Kidding Season 1 Quotes

So what do wolves do to date?” Nick asked. “We don’t date,” Vane said. “When a woman is in season, we fight for her and then she picks who mounts her.” Nick gaped. “Are you kidding? You don’t have to buy her dinner? You mean you don’t even have to talk to her?” He turned to Acheron. “Dayam, Ash, make me a wolf.

Fear. It's the most basic, the most human emotion. As kids, we're afraid of everything. The dark. The boogeyman under the bed. And we pray for morning. For the monsters to go away. Though they never do. Not really

There are moments on stage when everything comes together. Then the kid in the front row coughs.

Wait, this guy has a kid?” Elliot gasped over the phone. “What hot mess have you gotten yourself into, girl?” “Shut up, Elliot. Like you haven’t slept with a load of hairy daddies in your time.” “But they weren’t, like, actual daddies.

You are, rubia. I see it every time I’m with you. I don’t need kids or anything else for that matter to be happy with you. It’s just you. You make me happy. I’ll do what it takes to prove it to you.

Lydie Zeeb / KittyPaws30

You didn’t have to be a ma and a pa and four kids to be a family. All you needed was people livin’ together and lovin’ and helpin’ one another. That’s what made a family—blood-ties and love-bonds.

Think what it’d be like if everyone started wearing tree costumes, the man with the gun said. It’d be like living in a wood. And we don’t live in a wood. ... Normal people don’t go around wearing tree costumes. At least, they don’t around here. God knows what they do in other cities and towns, well, that’s up to them. But if you got your way you’d be dressing our kids up as trees, dressing our women up as trees. It’s got to be nipped in the bud.

Upright and Prideful." All plans should be in its season, (right time), Ecclesiastes 3:1. There is a time to talk, a time not to speak, A time to praise, A time to rebuke sin in the name of Jesus. A time to tell people about Jesus, when the Spirit tugs. A time of tribulation, A time of overflowing blessing, a time of rejection, a time of reproof. A time God says, “Wait, yes, no” instilling patience. A time to every minute, hour, day, month, year. A season for everything!

Brashen. It’s been a time.” “Over a year,” the man admitted easily. “Maybe two.” He came closer, and a moment later Paragon felt a warm human hand brush the point of his elbow. He unfolded his arms and reached down his right hand. He felt Brashen’s small hand attempt to grasp his own. “A year. A full turning of the seasons. That’s a long time for you folk, isn’t it?” “Oh, I don’t know.” The man sighed. “It was a lot longer when I was a kid. Now each passing year seems shorter than the one before.

Apt Pupil 1 He looked like the total all-American kid as he pedaled his twenty-six-inch Schwinn with the apehanger handlebars up the residential suburban street, and that’s just what he was: Todd Bowden, thirteen years old, five-feet-eight and a healthy one hundred and forty pounds, hair the color of ripe corn, blue eyes, white even teeth, lightly tanned skin marred by not even the first shadow of adolescent acne. He was smiling a summer vacation smile as he pedaled through the sun and shade not too far from his own house. He looked like the kind of kid who might have a paper route, and as a matter of fact, he did—he delivered the Santo Donato Clarion. He also looked like the kind of kid who might sell greeting cards for premiums, and he had done that, too. They were the kind that come with your name printed inside—JACK AND MARY BURKE, OR DON AND SALLY, OR THE MURCHISONS. He looked like the sort of boy who might whistle while he worked, and he often did so.

