrated in the wood of the ornate mantel next to his head. “So, fuck you, Jericho Barrons, and not the way you like it. Fuck you—as in, you can’t touch me. Nobody can.” I kicked the table at him. It crashed into his shins. I picked up a lamp from the end table. Flung it straight at his head. He ducked again. I grabbed a book. It thumped off his chest. He laughed, dark eyes glittering with exhilaration. I launched myself at him, slammed a fist into his face. I heard a satisfying crunch and felt something in his nose give. He didn’t try to hit me back or push me away. Merely wrapped his arms around me and crushed me tight to his body, trapping my arms against his chest. Then, when I thought he might just squeeze me to death, he dropped his head forward, into the hollow where my shoulder met my neck. “Do you miss fucking me, Ms. Lane?” he purred against my ear. Voice resonated in my skull, pressuring a reply. I was tall and strong and proud inside myself. Nobody owned me. I didn’t have to answer any questions I didn’t want to, ever again. “Wouldn’t you just love to know?” I purred back. “You want more of me, don’t you, Barrons? I got under your skin deep. I hope you got addicted to me. I was a wild one, wasn’t I? I bet you never had sex like that in your entire existence, huh, O Ancient One? I bet I rocked your perfectly disciplined little world. I hope wanting me hurts like hell!” His hands were suddenly cruelly tight on my waist. “There’s only one question that matters, Ms. Lane, and it’s the one you never get around to asking. People are capable of varying degrees of truth. The majority spend their entire lives fabricating an elaborate skein of lies, immersing themselves in the faith of bad faith, doing whatever it takes to feel safe. The person who truly lives has precious few moments of safety, learns to thrive in any kind of storm. It’s the truth you can stare down stone-cold that makes you what you are. Weak or strong. Live or die. Prove yourself. How much truth can you take, Ms. Lane?” Dreamfever

Marriage is not about our ultimate happiness,” she replied. “That is a lie from the devil. Marriage was made to refine us, to grow our character. It exposes the worst in us so that we see the need for humility, grace, forgiveness, and, most of all, our need for Jesus in our marriage.

Life is an adventure,” Karen’s mother used to tell her, “so be sure you experience it when it happens.” It was one of Grace Tyler’s favorites, one of several rules in her “Mom” arsenal, along with the ones about always having umbrellas and clean underwear and quarters for the pay phone.

She told us the repaired pitcher was an illustration of God's grace. The way he saw us. We would have broken times in life. Times when we threw a ball where we shouldn't and the next thing you knew something very precious was lying on the ground in pieces.............My mom set it on the table in the living room, where it stayed for the longest time. She told us God would always put the pieces back together if we were willing. The end result might not look exactly as it did before, but it would be beautiful all the same.

When Dillon's loss had aged us both; there was no doubt about that when I looked at photographs of the two of us in Tangier, we seemed to be kids. We were students when we first met. Bright-eyed and all that. Now, well, yes, there were lines of age on her face, lines of sadness. In the dark blue-gray of her eyes, I saw an extra depth of melancholy, but not despair; instead, there was a depthless sympathy, a forgiving and timeless patience. The difference between us was, whereas I looked ragged and rough around the edges, Robin had aged gracefully.

Luke had thrown a football across the room and hit a pitcher. They repaired it with superglue. "She told us the repaired pitcher was an illustration of God's grace. The way he saw us. We would have broken times in life. Times when we threw a ball where we shouldn't and the next thing you knew something very precious was lying on the ground in pieces." "My mom set it on the table in the living room, where it stayed for the longest time. She told us God would always put the pieces back together if we were willing. The end result might not look exactly as it did before, but it would be beautiful all the same.

He kissed her again, bringing both hands up behind her head to hold her still, and his hot lips slanted sideways across her open moutb. Her head spun crazily. She was dizzy. She could not breathe in here. She would fall in front of the queen. They would all know what he had done. There was no time left, surely. The castle portcullis would swing up, the door would be opened and His Grace would see them! He pulled his mouth away and said against her flushed cheek, "I have never envied any other man his bed before this long, long week. Now two men will possess you and neither really loves you, Mary Bullen. Think of me when you spread your sweet thighs for them!

