Lord Of The Beans Quotes

He's spilled the beans. He's poured out His intentions, allowing us full access. The humans put the Forbidden Book on display tables and shelves. But we actually read it; indeed we must no matter how loathsome.

If you can't live by the laws the LORD God made for the world, they'll go into effect regardless.

by parents who tried to pretend their progeny weren’t one jelly bean away from Lord of the Flies.

The enchiladas were just the way I like them: two corn tortillas rolled into perfect cylinders, melted yellow cheese oozing from the ends, tucked under a generous blanket of chili gravy—not too thick, not too thin—topped with shredded cheddar cheese and bordered by flaky Spanish rice and soupy refried beans. Lord, hear my plea: let my final meal be this.

It was not until dinner was nearly over that the Viscount noticed that he was being waited on by his valet. Since the party consisted of Lord Wrotham, the Honorable Ferdy Fakenham and Mr. Ringwood, he had no hesitation in demanding the reason for this departure from the normal, freely hazarding the guess that Groombridge was lying incapable on the pantry floor. Bootle, who disapproved of such unceremonious behavior, returned a noncommittal answer; but Jason, who was waiting to deliver the next course into his hands, put his head into the room and announced that both Groombridges having piked on the bean the Missus was cooking the dinner, and in bang-up style.

King Aenys himself. His scorn drove others to offer their swords. The names of the four Maegor chose are writ large in the history of Westeros: Ser Bramm of Blackhull, a hedge knight; Ser Rayford Rosby; Ser Guy Lothston, called Guy the Glutton; and Ser Lucifer Massey, Lord of Stonedance. The names of the seven Warrior’s Sons have likewise come down to us. They were: Ser Damon Morrigen, called Damon the Devout, Grand Captain of the Warrior’s Sons; Ser Lyle Bracken; Ser Harys Horpe, called Death’s Head Harry; Ser Aegon Ambrose; Ser Dickon Flowers, the Bastard of Beesbury; Ser Willam the Wanderer; and Ser Garibald of the Seven Stars, the septon knight. [Dick Bean] F&B

You don’t have it. You are my future son-in-law now, Prince. I forbid you from breaking the law and crossing the gate. That is why I came to tell you myself.” The Queene’s cruel lips tipped down. “Lord Gwess’s second son was hardly worth having around to begin with. He had measly half-power and an obnoxious laugh.” Something snapped in Cress’s chest. “The High Court will demand that Whyp be avenged!” he shouted. “How can I come into power over the North before that human is killed and justice has been restored in our court?” The Queene looked back and forth between his eyes. “That sounded dangerously close to defiance,” she said. “You’ll send them to hunt the human, then?” Cress nodded toward the triad of kneeling males waiting beneath the lantern light. “I have been the North Court’s greatest assassin for over a decade,” he objected. “Can I not be granted this one request?” “You attacked a lord of the East yesterday!” Her voice blasted through the room with the volume of a horn, and frost crawled up the walls. Cress and Thessalie slammed their hands over their ears; the kneeling assassins by the lanterns went rigid. The Queene’s eyes narrowed. “The High Court will conspire against you if you disobey me. And no, I will not be sending your brother assassins after the human, either. There are more important things approaching in the new faeborn year—like the wedding. As I said, we will send an assassin to kill the human for breaking a fairy law in due time.

Lord Jesus, I know that I am a sinner, and I ask for Your forgiveness. I believe You died for my sins and rose from the dead. I turn away from my sins and invite You to come into my heart and life. I accept You, Lord Jesus, as my Lord and Savior. In Your name, Jesus, amen.

Aunt Lucy, sitting beside her on the settee, glanced at Amelia. “Is something wrong, my dear? You just heaved a very mournful sigh and you’re looking quite flushed and bothered.” Amelia flashed her godmother an apologetic smile. “No, Aunt Lucy, I’m fine. Just a trifle, um, hot.” Her gaze drifted back to Nigel. He was crouched down, his green robe flared out in a dramatic sweep, as he spoke with little Ned Haythrop. Ned’s ancient spaniel had died only last week and, according to his grandmother, Lady Peterson, he’d been inconsolable. But Nigel got him smiling and soon drew a giggle from the boy with a joke about swallowing the bean in the Twelfth Night cake. Even Amelia’s sister, Penelope, who at fourteen considered herself too old for such things as holiday pantomimes, had clearly fallen victim to Nigel’s quiet charm. As had Amelia. She’d only been too stupid to realize it until it bashed her over the head. Aunt Lucy looked at her skeptically but didn’t probe. Like Amelia, she turned to watch Nigel laughing with Ned and Lady Peterson. “He does make a splendid Father Christmas, doesn’t he?” her godmother said with approval. “Much better than Philbert. That man carried on as if he were about to submersed in a vat of flaming wassail. Just between us, I suspect his twisted ankle might be more imaginary than real. Philbert can be so dramatic.” Amelia blinked. One could characterize Philbert as rather mysterious, but dramatic? “Er, I’m sure you’re right, Aunt Lucy, and I agree about Mr. Dash. He’s a perfectly splendid, considerate man. He didn’t blink an eyelash when Lord Broadmore so rudely made fun of his costume.” She scowled at the memory of his lordship’s jeers when Nigel came into the drawing room dressed as Father Christmas, leading Thomas the footman who carried the large tray of treats. Amelia thought Nigel looked wonderful in the dark velvet robe. The ermine trim brought out the cobalt depths in his eyes and the mistletoe wreath looked positively kingly atop his thick brown hair. Amelia had helped him with the wreath, and when he’d bent down a bit so she could adjust the fit, she’d been tempted to stroke her fingers through his silky locks. She’d blushed madly when he straightened up and thanked her with a teasing smile. Aunt