Alice's Cutie Code TM Version 2.1 - Colour Expansion Pack (aka Because this stuff won’t stop being confusing and my friends are mean edition) From Red to Green, with all the colours in between (wait, okay, that rhymes, but green to red makes more sense. Dang.) From Green to Red, with all the colours in between Friend Sampling Group: Fennie, Casey, Logan, Aisha and Jocelyn Green  Friends’ Reaction: Induces a minimum amount of warm and fuzzies. If you don’t say “aw”, you’re “dead inside”  My Reaction: Sort of agree with friends minus the “dead inside” but because that’s a really awful thing to say. Puppies are a good example. So is Walter Bishop. Green-Yellow  Friends’ Reaction: A noticeable step up from Green warm and fuzzies. Transitioning from cute to slightly attractive. Acceptable crush material. “Kissing.”  My Reaction: A good dance song. Inspirational nature photos. Stuff that makes me laugh. Pairing: Madison and Allen from splash Yellow  Friends’ Reaction: Something that makes you super happy but you don’t know why. “Really pretty, but not too pretty.” Acceptable dating material. People you’d want to “bang on sight.”  My Reaction: Love songs for sure! Cookies for some reason or a really good meal. Makes me feel like it’s possible to hold sunshine, I think. Character: Maxon from the selection series. Music: Carly Rae Jepsen Yellow-Orange  Friends’ Reaction: (When asked for non-sexual examples, no one had an answer. From an objective perspective, *pushes up glasses* this is the breaking point. Answers definitely skew toward romantic or sexual after this.)  My Reaction: Something that really gets me in my feels. Also art – oil paintings of landscapes in particular. (What is with me and scenery? Maybe I should take an art class) Character: Dean Winchester. Model: Liu Wren. Orange  Friends’ Reaction: “So pretty it makes you jealous. Or gay.”  “Definitely agree about the gay part. No homo, though. There’s just some really hot dudes out there.”(Feenie’s side-eye was so intense while the others were answering this part LOLOLOLOLOL.) A really good first date with someone you’d want to see again.  My Reaction: People I would consider very beautiful. A near-perfect season finale. I’ve also cried at this level, which was interesting. o Possible tie-in to romantic feels? Not sure yet. Orange-Red  Friends’ Reaction: “When lust and love collide.” “That Japanese saying ‘koi no yokan.’ It’s kind of like love at first sight but not really. You meet someone and you know you two have a future, like someday you’ll fall in love. Just not right now.” (<-- I like this answer best, yes.) “If I really, really like a girl and I’m interested in her as a person, guess. I’d be cool if she liked the same games as me so we could play together.”  My Reaction: Something that gives me chills or has that time-stopping factor. Lots of staring. An extremely well-decorated room. Singers who have really good voices and can hit and hold superb high notes, like Whitney Houston. Model: Jasmine Tooke. Paring: Abbie and Ichabod from Sleepy Hollow o Romantic thoughts? Someday my prince (or princess, because who am I kidding?) will come? Red (aka the most controversial code)  Friends’ Reaction: “Panty-dropping levels” (<-- wtf Casey???).  “Naked girls.” ”Ryan. And ripped dudes who like to cook topless.”  “K-pop and anime girls.” (<-- Dear. God. The whole table went silent after he said that. Jocelyn was SO UNCOMFORTABLE but tried to hide it OMG it was bad. Fennie literally tried to slap some sense into him.)  My Reaction: Uncontrollable staring. Urge to touch is strong, which I must fight because not everyone is cool with that. There may even be slack-jawed drooling involved. I think that’s what would happen. I’ve never seen or experienced anything that I would give Red to.

Steve pulled the sword blade out of the dead zombie's skull just as the mob's body disappeared in a puff of smoke. "Great job, Steve!" KittyPaws30 exclaimed with a sweet, high voice from up on the balcony. "You're such an amazing swordsman!" In the bright light of her balcony torches and the glow shining from inside her house, Steve could clearly see KittyPaws30's bright, blue eyes and bold, pink hair. She was wearing her typical white hoodie and three cats surrounded her, padding around on the balcony rail, swishing their white and black tails. Steve almost felt himself blush. He grinned from ear to ear and flipped around the sword in his hand. As several more zombies slowly plodded in at him from all around, Steve forgot all about Alex and Jack's work nearby and smiled up at his Minecraftian friend. "Oh, you like that?" he said. "Then watch this!" Steve spun around and beckoned all of the zombies toward him. "Come on, you filthy mobs! Come at me!" Four or five zombies closed in, moaning and snarling. Steve took aim and threw Alex's sword at the nearest mob as they all closed in and surrounded him. The sword flew through the air, tumbling end over end, and its blade sunk into the zombie's face. KittyPaws30 clapped her hands and laughed. "Delightful!" she exclaimed from above.

