Lego Love Quotes

She got up , walked around the table, and gave him a lingering hug, running her fingers through the back of his hair. She'd been finding more excuses to hug him lately. "What was that for?" Dill asked. "Because you looked like your heart stepped on a Lego.

Geeks like to make things. Indeed, the drive to create is an intrinsic geeky quality (right up there with loving genre fiction and drinking too much Mountain Dew). And while many geeks may not think of themselves as creative in an artistic sense, most geeky pursuits--from rolling up a new D&D character to assembling the LEGO Star Wars Death Star kit (you know, the one with all the cool minifigures)--are acts of creation.

Love isn’t stackable and interlocking, like boxes or Legos. Love is like a one-legged man standing on a three-legged chair that is placed on top of a two-legged piano. I should know, because I’m the guy trying to tune that piano, fix that chair, and affix a prosthetic leg to that guy—who happens to be my piano teacher. Mr. Balloonky, you get down from there now!


I think God comes in many pieces and colors. I can build a peaceful God, all-loving. Or I can build an angry God, punishing. Or maybe I'll build nothing. God is a Lego set.

I, like balloon animal hacks everywhere, can only make one animal so far. It is a LEGO version of the Island of Dr. Moreau, wherein I have brick-engineered a pig-camel, a dog-camel, and a camel with wheels. These monstrosities are quickly torn apart, and I wonder if I have some unresolved camel issues.

Then they get these jobs and worry about promotions. It’s a vicious cycle, and not because it’s a rat race. I’m pretty sure that some rats love racing. The reason this sort of life is brutal has little to do with its fast and exceedingly demanding pace, but a lot to do with the fact that it allows so little time and space to think about what is it that we truly want.

Every time I think about Aman poems build inside me like I've been gifted a box of metaphor Legos that I stack and stack and stack. I keep waiting for someone to knock them over. But no one at home cares about my scribbling.

Objects and Objectives To contemplate LEGO. Many colours. Many shapes. Many inventive and useful shapes. Plastic. A versatile and practical substance. Symbolic of the resourcefulness of man. Oil taken from the depths of the very earth. Distillation of said raw material. Chemical processes. Pollution. Creating a product providing hours of constructive play. For children all over the world. Teaching our young. Through enjoyment. Preparing them for further resourcefulness. The progress of our kind. A book. Many books. Proud liners of walls. Fingered. Taken out with great care. Held open. Gazed upon / into with something like awe. A medium for the recording of and communication of knowledge. From the many to the many. Down the ages. And of art. And of love. But do you hear the trees outside whispering? Do their voices haunt you? No wonder. They are calling for their brothers. Pulped. Pressed. Coated. Printed. Bound. And for their other brothers which made the shelves to hold them. And for the roof over them as well. From the very beginning - everything at cost. A cave man, to get food, had to deal with the killing. And the bones from one death proved very useful for implementing the death of another.

I would walk over g-glass for you, in a damn hospital gown with my ass h-hanging out. And your son is brilliant. I look forward to playing Legos with him again.” He dared to reach out and tuck some hair behind her ear. “And I love you because you’re the only one that sees me, not the scars or the h-history, just me. You scare the hell out of me with how much you see.” She

He took out a carrot and thee onion half. I'm not sure I'd ever seen anyone use half an onion. Or rather, I'd never seen anyone save half an onion he hadn't used. The real secret ingredient, however, was the package of lardons fumés- plump little Legos of pork- deep pink and marbled with fat. He dumped them into a pan with the chopped vegetables (he may have washed the pan from the charlotte), and the mixture began sizzling away. A box of tagliatelle, the pasta spooled like birds' nests, completed the meal.

Whenever I see lifestyle magazines where everything’s so clean, I wonder, “Where’s all the junk?” The first thing I figure out when furnishing a room is where to put the junk. Two words: secret storage. The key to a harmonious and clutter-free living area, especially when you have kids, is to hide everything. I’m talking about closets everywhere, drawers on everything, and ottomans that are really storage chests. Baskets for Legos. Shelves for games. Just please don’t open any cabinets in my house . . . I’m afraid there might be a waterfall of toys coming at you!

grieving is a form of learning. Acute grief insists that we learn new habits, since our old habits automatically involved our loved one. Each day after their death, our brain is changed by our new reality, much as the rodents’ neurons had to learn to stop firing when the blue LEGO tower was removed from their box. Our little gray computer must update its predictions, as we can no longer expect our loved one to arrive home from work at six o’clock, or to pick up their cell phone when we call them with news. We learn that our loved one does not exist in the three dimensions of here, now, and close that we are expecting. We find new ways to express our continuing bonds, transforming what close looks like, because while our loved one remains in the epigenetics of our DNA and in our memories, we can no longer express our caring for them in the physical world or seek out their soothing touch.