It All Starts at Home The quality of the time that their parents devote to them indicates to children the degree to which they are valued by their parents…. When children know that they are valued, and when they truly feel valued in the deepest parts of themselves, then they feel valuable. —M. SCOTT PECK     It was a source of much aggravation to some fish to see a number of lobsters swimming backward instead of forward. So they called a meeting, and it was decided to start a class for the lobsters’ instruction. This was done, and a number of young lobsters came. (The fish had reasoned that if they started with the young lobsters, as they grew up, they would learn to swim properly.) At first they did very well, but afterward, when they returned home and saw their fathers and mothers swimming in the old way, they soon forgot their lessons. So it is with many children who are well-taught at school but drift backward because of a bad home influence. Psalm 127:1-128:4 gives us some principles for building a family in which children are confident that their parents love them. First, the psalmist addresses the foundation and protection of the home: “Unless the LORD builds the house, its builders labor in vain. Unless the LORD watches over the city, the watchmen stand guard in vain” (127:1). The protective wall surrounding a city was the very first thing to be constructed when a new city was built. The people of the Old Testament knew they needed protection from their enemies, but they were also smart enough to know that walls could be climbed over, knocked down, or broken apart. They realized that their ultimate security was the Lord standing guard over the city. Are you looking for God to help you build your home? Are you trusting the Lord to be the guard over your family? Many forces in today’s society threaten the family. In Southern California we see parents who are burning the candle at both ends to provide all the material things they think will make their families happy. We rise early and retire late, but Psalm 127:2 tells us that these efforts are futile. We are to do our best to provide for and protect our families, but we must trust first and foremost in God to take care of them. When we tend our gardens, we’re rewarded by corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, and beans. Just as the harvest of vegetables is our reward, a God-fearing child is a parent’s reward. After parents tend to their children’s instruction in the ways of God’s wisdom and His Word, they do see the work God is

Children Are a Gift Behold, children are a gift of the LORD; the fruit of the womb is a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, so are the children of one’s youth. —PSALM 127:3 NASB     In a recent women’s Bible study, the teacher asked the group, “Did you feel loved by your parents when you were a child?” Here are some of the responses. • “A lot of pizza came to the house on Friday nights when my parents went out for the evening.” • “I got in their way. I wasn’t important to them.” • “They were too busy for me.” • “Mom didn’t have to work, but she did just so she wouldn’t have to be home with us kids.” • “I spent too much time with a babysitter.” • “Mom was too involved at the country club to spend time with me.” • “Dad took us on trips, but he played golf all the time we were away.” So many of the ladies felt they were rejected by their parents in their childhoods. There was very little love in their homes. What would your children say in response to the same question? I’m sure we all would gain insight from our children’s answers. In today’s verse we see that children are a reward (gift) from the Lord. In Hebrew, “gift” means “property—a possession.” Truly, God has loaned us His property or possessions to care for and to enjoy for a certain period of time. My Bob loves to grow vegetables in his raised-bed garden each summer. I am amazed at what it takes to get a good crop. He cultivates the soil, sows seeds, waters, fertilizes, weeds, and prunes. Raising children takes a lot of time, care, nurturing, and cultivating as well. We can’t neglect these responsibilities if we are going to produce good fruit. Left to itself, the garden—and our children—will end up weeds. Bob always has a smile on his face when he brings a big basket full of corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, and beans into the kitchen. As the harvest is Bob’s reward, so children are parents’ rewards. Let your home be a place where its members come to be rejuvenated after a very busy time away from it. We liked to call our home the “trauma center”—a place where we could make mistakes, but also where there was healing. Perfect people didn’t reside at our address. We tried to teach that we all make mistakes and certainly aren’t always right. Quite often in our home we could hear the two

Queene Levress’s sharp eyes cut to Thessalie like she wondered why the old scholar was there. “Prince,” she said to Cress, “I’ve come to deliver the tragic news myself.” Her white lashes glittered in the lanterns’ glow. “Tell me your news, my Queene,” Cress said. “A human assassin attacked us from across the gate. She killed a fairy of the North this morning. She must pay for it with her life, but I plan to wait until the new faeborn year to deal with it.” “What?” Thessalie blanched at Cress’s side. “A human killed a fairy? That hasn’t happened in a hundred faeborn years—” “Why have you come to tell me this yourself?” Cress cut off the scholar to ask the Queene. Queene Levress looked at him for a long while, tapping her long nails together. “Because the murdered fairy was part of your Brotherhood,” the Queene said. “He was the second son of High Lord Gwess of our North Court.” The life drained from Cress’s chest. “Whyp…?” he whispered. “He crossed the gate against our laws. He would have likely been killed when he came back anyway.” The Queene glanced at her silver nails. “Thankfully, I had a spy following him who cleaned up the mess.