Yes,” Andy said. “But I’ll be hiring a lawyer, you know.” “What in God’s name for?” “I think we can put it together,” Andy said. “With Tommy Williams and with my testimony and corroborative testimony from records and employees at the country club, I think we can put it together.” “Tommy Williams is no longer an inmate of this facility.” “What?” “He’s been transferred.” “Transferred where?” “Cashman.” At that, Andy fell silent. He was an intelligent man, but it would have taken an extraordinarily stupid man not to smell deal all over that. Cashman was a minimum-security prison far up north in Aroostook County. The inmates pick a lot of potatoes, and that’s hard work, but they are paid a decent wage for their labor and they can attend classes at CVI, a pretty decent vocational-technical institute, if they so desire. More important to a fellow like Tommy, a fellow with a young wife and a child, Cashman had a furlough program . . . which meant a chance to live like a normal man, at least on the weekends. A chance to build a model plane with his kid, have sex with his wife, maybe go on a picnic. Norton had almost surely dangled all of that under Tommy’s nose with only one string attached: not one more word about Elwood Blatch, not now, not ever. Or you’ll end up doing hard time in Thomaston down there on scenic Route 1 with the real hard guys, and instead of having sex with your wife you’ll be having it with some old bull queer. “But why?” Andy said. “Why would—” “As a favor to you,” Norton said calmly, “I checked with Rhode Island. They did have an inmate named Elwood Blatch. He was given what they call a PP—provisional parole, another one of these crazy liberal programs to put criminals out on the streets. He’s since disappeared.” Andy said: “The warden down there . . . is he a friend of yours?” Sam Norton gave Andy a smile as cold as a deacon’s watchchain. “We are acquainted,” he said.

I swear, I think his favorite part of being a parent is that he gets to play like a kid again,” she says, laughing.

I’ve always hated when people say that. They’re only young once, as if parents who are stressed the fuck out aren’t already painfully aware of that. As if it doesn’t stir the never-ending pot of guilt. It’s always old people, whose kids probably fucking hate them now, too.

It’s something that always felt like a myth media showed to make people feel shitty about their relationships. When you’re surrounded by women all living the same reality as yours—the husband going out to make the money while you stay home with the kids and parent and cook and clean, then he sits on the couch after a long day at the office while your day continues—you think that’s just the way it is. It’s easy to tell yourself any other reality is a fantasy.

1) A “Ladies Who Lunch Party” thrown at the country club. Waiters carried hors d’oeuvres around, kneeling on the ground so that the little girls could reach them. The lunch was nicer than Jane’s wedding shower, possibly nicer than her wedding. 2) A “Movie Premiere Party” where the entire theater was rented out and the kids were allowed as much popcorn and candy as they wanted while watching a double feature of Moana and Monsters, Inc. (Lauren threw up in her bed that night.) 3) A “Camping Party” where each child received a sleeping bag personalized with her name and the backyard was set up with mini pink tents and paper lanterns. Someone was hired to grill the hot dogs and make the s’mores. 4) A “Spa Party” at the Four Seasons downtown where the girls got facials and fluffy pink robes and slippers. (Because what first grader wouldn’t appreciate getting rid of clogged pores?)

The Christmas stuff. The magic, the tree, the elf. You love it.” “Yeah. I do. My parents weren’t too big into it, and I knew I always wanted to do it for my kids.

Dad brought those chickens home on his way back from work sometimes and Jack loved them. Rotary chickens, Jack called them. They weren't really called 'rotary', but he couldn't remember the actual 'R' word.

Wait! You fool!" Braydon shouted from far behind. "Raaaauuggghhh!!" Steve shouted, charging down the hillside. His blood was rushing in his arms and leg, his heart felt like it was on fire, and he couldn't keep from smiling! He grinned from ear to ear as he charged the squad of six wither skeletons heading through the desert toward the western sun. He was looking forward to a battle. Braydon had told him to charge, after all... It was fine. He could take them. None of them had armor. They weren't armed with bows. They clearly had nothing more than stone swords. Steve could already imagine their bones shattering under his wooden weapon. It would have been nicer to have a better blade, but maybe he could take one of theirs. "I'm charging!" Steve shouted back to Braydon, who was now somewhere up the slope behind him. The six skeletons all turned to look at Steve without expression. They held their stone swords high and faced the incoming Minecraftian warrior. "But let me soften them up a little first!" Braydon shouted back from yet farther away. It was fine. Steve charged on, anticipating the moment he dove into combat. He visualized his sword plowing through the first blackened ribcage and extended it to his side, low, ready... No problem. Skeletons were slow. He'd be able to run circles around— The six dark skeletons suddenly burst into a surprising run. They charged at him. Their bones clunked from afar. Steve balked. Dang. Not normal skeletons! Two arrows streaked past him from Braydon. One hit one skeleton, then the other hit a second. The two struck wither skeletons stumbled with arrows in their ribs, but kept coming. Gosh—they were fast! Just as fast as Steve was! Then, they were on him. All of the wither skeletons moved to surround Steve, but he expected that. He was just sorry to see them all moving so quickly. He was supposed to dominate them with his speed. Oh well. He'd have to try something else.