Soon, droves of children start to show up, keeping us rather busy. We start tallying up the number of Trolls, Batmans, Lego men, and princesses we see. The most popular costume? Batman and Superwoman with the fabrics and accessories varying from child to child. But my favorite so far is the girl who dressed as Little Debbie, but then again, I may be biased. “I think she might be my new favorite,” Emma says as a little girl dressed as a nurse walks away. “That’s because you’re a nurse, but you can’t play favorites,” I say, reminding Emma of the rules. She levels with me. “This coming from the guy whose favorite child was dressed as Little Debbie.” “Come on.” I lean back in my chair and motion to my head. “She had the rim of blue on her hat. That’s attention to detail.” “And good fucking parenting,” Tucker chimes in, and we clink our beer bottles together. Amelia chuckles next to me as Emma shakes her head. “Ridiculous. What about you, Amelia? What costume has been your favorite so far?” “Hmm, it’s been a tough competition. There has been some real winning costumes and some absolute piss-poor ones.” She shakes her head. “Just because you put a scarf around your neck and call yourself Jack Frost doesn’t mean you dressed up.” “Ugh, that costume was dumb.” “It shouldn’t be referred to as a costume, but that’s beside the point.” I like how much Amelia is getting into this little pretend competition. She’s a far cry from the girl who first came home earlier. I love that having Tucker and Emma over has given me more time with Amelia, getting to know the woman she is today, but also managed to put that beautiful smile back on her face. “So who takes the cake for you?” I ask, nudging her leg with mine. Smiling up at me, she says, “Hands down it’s the little boy who dressed as Dwight Schrute from The Office. I think I giggled for five minutes straight after he left. That costume was spot on.” “Oh shit, you’re right,” I reply as Emma and Tucker agree with me. “He even had the watch calculator.” “And the small nose Dwight always complains about.” Emma chuckles. “Yeah, he has to be the winner.” “Now, now, now, let’s not get too hasty. Little Debbie is still in the running,” Tucker points out. Amelia leans forward, seeming incredibly comfortable, and says, “There is no way Little Debbie beats Dwight. Sorry, dude.” The shocked look on Tucker’s face is comical. He’s just been put in his place and the old Amelia has returned. I fucking love it.

He beams, ‘Legos, I just love it. I wanted so badly, and Mummy said I would get on my birthday. Thanks.’ He rushes to kiss my cheeks. I wonder how effortlessly kids express their emotions.

A scrie un roman, am spus cândva, e ca și cum ai încerca să faci munții Edom din Lego. Sau ca și cum ai construi întregul Paris, cu clădiri, piețe și bulevarde, până la ultima bancă de pe stradă, din bețe de chibrit. Dacă scrii un roman de optzeci de mii de cuvinte trebuie să iei cam un sfert de milion de hotărâri, nu doar în privința liniilor mari ale intrigii, cine trăiește sau cine moare, cine se îndrăgostește sau este necredincios, cine se îmbogățește sau se face de râsul lumii, numele și chipurile personajelor, obiceiurile și ocupațiile lor, împărțirea pe capitole, titlul cărții (acestea sunt cele mai simple, cele mai generale hotărâri); nu doar ce să povestești și ce să ascunzi sub aparențe înșelătoare, ce vine întâi și ce vine la urmă, ce să spui deschis și la ce să faci aluzie, indirect (și acestea sunt hotărâri destul de generale); dar trebuie să iei și mii de hotărâri mai delicate, cum ar fi dacă scrii, în cea de-a treia propoziție de la sfârșitul paragrafului, "albastru" sau "albăstrui"? Sau ar trebui să fie "albastru-pal"? Sau "azuriu"? Sau "albăstrui-regal"? Sau ar trebui cu adevărat să fie "cenușiu-albăstrui"? Şi acest "albastru-cenușiu" trebuie să stea la începutul propoziției sau trebuie să strălucească doar către sfârșit? Ori la mijloc? Sau ar trebui pur și simplu să fie prins în curgerea unei fraze complicate, plină de propoziții subordonate? Sau cel mai bine ar fi să scriu cele două cuvinte, "lumina serii", fără să încerc să o colorez în "albastru-cenușiu" sau " albastru prăfuit" sau cum o mai fi?

