Mama Bear Quotes

Of course you realize you're leaving me in the position of being the one tell everyone - your mother, Luke, Alec, Izzy, Magnus...' 'I guess I shouldn't have said there wouldn't be no risk to you,' Clary said meekly. 'That's right,' said Simon. 'Just remember, when your mother's gnawing my ankle like a furious mama bear separated from her cub, I did it for you.

And ironically, it’s not my reaction he needs to worry about. He just called me immature and graceless in front of my asshole husband, my asshole brother, and my asshole father. That’s bad enough. But it’s the mama bear he triggered.

Just remember, when your mother’s gnawing my ankle like a furious mama bear separated from her cum, I did it for you.

When did my house turn into a hangout for every grossly overpaid, terminally pampered professional football player in northern Illinois?" "We like it here," Jason said. "It reminds us of home." "Plus, no women around." Leandro Collins, the Bears' first-string tight end emerged from the office munching on a bag of chips. "There's times when you need a rest from the ladies." Annabelle shot out her arm and smacked him in the side of the head. "Don't forget who you're talking to." Leandro had a short fuse, and he'd been known to take out a ref here and there when he didn't like a call, but the tight end merely rubbed the side of his head and grimaced. "Just like my mama." "Mine, too," Tremaine said with happy nod. Annabelle spun on Heath. "Their mother! I'm thirty-one years old, and I remind them of their mothers." "You act like my mother," Sean pointed out, unwisely as it transpired, because he got a swat in the head next.

Love cannot be stolen. It can only be given. And it always takes two to make it happen. -- Mama Bear

and the Three Bears: No one ever questions why the Papa Bear and Mama Bear slept in separate beds. What was going on in that marriage? More backstory needed.

I'm not sure what kind of love you mean, baby, but if you mean do I want you to be with me forever, that I can't bear the thought of being without you as my lover, my best friend, my whole world....one day my wife, and my baby mama, then yes, I Love you, Love you!

That's right,' said Simon. 'Just remember, when you mother's gnawing at my ankle like a furious mama bear separated from her cub, I did it for you.

It is, I suppose, the common grief of children at having to protect their parents from reality. It is bitter for the young to see what awful innocence adults grow into, that terrible vulnerability that must be sheltered from the rodent mire of childhood. Can we blame the child for resenting the fantasy of largeness? Big, soft arms and deep voices in the dark saying, "Tell Papa, tell Mama, and we'll make it right." The child, screaming for refuge, senses how feeble a shelter the twig hut of grown-up awareness is. They claim strength, these parents, and complete sanctuary. The weeping earth itself knows how desperate is the child's need for exactly that sanctuary. How deep and sticky is the darkness of childhood, how rigid the blades of infant evil, which is unadulterated, unrestrained by the convenient cushions of age and its civilizing anesthesia. Grownups can deal with scraped knees, dropped ice-cream cones, and lost dollies, but if they suspected the real reasons we cry they would fling us out of their arms in horrified revulsion. Yet we are small and as terrified as we are terrifying in our ferocious appetites. We need that warm adult stupidity. Even knowing the illusion, we cry and hide in their laps, speaking only of defiled lollipops or lost bears, and getting lollipop or a toy bear'd worth of comfort. We make do with it rather than face alone the cavernous reaches of our skull for which there is no remedy, no safety, no comfort at all. We survive until, by sheer stamina, we escape into the dim innocence of our own adulthood and its forgetfulness.

Goldilocks and the Three Bears: No one ever questions why the Papa Bear and Mama Bear slept in separate beds. What was going on in that marriage? More backstory needed.

What’ cha doing out here all alone? Did you forget how to find Sanctuary? (Simi) No. I want to be alone for a bit. (Gallagher) Why? Were the bears mean to you? Mama can get a bit cranky whenever I play with the cubs. She thinks I’m going to eat one, but bleh! They’re way too hairy. Now if she’d let me skin one, I might be interested. (Simi) Are you joking? (Gallagher) Oh no. I never joke about hairy food. (Simi)

EMILY: Softly, more in wonder than in grief. I can’t bear it. They’re so young and beautiful. Why did they ever have to get old? Mama, I’m here. I’m grown up. I love you all, everything.—I can’t look at everything hard enough.