What in tarnation?!" Liamfrey exclaimed suddenly. "What the heck was that?!" "That was a message," Alex said. "That's how this thing works." "Who's Astro?" Jack muttered, scratching his chin. He stared at the water, even though the message was gone. "Put off by me?!" Steve finally said. "Why's he gotta be put off by me?

Listen well Ghini. Belief, faith, and trust . . . all three are things that’re incredibly different, but get mixed up. You can choose to believe in something like God or monsters. You can have faith that God looks out for you, and that locking yer door keeps ya safe from the monsters. Trust is different. You trust the clergy to guide your faith, not because they have to, but because they want to. You trust that the silver bullet does the trick against the monster, not because you have to, but because that’s how others tell you they stopped it before you. If you don’t want to believe Bernie, well that’s yours to decide, but I tell you what, there’s plenty of this world that we don’t understand. Yet, all us adults got a parental instinct. One that’s programmed into us through evolution. And this old man’s instincts believe that kid. I have faith that he is a good man and wouldn’t try to dupe me like that. But most importantly, I trust him with my life.

SIMPLE BOLOGNESE When we were kids, this was our favorite sauce, hands down. I used to love it on everything—pasta, rice, bread, potatoes, and polenta—you name it, I covered it in bolognese. We went through a lot of it in my household. So my parents had to figure out a way to make it that was quicker than the traditional recipe, and here it is. It’s just as rich and mouthwatering as the more time-consuming traditional recipe; I promise you won’t know the difference. Now that I’m all grown up, I try not to use bolognese for everything, but it’s tempting because it’s perfect as a sauce for any type of pasta shape. MAKES ABOUT 1 QUART; SERVES 4 OVER A POUND OF PASTA AS A MAIN COURSE ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil 1 medium onion, minced 2 garlic cloves, minced 1 celery stalk, minced 1 carrot, peeled and minced 1 pound ground beef chuck 1 (28-ounce) can crushed tomatoes ¼ cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley 8 fresh basil leaves, chopped ½ teaspoon salt, plus more to taste ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, plus more to taste ¼ cup freshly grated Pecorino Romano cheese In a Large Skillet, heat the oil over a medium flame. When almost smoking, add the onion and garlic and sauté until the onion is very tender, about 8 minutes. Add the celery and carrot and sauté for 5 minutes. Increase the heat to high, add the ground beef, and sauté until the meat is no longer pink, breaking up any large lumps, about 10 minutes. Add the tomatoes, parsley, basil, and ½ teaspoon each of salt and pepper, and cook over medium-low heat until the sauce thickens, about 30 minutes. Stir in the cheese, then season with more salt and pepper to taste. (The sauce can be made 1 day ahead. Cool, then cover and refrigerate. Rewarm over medium heat before using.)  

(showing 1-2 of 2) sort by ↑ top up up 1 position down down ↓ bottom Remove this quote from your collectionSalvador Dalí “I don't do drugs. I am drugs.” ― Salvador Dalí tags: drugs 918 likes ↑ top up up 2 position down down ↓ bottom Remove this quote from your collection “But it's funny how even after all these years you find yourself wondering just how well you know anyone. Hell, we've all been tight since we we're kids - been through a lot together - but we still have secrets, don't we? All of us. None of us are ever exactly, precisely what we claim to be, are we? We're one way with some people, another way with other people, maybe another way still when we're all alone. That's what it boils down to fellas. At night, when you're lying there in bed looking at the ceiling, remembering the day, thinking back through things you did and what lies ahead, when it's just you and whatever god you pray to in the dark ...that's when all the masks are peeled away and it's just you. Just you..., and whoever...or whatever you are.