But he took another deep hit on the joint and it sent him back to twelve, being twelve; a precocious kid, waking up each morning fully expecting a twelve hours until nuclear apocalypse announcement, that old, cheesy, end-of-the-world scenario. Round that time he had thought a lot about extreme decisions, about the future and its deadlines. Even then it had struck him that he was unlikely to spend those last twelve hours fucking Alice the fifteen-year-old baby-sitter next door, telling people that he loved them, converting to orthodox Judaism, or doing all the things he wanted and all the things he never dared. It always seemed more likely to him, much more likely, that he would just return to his room and calmly finish constructing Lego Medieval Castle. What else could you do? What other choice could you be certain about? Because choices need time, the fullness of time, time being the horizontal axis of morality—you make a decision and then you wait and see, wait and see.

•  Join a sports team (a structured activity, yes, but better than nothing!), or take a fun exercise class like pole dancing, trampoline, or trapeze.         •  Engage in games that are fun for you. It could be board or card games, crosswords, or darts. Perhaps you love putting together model airplanes or building with Legos. Consider buying a Ping-Pong or pool table . . . and be careful not to turn that table into another place for competition and über-focus.         •  Find a play partner. Animals and children are always ready to play and laugh. Find opportunities to play with your own children or pets or those of friends and family. Finding

They stopped at a toy shop on the way, and Charlie picked out an enormous LEGO robot. “That seems a little bit over the top,” Juliet said when she saw the size of it. “I mean, I know he’s sick, but…” “He went to the hospital, Juliet,” Charlie said defensively. “He deserves something special.” Oscar loved the robot. Charlie sat on the end of his bed for two hours, helping him build it.

whirs. See?” Heidi grabbed the string and pulled. The snail toppled over. “No, not like that,” Vanja said. “I’ll show you.” She placed the snail upright and slowly dragged it a few meters. “I’ve got a little sister!” she said aloud. Robin had gone to the window where he stood staring out into the backyard. Stella, who was energetic and presumably extra-lively since it was her party, excitedly shouted something that I didn’t understand, pointed to one of the two smaller girls, who handed her the doll she was clutching, took out a little carriage, placed the doll in it, and began to push it down the hall. Achilles had found his way to Benjamin, a boy eighteen months older than Vanja, who usually sat deeply absorbed in something, a drawing or a pile of Legos or a pirate ship with plastic pirates. He was imaginative, independent, and well-behaved,

Evie is our beautiful, dark-haired, green-eyed child,’ I say. I can hear the tremor in my voice. ‘Like many seven-year-old girls, she’s obsessed with princesses. We think she looks more like a fairy. She loves Lego and painting. She laughs easily. She has pretend tea parties in a tree in our garden and invites all her dolls. She wants to be an artist when she grows up. Please find her. Please bring her back to us. We miss her beyond measure. She is the love of our life.

Kasselton High was big, nearly two thousand kids in four grades. The building was on four levels, and like so many high schools from towns with constantly growing populations, it ended up being more a series of pieced-together add-ons than anything resembling a cohesive structure. The later additions to the once-lovely original brick showed that the administrators had been more interested in substance over style. The configuration was a mishmash, looking more like something a child had made by mixing wooden blocks, LEGOs, and Lincoln logs. Last

Hey, Hayley,” I say as I sit down and pick up one of her action figures. She has Barbies, too, but she would rather play with her Legos and building blocks. Maybe she’ll be an engineer one day. Or maybe she’ll be an amazing tattoo artist like her dad. I make her action figure kiss her Barbie, and she giggles. “I think they’re in love,” I whisper. “Like you and my daddy,” she says back quietly. I nod. And emotion clogs my throat again. I turn my head and cough, and then I dump a box of Legos on the floor. “I think Barbie needs a fortress,” I say. She nods, and we start to build a plastic fortress together, because sometimes a girl just needs a fucking fortress.

I think God comes in many pieces and colours. I can build a peaceful God, all-loving. Or I can build an angry God, punishing. Or maybe I’ll build nothing. God is a Lego set.

A volte può sembrare che la vita sia difficile, ma in realtà è davvero semplice, come inspirare ed espirare. Lacera i cuori con furia e abbatti l'ego con la modestia. Sii la persona che vorresti essere, non la persona che pensi di dover essere. Sentiti libera di seguire i tuoi sentimenti. Sei stata creata perché qualcuno possa amarti. Lascia che ti amino.