The room was dark, though weak autumnal light filtered in through arched windows high on the walls, illuminating the room's rich aubergine brocade wallpaper. Its color cast a soft violet haze that floated through the bedroom, twinkling the huge diamond-shaped crystals that dropped from two immense, many-tiered silver chandeliers. They were larger than any I had ever seen, things out of a palace or a fairy tale. An imposing, heavily carved wardrobe, which looked as if it had been in place since the early fifteenth century, faced the bed where I lay. Beside it on the wall hung a large bronze shield with an iron French cross at its center, crowned by a gilded fleur-de-lis with a dazzling gemstone in the middle of the petal. Large portraits of nude ladies, odalisques that looked as if an Italian master- Titian, perhaps?- had painted them graced the adjacent wall. A heavy crystal vase of white long-stemmed roses sat on a table at the bedside, their petals tight, but their sweet perfume filling the air, mingling with the aroma of fresh baked bread. I ran my hands down my body. I was not in my own nightdress but in a pale green gown of fine quality damask silk with a triangular neckline and long, full sleeves that cupped my wrists, draping white lace over my hands to the fingers. I had never seen such a rich garment. I imagined it was something that the queen's daughters would have worn.

The Tao of Dying:                                  In letting go                                  There is gain.                                  In giving up,                                  There is advancement. Letting go of control makes room for the gift of interdependence. Letting go of dreams makes room for ordinary moments of grace. Letting go of replicating past experiences makes room for tomorrow’s surprises. Letting go of self-sufficiency makes room for discovering vulnerabilities previously unknown. Ira Byock says he’s learned through his patients’ dying stories “that people can become stronger and more whole as physical weakness becomes overwhelming and life itself wanes.” Letting go makes room for something new.

He was halfway to the house, thinking to set the cabbage inside the kitchen door,when a brown blur thundered past him. Joanna Robbins tore out of the barn astride a magnificent chestnut quarter horse. She leaned forward in the saddle,hat flopping against her back, hair streaming out behind her in a wild curly mass as she urged her mount to a full-out gallop. Unable to do anything but stare, Crockett stood dumbstruck as she raced past. She was the most amazing horsewoman he'd ever seen. Joanna Robbins. The shy creature who claimed painting and reading were her favorite pastimes had just bolted across the yard like a seasoned jockey atop Thoroughbred. She might have inherited her mother's grace and manners, but the woman rode like her outlaw father.Maybe better.

In due course I would learn how to cover up for this event, but on that awful day I knew of nothing to say but: 'Well, I guess they aren't going to do that either, heh, heh." FINALLY Hoku and Kiko stopped staring suspiciously through the glass long enough to go over the six bars, gracefully arcing in and out of the water against the glass, making the beautiful picture they were supposed to. I waved frantically at Chris to stop right there, to quit while we were ahead. I thanked the politely clapping audience and suggested they come back in a month and see what Hoku and Kiko could really do (I didn't have the courage to order them to KEEP clapping, and louder, please, so that Hoku and Kiko would do the applause jump). Then I yanked out the mike plug, raced down the ladder into the trainers' little sitting room underneath the stage, and took up smoking again.

Do not dare to ever touch me again!" she spat at him. "Go caress your Maud, go kiss her in the roses!" A little sob tore from her throat and the stubborn tears sprang to her eyes again. He loosed her waist and took one of her hands firmly in both of his warm ones. "I am in your bad graces, sweetheart, and rightly so. I did not know you and Will stood so close in the garden." "I am certain it would not have made one tiny difference to you if the cardinal himself would have stood there watching!" His teeth shone white in the dim bower as he smiled and the rain splattered down around their protective arch of leaves. "I am elated that my attention to other ladies displeases you." "I could not care less what you do, William Stafford!" "Really? Fine, because I am going to kiss you and if we had the time, I would carry you to one of those three hundred silken beds in that great pile of Wolsey's bricks and make hot love to you whether you were willing or not. I told you I do not love the little Jennings, Mary, and I told you true. You know whom I do love, do you not, sweetheart?

Suddenly every muscle in my body tensed as if standing up in greeting, even though I didn’t move. “Barrons.” I dropped my hands and raised my head. “Ms. Lane.” He took a chair across from me with such eerie grace that I wondered how I’d ever believed he was human. He poured himself into the brocade wing chair, like water over stone, before settling into sleek muscle. He moved as if he knew where everything in the room was, in precise measurements. He didn’t walk, stalk, or prowl; he glided with flawless awareness of all other atoms in relation to his. It made it easy for him to conceal himself behind inanimate objects and to assume a similar . . . structure or something. “Have you always moved like that in front of me and I just never noticed? Was I oblivious?” “No and yes. You were oblivious. Head up that tight pink ass. But I never moved this way in front of you.” His looked dripped sexual innuendo. “I might have moved this way a time or two behind you.” “Not hiding anything from me anymore?” “I wouldn’t go that far.” “What does someone like you conceal?” “Wouldn’t you like to know?” His glittering eyes raked me with a hard once-over.