To tell you the truth, I'm curious about this place now. I wouldn't mind exploring. What do you know about it?" "I haven't been in here in years," he said. "I liked coming here as a kid. There was always something to eat, always something interesting to look at, like a puzzle of bent nails or one of Magnus's boxes, things made of beeswax from the local hives." "Isabel said her grandmother used to be in charge of the shop." Gratefully she buried her nose in the fleecy lining of his jacket. 'I'm such a goner,' she thought, lost in the scent of him. "During the harvest season, it was a busy place. Eva sold produce from the orchards, local honey, baked goods, freshly pressed cider.... Man, I'll never forget her cider and homemade donuts.

s a child, I was so shy I once hid in a closet at my own birthday party! But again and again, over the years, God has confronted me with opportunities to step outside of myself to touch others. And you know what? Saying yes to God is always a hopeful endeavor. If someone asked me 40 years ago whether I'd ever write a book or speak in front of a large audience, I'd have told her she was crazy. But that's what my ministry became! And as I've matured in the Lord, my hope has grown too. These days I'm far from a hopeless romantic. I'm not a hopeless anything. I'm a wide-eyed child of God eagerly waiting to see what He has in mind for me next. hese troubling days are the perfect time to enjoy the company of old and dear friends. You can share your sorrows, rejoice at God's love, and reminisce about good times. Through all life's seasons friends add so much depth and meaning. Don't think you have to fill every minute with activities. Spend time talking, listening, and enjoying companionship. Gather around a table of great food and soak up the warmth of years of friendship. Share a verse of Scripture and a time of prayer. The Bible says, "Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus" (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18). ver the years I've put together a "This Is Your Life" scrapbook for every one of my children. The books are filled with birth announcements, birthday party pictures, graduation memories-everything imaginable. Report cards, favorite Bible verses, photos of friends, even letters they wrote from camp. My kids have so enjoyed their special books-their own personal history. I love the scripture in Proverbs that says: "The

Autumn Psalm A full year passed (the seasons keep me honest) since I last noticed this same commotion. Who knew God was an abstract expressionist? I’m asking myself—the very question I asked last year, staring out at this array of racing colors, then set in motion by the chance invasion of a Steller’s jay. Is this what people mean by speed of light? My usually levelheaded mulberry tree hurling arrows everywhere in sight— its bow: the out-of-control Virginia creeper my friends say I should do something about, whose vermilion went at least a full shade deeper at the provocation of the upstart blue, the leaves (half green, half gold) suddenly hyper in savage competition with that red and blue— tohubohu returned, in living color. Kandinsky: where were you when I needed you? My attempted poem would lie fallow a year; I was so busy focusing on the desert’s stinginess with everything but rumor. No place even for the spectrum’s introverts— rose, olive, gray—no pigment at all— and certainly no room for shameless braggarts like the ones that barge in here every fall and make me feel like an unredeemed failure even more emphatically than usual. And here they are again, their fleet allure still more urgent this time—the desert’s gone; I’m through with it, want something fuller— why shouldn’t a person have a little fun, some utterly unnecessary extravagance? Which was—at least I think it was—God’s plan when He set up (such things are never left to chance) that one split-second assignation with genuine, no-kidding-around omnipotence what, for lack of better words, I’m calling vision. You breathe in, and, for once, there’s something there. Just when you thought you’d learned some resignation, there’s real resistance in the nearby air until the entire universe is swayed. Even that desert of yours isn’t quite so bare and God’s not nonexistent; He’s just been waylaid by a host of what no one could’ve foreseen. He’s got plans for you: this red-gold-green parade is actually a fairly detailed outline. David never needed one, but he’s long dead and God could use a little recognition. He promises. It won’t go to His head and if you praise Him properly (an autumn psalm! Why didn’t I think of that?) you’ll have it made. But while it’s true that my Virginia creeper praises Him, its palms and fingers crimson with applause, that the local breeze is weaving Him a diadem, inspecting my tree’s uncut gold for flaws, I came to talk about the way that violet-blue sprang the greens and reds and yellows into action: actual motion. I swear it’s true though I’m not sure I ever took it in. Now I’d be prepared, if some magician flew into my field of vision, to realign that dazzle out my window yet again. It’s not likely, but I’m keeping my eyes open though I still wouldn’t be able to explain precisely what happened to these vines, these trees. It isn’t available in my tradition. For this, I would have to be Chinese, Wang Wei, to be precise, on a mountain, autumn rain converging on the trees, a cassia flower nearby, a cloud, a pine, washerwomen heading home for the day, my senses and the mountain so entirely in tune that when my stroke of blue arrives, I’m ready. Though there is no rain here: the air’s shot through with gold on golden leaves. Wang Wei’s so giddy he’s calling back the dead: Li Bai! Du Fu! Guys! You’ve got to see this—autumn sun! They’re suddenly hell-bent on learning Hebrew in order to get inside the celebration, which explains how they wound up where they are in my university library’s squashed domain. Poor guys, it was Hebrew they were looking for, but they ended up across the aisle from Yiddish— some Library of Congress cataloger’s sense of humor: the world’s calmest characters and its most skittish squinting at each other, head to head, all silently intoning some version of kaddish. Part 1