They say money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy LEGO, and that’s kind of the same thing.

And then we came to a stop in front of a large yellow Victorian house that sat, so stately, between two brick buildings, like a misplaced Lego piece, overgrown with ivy and bluebells and honeysuckle. The Daffodil Inn looked exactly how I'd imagined. The bed-and-breakfast was fresh and bright, the dentils all painted across the edging on the roof, the corbels replaced, the sawn spandrils and turned spandrils all given proper attention. The bay window was set with a stained-glass daffodil, the same one that encrusted the window in the front door. Around the inn, encasing it like a lovely cage, was a wrought-iron fence overgrown with ivy and honeysuckle that bled into the rose garden that surrounded the house.

This is the demonstration we see at the cross: holiness and love in perfect harmony. Pastor Tim Keller put it this way: “On the cross neither justice nor mercy loses out—both are fulfilled at once. Jesus’s death was necessary if God was going to take justice seriously and still love us.

God knew that for love to be love, it could not be imposed, demanded, contrived, or manipulated. For love to be genuine, it has to be freely given and freely received or freely rejected. That’s why He gave Adam, Eve, and the rest of us the freedom to walk away from His offer of love.

When kids work hard at something they love and find challenging, they enter a state of what’s come to be called “flow,” where time passes quickly and their attention is completely engaged, but they’re not stressed. When you’re in flow, levels of certain neurochemicals in your brain—including dopamine—spike.6 These neurochemicals are like performance-enhancing drugs for the brain. You think better in flow, and you process information faster. To be fully engaged this way, the activity has to be challenging enough not to be boring, but not so difficult that it’s overly stressful. Think of playing tennis against a partner who is not nearly at your level. Completely boring. If you’re playing against someone who is vastly more skilled, it’s so punishing it’s not enjoyable. A partner with whom you’re well matched? That’s where you find your flow. So when you see an eight-year-old highly focused on building a Lego castle, lips pressed in concentration, what she is actually doing is getting her brain used to being motivated. She is conditioning her brain to associate intense enjoyment with highly focused attention, practice, and hard work. Just as frequent exposure to high levels of stress can sculpt a young brain in ways that are unhealthy, frequent exposure to states of flow can sculpt a young brain to be motivated and focused.

Beginning in childhood, boys are typically given toys that teach innovation, creativity, and self-reliance—things like Legos and trucks, things to build and create. And what are girls given? Dolls. Easy-Bake Ovens. Bridal veils. Before we can even speak, we’re told that our value to society is not our own ingenuity but rather how we can serve and belong to others. A literal child is given another “child” to caretake. In a study about children’s toys, psychology professor Judith Elaine Blakemore found that “girls’ toys were associated with physical attractiveness, nurturing, and domestic skill, whereas boys’ toys were rated as violent, competitive, exciting, and somewhat dangerous. The toys rated as most likely to be educational were typically categorized as neutral or moderately masculine.

(ha!) or what to wear (hello London wardrobe) can feel like a burden rather than a benefit. Danes specialise in stress-free simplicity and freedom within boundaries. 6. Be proud Find something that you, or folk from your home town, are really good at and Own It. Celebrate success, from football to tiddlywinks (or crab racing). Wave flags and sing at every available opportunity. 7. Value family National holidays become bonding bootcamps in Denmark and family comes first in all aspects of Danish living. Reaching out to relatives and regular rituals can make you happier, so give both a go. Your family not much cop? Start your own with friends or by using tip #3 (the sex part). 8. Equal respect for equal work Remember, there isn’t ‘women’s work’ and ‘men’s work’, there’s just ‘work’. Caregivers are just as crucial as breadwinners and neither could survive without the other. Both types of labour are hard, brilliant and important, all at the same time. 9. Play Danes love an activity for its own sake, and in the land of Lego, playing is considered a worthwhile occupation at any age. So get building. Create, bake, even draw your own Noel Edmonds caricature. Just do and make things as often as possible (the messier the better). 10. Share Life’s easier this way, honest, and you’ll be happier too according to studies. Can’t influence government policy to wangle a Danish-style welfare state? Take some of your cake round to a neighbour’s, or invite someone over to share your hygge and let the warm, fuzzy feelings flow.