I stared through the front door at Barrons Books and Baubles, uncertain what surprised me more: that the front seating cozy was intact or that Barrons was sitting there, boots propped on a table, surrounded by piles of books, hand-drawn maps tacked to the walls. I couldn’t count how many nights I’d sat in exactly the same place and position, digging through books for answers, occasionally staring out the windows at the Dublin night, and waiting for him to appear. I liked to think he was waiting for me to show. I leaned closer, staring in through the glass. He’d refurnished the bookstore. How long had I been gone? There was my magazine rack, my cashier’s counter, a new old-fashioned cash register, a small flat-screen TV/DVD player that was actually from this decade, and a sound dock for my iPod. There was a new sleek black iPod Nano in the dock. He’d done more than refurnish the place. He might as well have put a mat out that said WELCOME HOME, MAC. A bell tinkled as I stepped inside. His head whipped around and he half-stood, books sliding to the floor. The last time I’d seen him, he was dead. I stood in the doorway, forgetting to breathe, watching him unfold from the couch in a ripple of animal grace. He crammed the four-story room full, dwarfed it with his presence. For a moment neither of us spoke. Leave it to Barrons—the world melts down and he’s still dressed like a wealthy business tycoon. His suit was exquisite, his shirt crisp, tie intricately patterned and tastefully muted. Silver glinted at his wrist, that familiar wide cuff decorated with ancient Celtic designs he and Ryodan both wore. Even with all my problems, my knees still went weak. I was suddenly back in that basement. My hands were tied to the bed. He was between my legs but wouldn’t give me what I wanted. He used his mouth, then rubbed himself against my clitoris and barely pushed inside me before pulling out, then his mouth, then him, over and over, watching my eyes the whole time, staring down at me. What am I, Mac? he’d say. My world, I’d purr, and mean it. And I was afraid that, even now that I wasn’t Pri-ya, I’d be just as out of control in bed with him as I was then. I’d melt, I’d purr, I’d hand him my heart. And I would have no excuse, nothing to blame it on. And if he got up and walked away from me and never came back to my bed, I would never recover. I’d keeping waiting for a man like him, and there were no other men like him. I’d have to die old and alone, with the greatest sex of my life a painful memory. So, you’re alive, his dark eyes said. Pisses me off, the wondering. Do something about that. Like what? Can’t all be like you, Barrons. His eyes suddenly rushed with shadows and I couldn’t make out a single word. Impatience, anger, something ancient and ruthless. Cold eyes regarded me with calculation, as if weighing things against each other, meditating—a word Daddy used to point out was the larger part of premeditation. He’d say, Baby, once you start thinking about it, you’re working your way toward it. Was there something Barrons was working his way toward doing? I shivered.

Don’t hide your mistakes, ’Cause they’ll find you, burn you —“Get Out Alive” by Three Days Grace

But better a bleeding tongue than a family member’s wounded heart. We might have to choose to let go of the need to prove our point, choosing instead to do the right thing: to impart grace and deal with the other person in love and with utmost patience.

When a family member’s behavior threatens to knock the nice right out of us, we can pause. Recalculate. Punch in a different destination for the words now downloading from our brains onto our tongues. We can program them to first stop at gentleness, swing by to pick up respect, and finally — arrive with grace.

The world says, “Gimme.” Jesus says, “Give.” The world says, “Take revenge.” Jesus says, “Turn the other cheek.” The world says, “Might makes right.” Jesus says, “When you’re weak, I’m strong.” The world says, “you can’t have enough.” Jesus says, “My grace is sufficient for you.” The world says, “Better watch out. God’s gonna getcha.” Jesus says, “I come to give you abundant life.” The world says, “God is dead. Angels we can handle, crystals we can handle, but God is dead.” Jesus says, “I am.” The world doesn’t have a clue.

Hours later, Adam proped himself up on an elbow and stared down at Gabrielle, pondering what made beauty. He thought he was beginning to understand. It wasn't symmetry of features; it wasn't perfection. It was uniqueness. That which one person had that no other possessed. That which was only their own. Perhaps Gabrielle's nose was like a thousand others, but they weren't on her face, with her eyes, with her cheekbones and hair. Nor were those noses graced with her many expressions, crinkling so charmingly when she laughed, flaring so haughtily when she was irritated.