No, she’s a mama bear without her cub,” he retorts. “That woman is the most dangerous thing on the planet right now. I will go through hell and high water for you, brother, but I’m not setting foot near that.

Once language becomes routinely distorted, it becomes increasingly easy to justify and promote evil—while at the same time hiding behind positive words.

Linguistic theft refers to purposefully hijacking words, changing their definitions, and then using those same words as tools of propaganda.

That's right," said Simon. "Just remember, when your mother's gnawing my ankle like a furious mama bear separated from her cub, I did it for you.

Across the room, Nia said with a smirk, “Look at Tinkerbell going all mama-bear.” Hope snapped, “Oh, shove the Tinkerbell crap up your ass.” For about two seconds, Nia just stared at her. Then she started to laugh.

When people thought of mothers, they smelled cookies baking and chocolate melting. But actual mothers got shit for giving their kids too much sugar. When people thought of mothers, they thought soft and warm and cuddly. But actual mothers went to great lengths to eradicate their soft warm cuddly bits. When people thought of mothers, they thought of mama bears and cheerleaders–fierce love and unconditional support–but actual mothers were accused of coddling and helicoptering.

Mama." It made my skin crawl the way she said it. Like you'd say "Tornado," if one was bearing down on you.

Thank you Mama for the nine months you carried me through/…No one knows the pressure you bear a just only you.” —SIZZLA

Kerry was walking with Jesus now. I could see my mom getting red when he said that, and I started to get a little worried that she might say something. We went to church sometimes, so it’s not like Mom had anything against religion, but Kerry totally did and Mom was ferociously protective of the people she loved, so much that she took insults upon them personally. Her friends sometimes called her Mama Bear for this reason.

When Sister Bear received a beautiful golden locket for her birthday, she was surprised and pleased. It was shaped like a heart, and it had her name on it. “Happy birthday, dear!” said Mama and Papa Bear, giving her a big hug.

I want my churched-up, prayed-up, pre-school kid to be a skeptic too! Why? Because being a skeptic means that he will question what is presented to him. This is important because I will not always be the one presenting the ideas. A child who understands how to discover truth is primed for a faith that lasts much longer than that of a child who is merely presented with the truth.

Mama told me that people see you the way you see yourself. And that being poor wasn't so hard to bear if you owned up to it. It was the pretending not to be poor that was so hard. I tried to keep that lesson in mind while this paragon of privilege and beauty watched me slop together some peanut butter crackers and lemonade.

I am thankful that my faith does not rely on the shifting sands of my emotions because on some days, my emotions are all over the place.

She’s not the kind to piss off is all I’m saying. You can poke a bear all you want, but be careful poking at the mama bear. That shit usually doesn’t end well.

A Mama Bear apologist answers the person as much as she does the question.

Moral relativism is ultimately self-defeating because on one hand, it demands that everybody tolerate each other. On the other hand, it is very intolerant of those who are seen as intolerant.

There is no historical document that can be “proven” in the same way things are proven in physics or chemistry. Why do some people treat the Bible like it’s the one historical document that has to bear this level of “proof”?

She found herself smiling. "Was the big, bad forest ranger scared?" "I stared a fire," he said instead of answering, and the typical guy avoidance of admitting fear made her smile in the dark. "But even after I had a roaring fire, I still felt watched." "What did you do?" His hand was still gliding up and down her back, absently soothing, not-so-absently arousing her further. "I got up and searched the perimeter," he said. "Often. I finally fell asleep holding my gun, and at first light was startled awake by a curious teenage bear." "Oh my God," she said on a horrified laugh. "What happened?" Amusement came into his voice. "I shot the shit out of a tree and scared the hell out of us both. I fell backward off the log I'd fallen asleep on, and the bear did the same. Then we both scrambled to our feet, and he went running off to his mama. If my mama had been anywhere within two thousand miles, I'd have gone running off to her just the same as the bear." -Matt on his first night out as a ranger

Mama,” Lily says. “This is more than I can bear.” She longs to weep, but her tears remain stubbornly locked in her heart. Mama kisses the top of Lily’s head, keeps rocking her, says, “No, child. This is just more than you should have to bear.

That mama-bear, elegant-and-modest-on-the-outside, hot-as-allfuck-on-the-inside thing was ringing his doorbell. And God help him, he knew it was beyond inappropriate to be making up fuck fantasies about this woman right then but he couldn't help it.