Yes," she replied. "He's our sheep. We lost six of them yesterday after a creeper accident damaging their pen. We've brought one home already, and this grey one is the only one left after the wolf pack attack..." "I saw that," Braydon said. "Well—I saw the end of it. This taiga forest is full of wolves—not a very safe place for sheep, I'm afraid." "Hold on another sec," Jack said, putting a little, soft hand of curves and lines in the air. "You saw the battle when the sheep died? You watched Steve get killed, and then you waited around and only came out when I was in trouble?!" Alex could hear anger in the kid's voice. She reached down and grasped his soft, curved shoulder, feeling his strange muscles tense up at her touch. Jack looked up then softened. "Would you prefer that I didn't help you?" Braydon replied with his dark eyes narrowed. "This is my home. I see almost everything that happens here. Yes, I saw the wolves attack the sheep, and I saw your friend fall in battle, but I was too far at the time to intervene. When I followed you two and your sheep, I was trying to help. When you took shelter in the cave, I was trying to determine whether or not you were building on this land..." "But why didn't you—?!" Jack started, but Alex interrupted. "We thank you, Braydon, for helping us. Little Jack here," she said, looking down at the boy with 'shut the heck up' eyes, "would have surely been killed if you weren't watching over us." The ranger bowed slightly. "No problem," he said, bouncing lightly on his feet again. "Now, let's move on. I don't like to stay in one place for long." "Why not?" Jack asked. "When one lingers near the shadows, hostile mobs appear." Alex and Jack exchanged glances. "Can you tell us how to get home?" Alex asked. She wanted to ask Braydon more. She wanted to figure out the Minecraftian's connection to the Divining Pool and how he got here. Jack was probably wondering the same thing. If they could somehow figure out the ways that the Divining Pool pulled people into Vortexia, then maybe the kid could find a way back to ... wherever he came from. Jack certainly wasn't from here. He knew a lot about the world and the ways of things, but he was a completely different creature than the rest of them.

She could have said anything but that. Tiffany and Terry were fucking twins and they had a lot of twins in their family. FUCK, I screamed in my head.She kept rambling but after hearing twins I stopped listening. Kids, clothes, and money, were spinning through my head. I was able to avoid having kids all these years and now I might be caught with not one, but two

was slowly waking up and I noticed that I was half submerged in water. I could hear the waves, as they were my wake up call. Groggily I had opened my eyes, finding the sand in front of me. It took me a while to remember what happened but my head was pounding and I want nothing more than to go back to sleep. I dropped my head back on the damp sand; eagerly waiting for sleep but there’s this weird feeling in my gut. All of a sudden, images started to play in my mind. There was a storm while I was out fishing. I had read the weather reports before going out and they had promised a clear day which meant a time for me to go out to sea. I had checked the night before and relied too much on the current season, summer, that there were be little to no chance of storms. With all the waves tumbling about, I didn’t even know where I was heading nor could I remember if I had a certain destination after my boat floated further into the sea. I shook the grim thoughts away; there was no point on thinking about what has already happened. I slowly dragged my arms to push myself off the shore. My body was sore all over and I noticed a lot of debris around me. With no technology to turn to, I couldn’t even determine what island I’ve washed ashore unto. Blinking away the traces of sleep, I made my way to the dry portion of land hoping to get some help as long as I continue walking. It’s a good thing that nothing was broken or was I badly injured from the experience. I did have a bruise here and there but I’m sure that they’ll fade soon. Now, it’s best if I get some dry clothes and something good to eat. I looked at the position of the sun. If I had to guess, it’s almost lunch time. That and the loud noises from my stomach would be a good measure of time. I had a painful time walking so I took one of the bigger debris from the boat and used it to aid me in my walking. The whole place was a sight to behold. It looked far too lush compared to the forests back home. I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I mean, this was a good dream but I’d rather be home and eating some grilled fish. The thought of grilled fish got my stomach rumbling even more.