What is the result of intentionally speaking graciously to our family, friends, and other necessary people? Of loving them without stopping? Of containing our anger when we speak and dealing with them in a patient and faithful way? When we choose to lace our words with grace, healing happens: “Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones” (Proverbs 16:24). Yes,

There was something in her indignation that spread fire throughout his body and ignited his passions. He would have Miss Grace Hayward for his wife, and, judging from the way she made him feel as their eyes locked across the table, he was going to enjoy every minute of it.   *

Grace was unable to speak. Richard was halfway to feeling amused when he noted that her eyes were filling with tears. Why is she so stubborn? She is flattered by my attentions and her blushes come readily, and yet now she’s being missish and on the verge of tears at the thought of fixing a date for the wedding. Richard did not know why, but this irritated him. Inside the pit of his stomach, a little ball of anger was growing. “Oh!

Everyday Graces: A Child’s Book of Good Manners, written by Karen Santorum.[73]

She did as asked and then felt Marie's hands come up to cradle her face. Marie said softly, 'Jesus, no one understands a heavy load better than you. No one has ever borne heavier. Bear up under this one with Ann, so she will know her only purpose here is to help others, love expansively, and be your hands and feet, your words of advice and wisdom when opportunities present themselves for her to help Grace and Karen. And yes, Josh and Will and Gabriel. Do whatever is necessary for Ann's success in the days ahead. Show your love to my friend and comfort her by your Spirit. Amen.

In fact, Zinn’s radicalism was not a good fit for Spelman College, where he must have stood out like a sore thumb. Spelman was a conservative Christian school that had been founded in 1881 by eleven ex-slaves who met in Friendship Baptist Church, wanting to read the Bible.34 It became Atlanta Baptist Female Seminary and then, in 1924, Spelman College. Karen Vanlandingham in her 1985 master’s thesis, “In Pursuit of a Changing Dream: Spelman College Students and the Civil Rights Movement, 1955–1962,” explains that the “religious tradition inherent in Spelman’s founding endured as a part of the school’s educational philosophy.” The 1958–1959 college catalogue asserted, “Spelman College is emphatically Christian. The attitude toward life exemplified by the life and teachings of Jesus is the ideal which governs the institution.”35 College life there included mandatory daily chapel attendance and adherence to a strict curfew and dress code. Howard Zinn, however, felt it was his mission and his right to change the college. In the August 6, 1960, Nation, he observed: “ ‘You can always tell a Spelman girl,’ ” alumni and friends of the college have boasted for years. The ‘Spelman girl’ walked gracefully, talked properly, went to church every Sunday, poured tea elegantly and, in general, had all the attributes of the product of a fine finishing school. If intellect and talent and social consciousness happened to develop also, they were, to an alarming extent, by-products.”36 Zinn set out to transform the “finishing school” into a “school for protest.

I wonder about that borrowed grace. Wonder about the enormous amount of pain they must be suffering to finally feel okay only when they decide to opt out of this crazy, beautiful world. You don’t see it coming, not even me. Although I’ve learned to watch for an unexpected, suspicious peace.

Why should she listen to a litany of her flaws when she knew them all so well? She never stood up straight. She always looked down at the ground when she walked. She jutted out her elbows and didn't stand with grace. She never backed up until she felt the chair behind her and then gracefully sank to the cushion like a feather. Instead, she sat like a stone falling to the ground. When she did laugh, it normally ended in an unladylike snort. She cried much too often when touched by a scene, a flower, a sunset.

I’m sorry for taking so long.” Tori straightened her shoulders as if readying herself for battle, then traipsed down the steps to the street. “I had a few last-minute details to see to.” Ben hurried around the back of the wagon to meet her and had opened his mouth to offer assurances that the delay was no problem when Lewis popped his head up. “About time! Sheesh, Ma. You took for-ev-er.” Ben cast a warning glance at the boy. “I’m sure whatever your ma was doing was important.” He turned back to Tori and gave her his most charming grin. “She’s worth waiting on.” Her lips tightened at that, but into a shape that looked more like disapproval than appreciation of a compliment. So much for his charm. “Yes, well . . . I suggest we delay no longer.” Tori lengthened her stride, giving him no chance to assist her into the wagon. She scrambled up the wheel spokes and onto the bench before he could even think about fitting his hands to her waist and hoisting her up. Unfortunate, that. Ben shrugged off his disappointment and moved forward to give his team a final check before climbing into the driver’s seat. Emma handed a large basket up to Tori and wished her farewell while Grace Mallory waved from behind the store railing. As he clucked to his Shires and set the wagon in motion, Ben grinned to himself. One of the best parts of this plan to call on area homesteaders was the sheer number of times they’d be required to enter and exit the wagon. Tori might have escaped him this time, but he’d have a couple dozen more chances to wrap his fingers around her slender waist.