After, Mam,' I say. 'What happens when you pass away?" I couldn't bear her being a ghost. Couldn't take her sitting in the kitchen, invisible. Couldn't take seeing Pop walk around her without touching her cheek, without bending to kiss her on her neck. 'It's like walking through a door, Jojo.' 'But you won't be no ghost, huh, Mam?' I have to ask even though I know the telling hurts her. Even though I feel like speaking's bringing her leaving closer. Death, a great mouth set to swallow. 'Can't say for sure. But I don't think so. I think that only happens when the dying's bad. Violent. The old folks always told me that when someone dies in a bad way, sometimes it's so awful even God can't bear to watch, and then half your spirit stays behind and wanders, wanting peace the way a thirsty man seeks water.' She frowns: two fishhooks dimpling down. 'That ain't my way.' 'That don't mean I won't be here, Jojo. I'll be on the other side of the door. With everybody else that's gone before. Your uncle Given, my mama and daddy, Pop's mama and daddy.' 'How?' 'Because we don't walk no straight lines. It's all happening at once. All of it. We all here at once. My mama and daddy and they mamas and daddies.' Mam looks to the wall, closes her eyes. 'My son.

Why does he melt my heart so much?” Myra sets her slushie down and reclaims her pricing gun. “Because you’re a mama bear at heart. It doesn’t matter if it’s orphaned children who need a home or ancient immortals stuck on the fringe. You're a gatherer and a protector.” She’s not wrong.

He smiled as he looked at the couple, but Max didn’t miss the subtle change that happened when his gaze shifted to Ivy’s parents. Max had often heard mothers call themselves mama bears, but at that moment, Owen was a great grizzly he-bear who owned the forest. Fuck with him—and his—at your own peril.

snowball. A friend of mine used to tell his kids, “What you tolerate today, you accept tomorrow. What you accept today, you embrace tomorrow.” I would add a third statement to that: “What you embrace today, you promote tomorrow.” We have seen this progression within the realm of sexual ethics, have we not?

Thus my lifelong meditation on the concept of groove, what is to make deep rhythm. This becomes a huge part of my life, as a musician of course, but also the question of how it relates to all of existence. When I'm rocking a groove, there is only nature working, ain't no one gonna rock it harder than me. Free from all prison of the mind's construct, I am a fucking mama grizzly bear protecting her cubs, and I don't care if I die. I trust my animal instinct completely. I let go of every thought, let go of all the world, and KILL the groove. The hurt and pain in my heart is my ticket to fly, I surrender all earthly desires in the moment, when it's time to rock and tap the source. I gotta be the groove and nothing else, fuck the world so I can uplift the world. To all you kids out there hurting like I hurt, I'm gonna be with you there in the magic place.

We can control what we do, but it is God who creates the growth to change who we are.

immaterial things, by nature, cannot be studied using material methods.

a mature, informed, discerning worldview does not need to fear the false messages that this world churns out if it has already been trained to identify which aspects to reject.

A strawman argument is a type of logical fallacy—it happens when a person presents an oversimplified and distorted version of an idea and then offers a rebuttal to it.

How fortunate for leaders that men do not think.

There is a fundamental difference between teaching our kids to base their spiritual foundation on the experience of Jesus and basing it on Jesus.

The only time people notice foundations is when there’s something wrong with them. In our culture, we have massive foundational issues, and the ideological cracks can be seen everywhere.

Whenever you hear someone talking about intolerance, ask your kids, “Are they asking for people to accept their belief as equally true, or to live with them in peace despite disagreement?

Disagreement does not equal hate. Disparities are not always due to injustice. Exclusive beliefs do not equal intolerance. If that were the case, then everyone would qualify as intolerant.

our little bears will be able to interact with this culture with grace, love, and critical thinking—inhaling the spiritual oxygen and exhaling everything else—in a way that is as natural as breathing.