One of the misconceptions in minor hockey is a belief that players have to get on “big city” teams as young as possible to gain exposure when being identified by major junior clubs. For example, the Greater Toronto Hockey League (GTHL) has long been considered a strong breeding ground, with three or four elite AAA teams each year producing some of the top players for the OHL draft. However, on the list of players from Ontario since 1975 who have made the NHL, only 16.8 percent of those players came from GTHL programs while the league itself represents approximately 20 percent of the registered players in the province—that means the league has a per capita development rate of about –3 percent. What the research found was that players from other Ontario minor hockey leagues who elevated to the NHL actually had an edge in terms of career advancement on their GTHL counterparts by the age of nineteen. Each year several small-town Ontario parents, some with players as young as age eight, believe it’s necessary to get their kids on a GTHL superclub such as the Marlboros, Red Wings, or Jr. Canadiens. However, just twenty-one GTHL “import” players since 1997 have played a game in the NHL in the last fifteen years. This pretty much indicates that regardless of where he plays his minor hockey from the ages of eight through sixteen, a player eventually develops no matter how strong his team is as a peewee or bantam. An excellent example comes from the Ontario players born in 1990, which featured a powerhouse team in the Markham Waxers of the OMHA’s Eastern AAA League. The Waxers captured the prestigious OHL Cup and lost a grand total of two games in eight years. In 2005–06, when they were in minor midget (age fifteen), they compiled a record of 64-1-2. The Waxers had three future NHL draft picks on their roster in Steven Stamkos (Tampa Bay), Michael Del Zotto (New York Rangers), and Cameron Gaunce (Colorado). One Waxers nemesis in the 1990 age group was the Toronto Jr. Canadiens of the GTHL. The Jr. Canadiens were also a perennial powerhouse team and battled the Waxers on a regular basis in major tournaments and provincial championships over a seven-year period. Like the Waxers, the Jr. Canadiens team also had three future NHL draft picks in Alex Pietrangelo (St. Louis), Josh Brittain (Anaheim), and Stefan Della Rovere (Washington). In the same 1990 age group, a “middle of the pack” team was the Halton Hills Hurricanes (based west of Toronto in Milton). This club played in the OMHA’s South Central AAA League and periodically competed with some of the top teams. Over a seven-year span, they were marginally over the .500 mark from novice to minor midget. That Halton Hills team produced two future NHL draft picks in Mat Clark (Anaheim) and Jeremy Price (Vancouver). Finally, the worst AAA team in the 1990 group every year was the Chatham-Kent Cyclones—a club that averaged about five wins a season playing in the Pavilion League in Southwestern Ontario. Incredibly, the lowly Cyclones also had two future NHL draft picks in T.J. Brodie (Calgary) and Jason Missiaen (Montreal). It’s a testament that regardless of where they play their minor hockey, talented players will develop at their own pace and eventually rise to the top. You don’t need to be on an 85-5-1 big-city superclub to develop or get noticed.

I am Braydon.

Steve could fight

In the fringes of our yard, daffodils await their triumphant chorus. The golden bells have just opened on our forsythia, and clusters of hyacinth flowers await flourish in purple blooms. By aesthetic standards, any of these blossoms would have outshone the fistful of yellow spikes my little boy offered. In the coming months, dozens of its cousins, cast away as weeds, will meet an untimely end beneath the blades of a lawnmower. Their brazen head will be lopped off, their awkward petals demolished and scattered. They will be declared a nuisance, expendable. Yet when gripped within Pip's fingers, how perfect, how precious became this paltry bloom. He had put aside the torrent of irritability and overwhelm that trouble him hourly, and found grace in a spiral of petals. Through a humble weed, love had broken through. God works this way. He does great things with the meager, and beautiful things with the misshapen. He chooses the smallest, the humblest, the most broken as his servants. (1 Sam 16:10-12, Numbers 12:3, 1 Tim 1:15) He works for good through the greatest calamity. (Gen 50:20) With his most beloved broken and crushed, he reaches through the firmament, and in love makes things new. (Rev 21:5) Where we see weakness, he offers grace. (2 Cor 12:9) He shatters pride, so new blossoms can burst forth. I've spent the past few months wrestling with God. After Pip's evaluation, as we clumsily felt out life with special needs, the questions of why wrapped around my heart, infusing me with daily bitterness. Resentment broiled to the surface. I'd left medicine to follow God's call, but a large part of me, in shocking arrogance, wanted to comply on my terms. Over the past two years, God has compelled me to confront my idols. I thrived on productivity. But now I inevitably find grime in corners I have just cleaned. I prized efficiency. But it now takes 30 minutes of wrangling over potty... I'm an introvert, who needs alone time to rejuvenate. But is anyone less alone than a mom with young kids? A "save the world" mentality drives me. But my daily life fodder is now the mundane. I relish instant gratification. But this business of shepherding hearts is long, with few immediate rewards. I relished accolades... I consider God's graciousness to us, and in the stillness of a springtime morning, I struggle for breath. His mercy toward us in this season -- in the face of my arrogance, despite the brokenness to which I've so stalwartly clung -- is stunning. During all the years of my training and career, homeschooling was never the plan. God inexplicably placed the idea in my heart, like a shadow that deepened daily. But now, I see how perfect were his methods. I shudder to think of how our family would struggle if I was still barreling ahead at the hospital, subsumed with my own self importance, while Pip fought daily to deal with every crowd... Homeschooling was never the plan. . . but oh, what a plan! That he called us this way, was mercy manifest. That he has equipped us to continue, is the greatest gift. Even on the hard days, I count it all joy. On the days when Pip, after a week of handling things so well, has a meltdown in the grocery store, complete with screaming and a blow to my chin -- there is joy there. God can work even with our ugliness. Through Christ, God redeems even the most corrupt. He assembles the stray petals, the unseemly stems, and makes things new. He strips away the idolatry of a surgeon desperate to prove her own worth, and points her toward the fount of all worth -- Christ Jesus. There is a deep well of peace in serving God where he has placed you. There is a refining grace, in realizing his work even in the hard moments. There is a profound beauty in redemption -- in the love that breaks forth through brokenness -- if we can only put away our preoccupations, and embrace his will. "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." -- 2 Cor 12:9