Amid the darkest haste Bones clashed in ashes of sweetened gaze Fear beneath the crippling bones Surrendered into silent waste I've mocked the living From shattered waters Peeling my reflection from those who stare Tripping, falling, fading into shadows The voices eroding the pleasant streams Distant wallows of perfected grace Turned into a new tomorrow Veins crystallized from ashes to feathers Muscles tensed from vixen woes The skies cry radiance on my brazen mind Where life meets my brilliant sorrows

Connection gives us the grace and grit to unleash our potential and endure the challenge of our daily mess.

Peter prescribes four actions, each expressed in main clauses containing an aorist imperative form and each qualified by subordinate clauses: (1) set your mind on the grace ahead, (2) be holy in your whole way of life, (3) love one another earnestly, and (4) crave pure spiritual milk.

The Bible is the world’s largest anthology of seriously messed-up people.

I love that God’s Word does not merely outline a bunch of spotless, picture-perfect personalities and lifestyles that I could never attain.

But the landscape of life is far richer than the peaks and lows, and the Lord is the architect of it all.

We easily forget that the Lord has an extraordinary ability to bring about the most amazing results out of the most seemingly ordinary circumstances.

I believe that God can grant any of us victory and peace right within the struggle, while at the same time constantly moving us forward in grace.

As we learn to receive and live by God’s merciful power and plan, we become both witnesses to and bearers of heavenly grace.

In fact, it shatters the powers of darkness in unspeakable ways when we choose to persist as warriors praising and worshipping God even when our emotions and circumstances beg us to retreat.

We cannot in any way resemble God if we do not to some degree possess in our innermost core an intense yearning for what is good and right.

As we come to God openly and honestly with whatever we feel, God will be faithful to walk us through it all, and even to work it all for our good.

Jesus, no one understands a heavy load better than you. No one has ever borne heavier. Bear up under this one with Ann, so she will know her only purpose here is to help others, love expansively, and be your hands and feet, your words of advice and wisdom when opportunities present themselves for her to help Grace and Karen. And yes, Josh and Will and Gabriel. Do whatever is necessary for Ann’s success in the days ahead. Show your love to my friend and comfort her by your Spirit. Amen.

The world has stopped still, yet we can feel our frenzied, uncertain energy spinning the Earth.

together we weave a set of colours so beautiful that surely every listener's heart expands

Restrictions can't stop our music, can't stop us.

Dad used to call me an ocean of emotion, that in one day, one hour even, I could go from calm waters to stormy waves. Like all the colours of your cyanometer.

Don’t lose yourself in anger, Mac. It’s gasoline. You can burn it as fuel, or you can use it to torch everything you care about and end up standing on a scorched battlefield, with everybody dead, even you—only your body doesn’t have the good grace to quit breathing.

the social graces. “I was sorry to hear about your father’s death,” she said,

We might have to choose to let go of the need to prove our point, choosing instead to do the right thing: to impart grace and deal with the other person in love and with utmost patience.

mentor, Michele Scott, my editors Jennifer Meeghan and Wendy Duren, and my cover artist Damon at Damonza.com for the professional boost I needed. To all my Hemet and Palm Desert friends who cheered me on without hesitation: the Wolfe Pack, Palm Springs

Constant prayer is the bridge that leads to life

When I lost Karen, I learned the hard way that I can’t continue to dwell in the past. I have to look at the happiness in my life and the good things, like Spence and Mitch. And all of you here on the island. I have to forgive her for my own sake.

kneel Your Grace," he said curtly, "Unless you presume to tell a man of God that he may also fuck himself?" Rhian nearly lost her balance, coming off the last dais step.

In the end, only three things matter: How much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you. Buddha

The gospel's truth is my heart's marquee.

He finished his coffee and handed her his cup. He didn’t offer to help. He knew better. He’d just be in the way. The kitchen was Karen’s domain. She’d long ago claimed it as her own and now ruled it with the authority and grace of a queen. He’d given up trying to be helpful in here. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t seem to get the dishes clean enough to please her, or put them away in just the right places. Everything had to remain immaculately clean and tidy. There was a place for everything and everything was always in its place. Though you wouldn’t know it by the state of her disorganized closet or the chaotic mess that was her bathroom counter, in this room, nothing short of perfection would do.