I hadn't told him the news yet, but in that same preternatural way he was always aware of what I was feeling or thinking, he could smell my lies a mile away. He was just giving me time to come to him. To tell him I'd be baking his bun for the next seven and a half months. ''I'm okay." Dex's chuckle filled my ears as he wrapped his arms around my chest from behind, his chin resting on the top of my head. "Just okay?" He was taunting me, I knew it. This man never did anything without a reason. And this reason had him resembling a mama bear. A really aggressive, possessive mama bear. Which said something because Dex was normally that way. I couldn't even sit around Mayhem without him or Sonny within ten feet. I leaned my head back against his chest and laughed. "Yeah, just okay." He made a humming noise deep in his throat. "Ritz," he drawled in that low voice that reached the darkest parts of my organs. "You're killin' me, honey." Oh boy. Did I want to officially break the news on the side of the road with chunks of puke possibly still on my face? Nah. So I went with the truth. "I have it all planned out in my head. I already ordered the cutest little toy motorcycle to tell you, so don't ruin it." A loud laugh burst out of his chest, so strong it rocked my body alongside his. I friggin' loved this guy. Every single time he laughed, I swear it multiplied. At this rate, I loved him more than my own life cubed, and then cubed again. "All right," he murmured between these low chuckles once he'd calmed down a bit. His fingers trailed over the skin of the back of my hand until he stopped at my ring finger and squeezed the slender bone. "I can be patient." That earned him a laugh from me. Patience? Dex? Even after more than three years, that would still never be a term I'd use to describe him. And it probably never would. He'd started to lose his shit during our layover when Trip had called for instructions on how to set the alarm at the new bar. "Dex, Ris, and Baby Locke, you done?" Sonny yelled, peeping out from over the top of the car door. "Are you friggin' kidding me?" I yelled back. Did everyone know? That slow, seductive smile crawled over his features. Brilliant and more affectionate than it was possible for me to handle, it sucked the breath out of me. When he palmed my cheeks and kissed each of my cheeks and nose and forehead, slowly like he was savoring the pecks and the contact, I ate it all up. Like always, and just like I always would. And he answered the way I knew he would every single time I asked him from them on, the way that told me he would never let me down. That he was an immovable object. That he'd always be there for me to battle the demons we could see and the invisible ones we couldn't. "Fuckin' love you, Iris," he breathed against my ear, an arm slinking around my lower back to press us together. "More than anything.

Any song, podcast, TED talk, animated series, sermon series, or Christian book (and there are many) that elevates you, your feelings, or even your calling—making you the hero in the story—is an agent of self-helpism.

And with each repetition, she filled Sophie’s mind with images of silver-tipped hooves kicking and stomping the black cloaked figures into the ground. Dude, Fitz transmitted. Remind me to never make an alicorn angry. I know. Silveny had always been an overprotective mother hen. But now she’d gone full-on mama bear—her anger twisting into something much darker and colder, until it shaped into a word Sophie had never heard her use before.

The passengers in the plane shifted, moving back to let others come forward to the windows for a look. In one window appeared a man wearing an open button-down flannel shirt. Standing in front of him was a young girl with long, wavy brown hair. The man put his hands on the girl’s shoulders and they both smiled. There was a familial comfort to their touch. And the little girl was an exact younger version of Chris. Fitz held a hand over the phone. “Someone go call the mama bear to let her know.

She nestled me in her arms, keeping me safe, smoothing my black curls with her caress, whispering how beautiful I was getting. The thing that cracked when she died was mended, and we were fine and whole again. And because we were fine and whole, I was safe. She would tell me the old stories, but I could never remember them later except for this ending from my favorite one: The wind blew wild and the wind blew free, but the bear cub was safe in the mouth of the mama-mama bear. That's the way I felt when Mama held me - safe in the mouth of the mama-mama bear. If I had trouble sleeping at night, I remembered the feel of the story - safe in the mouth - and I felt my mother in her pretty yellow dress, and the yellow rose pinned in her dark hair, and her arms around me. Then I could relax and know I was fine. So even though I knew Mama died, I also knew in a way I never tried to explain to anybody that she didn't die, that she couldn't have, not completely, since she came to me with those moonbeam visits. (5)

I didn't do anything.I fumble with tears." "You listened." She handed him back his bandanna. "Mostly because tears render me speechless.You've a bit of garden dirt here." Keeley came down the path just in time to see Brian gently wipe her mother's face with a blue bandanna.The tearstains had her leaping forward like a mama bear to her threatened cub. "What is it? What did you do?" Hissing at Brian, she wrapped an arm around Adelia's shoudler. "Nothing.I just knocked your mother down and kicked her a few times.