What’s the call number? “2-1-8-7.” He watched her fingers dance over the keyboard. Damn kids and their fancy typing skills. Loshak still did the majority of his typing with his two index fingers.

she understood: "Could you like add a character in one of your books? :) Can you name it KittyPaws30? Thank you thank you THANK YOU!!!!!! my character strangely acts like a tamed cat and she is shy and adventurous and loves CATS!! She also has a white hoodie and blue eyes and a kind, sweet voice... but she can be VERY protective of her CATS!!" "What's it mean?" Steve had said with his arms crossed over his chest.

Steve's friend KittyPaws30

Reese’s Corn Bread Chili Pie For a weekday dinner with family, you need something that will please both kids and adults and that isn’t too complicated to make. My favorite thing is chili pie. This is an easy one-dish dinner if you are using a cast-iron or other oven-safe skillet. If using a baking dish or casserole, cook the filling on the stove top in a skillet or sauté pan and transfer to the baking dish before adding the corn bread batter topping. 2 tablespoons olive oil 1 medium onion, chopped 2 cloves garlic, minced 1 pound ground beef 1 pound ground pork 2 (1.75 oz.) packets chili seasoning 1 (14 oz.) can diced tomatoes 2 tablespoons tomato paste 2 cups chicken broth 2 (8.5 oz.) boxes Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix 2 eggs

Back in the ’70s, the only way I encountered cauliflower was boiled to hell and drenched with a butter or cheese sauce. Worse, to me as a kid, raw cauliflower looked kind of like brains. After those early cauliflower traumas, I wasn’t in a hurry to give it a second chance. But proper cooking techniques can elevate this seemingly mundane vegetable to the culinary heights it deserves. Cauliflower is insanely delicious when it is roasted so its edges go all crispy and caramelized and it tastes mysteriously rich and complex. I’m keeping it simple and mostly unadorned here, but I love that cauliflower is a great canvas on which you can improvise with all sorts of flavors: I often add a bit of anchovies or raisins or grated lemon zest. Serves 4 Scant ½ cup extra virgin olive oil 4 garlic cloves, smashed and peeled 4 spring onions or large scallions, trimmed and chopped 1 medium head cauliflower or Romanesco (about 2 pounds), cored and broken into florets ½ teaspoon fine sea salt Freshly ground black pepper 6 bay leaves, preferably fresh 1 cup white wine 1 lemon A small handful of fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves, torn Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat until hot but not smoking. Add the garlic and cook just until it starts to color, a minute or so, then add the spring onions and cook until you can smell the aromatics, another minute or so. Add the cauliflower and season with the salt and pepper to taste. Then let the cauliflower just sit, without stirring, for 5 minutes. You want to get some great, deep color on it, and that’s how you do it—no stirring. After 5 minutes, check the underside of a cauliflower piece. Nice and browned? Great.

Your eyes ... are broken?" Alex asked. "Kinda.

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before?! Looking into his pack, Steve recalled that

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