Why are you drawn to technology? REASON: The first reason is my love of gadgets. I have been fascinated by gadgets and new technologies ever since I was a child. EVIDENCE: When a lot of my peers were playing with Legos, I gravitated toward computers and electronics stores to see the latest and greatest technology; this passion has followed me into adulthood, where I am typically the first among my friends to know about and experience new products and services. CONNECTION: My fascination with the industry and my constant consumption of news about it from sources ranging from Wired to Fast Company to Reddit gives me confidence I can quickly gain expertise on any product I might manage in the future

Son of a bitch. Blake probably knew something like this would happen. He set me up. He did it on purpose. “I don’t have to negotiate in good faith,” I tell his father. “You brought money into this in the first place. That was a dick move. Why should I play fair?” “You’ve admitted that you’d sell him out,” he snaps. “That at some point, money is more important than he is.” “You’ve admitted the same thing. If I’m a faithless whore because I’ll take a check to break up with Blake, you’re the asshole who values his company and lifestyle more than your son.” “That’s not just my company. That’s my life. It’s his life. It’s—” “Oh, and you think it’s just money for me?” I glare at him. “You think that you’d give me fifty thousand dollars and I’d spend it all on shoes and diamond-studded cat collars? Fifty thousand dollars would pay for the rest of my college tuition. It would buy my dad a lawyer so that the next time his knee acted up, he could finally get disability instead of scrambling to find some job he can manage. It would make it so I didn’t have to work for the next year and could concentrate on my schoolwork. That’s a really ugly double standard, Mr. Reynolds. When money exists to make your life more pleasant, it’s not just money. But when it’s my family and my dreams at stake, it’s just pieces of green paper.” Blake smiles softly. His father reaches across the table and flicks Blake’s forehead. “Stop grinning.” “No way.” Blake is smiling harder. “She’s kicking your ass. This is the best day ever.” His father grunts. “The day I first went to lunch with Blake, I had less than twenty dollars in my possession. Total,” I tell his father. “I would completely sell Blake out for fifty thousand dollars. Some days I’d do it for ten. Dollars. Not thousands. None of this makes me a gold digger. It just means that I’m poor. When times get desperate, I’ll pawn anything of value to survive. I might cry when I do it, but I’m going to be realistic about it. So take your stupid does-she-love-Blake test and shove it.” Mr. Reynolds looks at me. He looks at Blake. And then, very slowly, he holds out his hands, palms up. “Well. Fuck me twice on Sundays,” he says. From the expression on his face, I take it that this is intended to be a good thing. “First time I talked to her,” Blake says with a nod that could only be described as prideful. “Before I asked her out. I knew I had to introduce her to you.” “Shit,” Mr. Reynolds says. He holds up a fist, and Blake fist bumps him in return. Now they’re both being dicks. “Smile,” Blake’s dad says to me. “You pass the test.” “Oh, thank goodness.” I put on a brilliant smile. “Do you really mean it? Do you mean that you, the one, the only, the incomparable Adam Reynolds, has deigned to recognize me as a human being? My life is changed forever.” Mr. Reynolds’s expression goes completely blank. “Why is she being sarcastic, Blake?” “Why is he talking to you like I’m not here, Blake?” Mr. Reynolds turns to me. “Fine. Why are you being sarcastic?” “You don’t get to test me,” I tell him. “You’re not my teacher. You don’t get to act like you’re the only one with a choice, and I have to be grateful if you accept me. I don’t have any illusions about me and Blake. Fitting our lives together is like trying to finish a thousand-piece puzzle with Lego bricks. But you know what? Bullshit like this is what’s going to break us up. You had a test, too. You could have treated me like a human being. You failed.” Blake reaches out and twines his fingers with mine.

He had known he was different from a very young age. He always seemed to know just how to get what he wanted. Other people, even his loving parents, meant nothing to him. They were just pawns, rubes, to be played as he saw fit. And he had always known the precise way to manipulate people to achieve his own ends. It was his genius. He could bully or charm with equal facility, and didn’t have a preference either way. He could construct elaborate webs of lies and deceit more effortlessly than other boys his age could construct buildings out of Legos.

Jesus gives us his body as gift. Yet usually we receive gifts as passive recipients, then take them away on our own. We unwrap that Christmas present, then head to our room to play with those Legos or that new remote control car by ourselves. But when we receive Jesus’ body as gift, we are brought into the gift: we become part of the body of Christ we receive. Indeed, union with Jesus is wrapped up in the very nature of the gift itself.