When you watch a TV show or a movie, what you see looks like what it physically represents. A man looks like a man, a man with a large bicep looks like a man with a large bicep, and a man with a large bicep bearing the tattoo "Mama" looks like a man with a large bicep bearing the tattoo "Mama." But when you read a book, what you see are black squiggles on pulped wood or, increasingly, dark pixels on a pale screen. To transform these icons into characters and events, you must imagine. And when you imagine, you create. It's in being read that a book becomes a book, and in each of a million different readings a book become one of a million different books, just as an egg becomes one of potentially a million different people when it's approached by a hard-swimming and frisky school of sperm.

scientists who held to a Judeo-Christian worldview expected the world to reflect the characteristics of the unchanging God of Scripture. They expected the world to be rational, orderly, and law-like because God was rational and He “changed not.”8 This conviction allowed modern science to flourish, whereas paganism had stymied it.

we establish trust with people by acknowledging their good intentions. Few people think that they are on the wrong side of history. Everyone sees themselves as crusading for the greater good. We must try to see their idea from their perspective. What are they valuing? What are they trying to accomplish? What is their ultimate goal?

When I say we, I'm referring to society: copywriters, companies, and overall general opinion; I am in no way taking personal responsibility. We/they market to women like they are giant toddlers. This endless, pejorative, female-targeted infantilization of the English language when it's directed toward women: "Mama Bear needs her beauty rest!" "Rockstar gal gets her glam on!" "Work it, she-entrepreneur!" "Be a diva-licious ass-kicker in stilettos! The biggest, badass, boss-babe in herstory! The fiercest, she-matologist working in the blood lab!" This pervasive rhetoric is basically watered down, digestible empowerment designed to get a woman's money. It's the advertising equivalent of a "Live Laugh Love" sign.

We want to make sure you’re okay,” Oralie told her, sounding so genuine that it melted a bit of Sophie’s panic. Or it did until Bronte added, “And let’s be honest, we’re all curious to see how this works—myself in particular, given that the ability being focused on is one that Miss Foster and I share.” “If you’d rather have privacy, Sophie,” Edaline jumped in, sending an angry-mama-bear glare at Bronte, “I’m sure the Councillors will understand.

the Bible is sufficient, meaning that it tells us all we need to know about who God is, who we are, and what we need for the abundant life (as defined by God). Just remember—no matter what you’re reading or listening to—psychology must always bend the knee to theology. Does the teaching you’re listening to line up with who God says He is in the Bible? Or does it belittle Him by taking away from His character or ways? Does the teaching line up with who the Bible says we are? Or does it elevate our callings or gifts higher than the Bible does? Does the teaching call out sin for what it is and include the absolute necessity of repentance? Or does it soften the definition of sin (“mistakes, messiness”) and minimize its effects?

STAINS With red clay between my toes, and the sun setting over my head, the ghost of my mother blows in, riding on a honeysuckle breeze, oh lord, riding on a honeysuckle breeze. Her teeth, the keys of a piano. I play her grinning ivory notes with cadenced fumbling fingers, splattered with paint, textured with scars. A song rises up from the belly of my past and rocks me in the bosom of buried memories. My mama’s dress bears the stains of her life: blueberries, blood, bleach, and breast milk; She cradles in her arms a lifetime of love and sorrow; Its brilliance nearly blinds me. My fingers tire, as though I've played this song for years. The tune swells red, dying around the edges of a setting sun. A magnolia breeze blows in strong, a heavenly taxi sent to carry my mother home. She will not say goodbye. For there is no truth in spoken farewells. I am pregnant with a poem, my life lost in its stanzas. My mama steps out of her dress and drops it, an inheritance falling to my feet. She stands alone: bathed, blooming, burdened with nothing of this world. Her body is naked and beautiful, her wings gray and scorched, her brown eyes piercing the brown of mine. I watch her departure, her flapping wings: She doesn’t look back, not even once, not even to whisper my name: Brenda. I lick the teeth of my piano mouth. With a painter’s hands, with a writer’s hands with rusty wrinkled hands, with hands soaked in the joys, the sorrows, the spills of my mother’s life, I pick up eighty-one years of stains And pull her dress over my head. Her stains look good on me.