Ambrose Brent stares at that coffee counter with unbridled longing, like a Shakespearean suitor gazing up at his lover’s balcony. His chest rises and falls on a deep breath, like he’s sucking the scent of roasted beans into his lungs. His pupils expand behind those polished glasses, and lord, this man wants.

In Extremis by Stewart Stafford Saturnalia's trumpets sound, The ancestral chorus song, Time's gold web drawn back, For the stocks' denizen throng. Bawdy knights of the feral feast, Daze of snoring stranger sloth, As contagion's banquet guests, Sipping end times' galling broth. Bean found in fortuitous cake, A fool crowned Lord of Misrule, The meek's pantomimed throne, A drone in a queen bee's tulle. Fatted calf, societal scapegoat, Chattels mopping festive vomit, Charon coins on bloodshot eyes, Execution dawn to a dark comet. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

Father opened the bigger of the white boxes. “It’s easy. Everything needed is in here.” Eggs hung in the door, bottles with colored fluids stood on a shelf. There were beans, spinach and oranges in one drawer, slabs of meat in another.

Father opened the bigger of the white boxes. “It’s easy. Everything needed is in here.” Eggs hung in the door, bottles with colored fluids stood on a shelf. There were beans, spinach and oranges in one drawer, slabs of meat in another. Peeking inside, Shirley got goose bumps from the cold. But she couldn’t find the window. She tugged at Father’s coat. “I don’t see the window to the outside,” she said. Father laughed. “This, Shirley Temple Wong, is an ice box. A machine that cools food and keeps it from spoiling. In America you only have to market once a week, not every day.” “And I suppose,” Mother said, “in America the wife does that, too.” “That’s right.

Whoopsy daisy, old trouser, my bean’s all runny.

Most of the things I could wish for I can't have. It's big stuff, like how I wish Poppy were still here and we weren't selling Bean Well. Or medium stuff, like I didn't worry so much about where I stand with Leo and Connie, or I wasn't one ping in my parents' inbox away from getting busted for skipping out on summer school. Or stuff that wells up in me from some place I can usually keep quiet--I wish I were old enough to do whatever I wanted, to go out and take photographs all over the world instead of the same sleepy suburb over and over and over again. I wish I didn't feel like a problem my parents had to solve.

Retired missionaries taught us Arts & Crafts each July at Bible Camp: how to glue the kidney, navy, and pinto bean into mosaics, and how to tool the stenciled butterfly on copper sheets they'd cut for us. At night, after hymns, they'd cut the lights and show us slides: wide-spread trees, studded with corsage; saved women tucking T-shirts into wrap-around batiks; a thatched church whitewashed in the equator's light. Above the hum of the projector I could hear the insects flick their heads against the wind screens, aiming for the brightness of that Africa. If Jesus knocks on your heart, be ready to say, "Send me, O Lord, send me," a teacher told us confidentially, doling out her baggies of dried corn. I bent my head, concentrating hard on my tweezers as I glued each colored kernel into a rooster for Mother's kitchen wall. But Jesus noticed me and started to knock. Already saved, I looked for signs to show me what else He would require. At rest hour, I closed my eyes and flipped my Bible open, slid my finger, ouija-like, down the page, and there was His command: Go and do ye likewise— Let the earth and all it contains hear— Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire—. Thursday night, at revival service, I held out through Trust and Obey, Standing on the Promises, Nothing But the Blood, but crumpled on Softly and Tenderly Jesus is Calling, promising God, cross my heart, I'd witness to Rhodesia. Down the makeshift aisle I walked with the other weeping girls and stood before the little bit of congregation left singing in their metal chairs. The bathhouse that night was silent, young Baptists moving from shower to sink with the stricken look of nuns. Inside a stall, I stripped, slipped my clothes outside the curtain, and turned for the faucet— but there, splayed on the shower's wall, was a luna moth, the eye of its wings fixed on me. It shimmered against the cement block: sherbet-green, plumed, a flamboyant verse lodged in a page of drab ink. I waved my hands to scare it out, but, blinkless, it stayed latched on. It let me move so close my breath stroked the fur on its animal back. One by one the showers cranked dry. The bathhouse door slammed a final time. I pulled my clothes back over my sweat, drew the curtain shut, and walked into a dark pricked by the lightening bugs' inscrutable morse.

O Lord,” I began, “You are mighty and powerful. I have seen You heal the sick, restore life to the dying. I have seen You work mighty miracles through my father, and You have worked through me. Thank You, God.” I took a breath as I felt the fog weighing on me, like God had wrapped His mighty arms around me. “You know the situation we are in. We are hungry, and we are thirsting, God, and You are the only One who can save us. You can multiply what we have, just like You did for Jesus. Your Word tells us that You can take broken pieces and mend them into something new. You don’t need to create something else, God, You take what You have, the clay right in front of You, and You make masterpieces day in and day out.