It is, I suppose, the common grief of children at having to protect their parents from reality. It is bitter for the young to see what awful innocence adults grow into, that terrible vulnerability that must be sheltered from the rodent mire of childhood. Can we blame the child for resenting the fantasy of largeness? Big, soft arms and deep voices in the dark saying, “Tell Papa, tell Mama, and we’ll make it right.” The child, screaming for refuge, senses how feeble a shelter the twig hut of grown-up awareness is. They claim strength, these parents, and complete sanctuary. The weeping earth itself knows how desperate is the child’s need for exactly that sanctuary. How deep and sticky is the darkness of childhood, how rigid the blades of infant evil, which is unadulterated, unrestrained by the convenient cushions of age and its civilizing anesthesia. Grownups can deal with scraped knees, dropped ice-cream cones, and lost dollies, but if they suspected the real reasons we cry they would fling us out of their arms in horrified revulsion. Yet we are small and as terrified as we are terrifying in our ferocious appetites. We need that warm adult stupidity. Even knowing the illusion, we cry and hide in their laps, speaking only of defiled lollipops or lost bears, and getting a lollipop or a toy bear’s worth of comfort. We make do with it rather than face alone the cavernous reaches of our skulls for which there is no remedy, no safety, no comfort at all. We survive until, by sheer stamina, we escape into the dim innocence of our own adulthood and its forgetfulness.

Enter today’s authenticity, which is actually a Trojan horse for rebellion. This new and more popular definition says, “You are perfect just the way you are” or, “We are all messy. Learn to love your beautiful, messy life!” These are code for “God would rather you be ‘real’ than striving for holiness.” This kind of authenticity says that if something doesn’t come naturally, or doesn’t feel natural, then it is inauthentic and therefore fake. Newsflash: Much of the Christian life is uncomfortable. What if Jesus had said, “You know, I really don’t feel like being crucified today. It doesn’t feel like the right time. I just need to be authentic with you all, and I don’t want to try to be someone I’m not right now, like a Savior. Thanks for understanding.” Thank God Jesus did not do that!

finding that she was determined to get to the bottom of what seemed to him a very trivial affair, extricated himself without hesitation or compunction by advising her to apply to Vincent for information, since he was the instigator of the quarrel. Before he could make good his retreat, however, he was incensed and appalled by a command to go immediately to Vincent's room, and to inform him that his mama desired to have speech with him before he went down to breakfast. Since it was the time-honoured practice of the brothers to sacrifice each other in such situations as now confronted Claud, it was not fear of Vincent's wrath at finding himself betrayed which prompted Claud to despatch Polyphant on the errand, but the knowledge that not even a messenger bearing gifts of great price would meet with anything but the rudest of receptions from Vincent at this hour of the morning.

Kate, the mother of thirteen, is forty-nine; delicately made; her skin creamlike where the weather has not got at it. She is smaller than several of her children. Her legs and feet, like those of most women in this country, are beautifully shaped by shoelessness on the earth. Her eyes, which are watchful not at all for herself but for her family, are those of a small animal which expects another kick as a matter of course and which is too numbed to dodge it or even much care. She calls her children "my babies." They call her mama, treat her protectively as they might a deformed child, and love her carelessly and gaily. An old photograph shows her fiber and bearing as a young woman, and perhaps it is the relinquishment of that unusual spirit, under the beating and breakage of the past two decades, that has made her now the most abandoned of these people: more than any of them, she is lost in some solitary region of her own. She is only half sane.

For a second he thought she might chuckle, and honest to God he didn't know what he would do if she did. "Grey, society didn't give you that scar. A woman you treated with no more regard than your dirty stockings gave you that scar. You cannot blame the actions of one on so many." HIs fingers tightened into fists at his side. "I do not blame all of society for her actions, of course not." "How could you? You don't even know who it was, do you?" "No." But he had suspicions. He was almost completely certain it had been Maggie-Lady Devane. He'd broken her heart the worst of them all. "Of course you don't." Suddenly her eyes were very dark and hard. "I suspect it could be one of a large list of names, all women who you toyed with and cast aside." A heavy chill settled over Grey's chest at the note of censure, and disapproval in her tone. He had known this day would come, when she would see him for what he truly was. He just hadn't expected it quite so soon. "Yes," he whispered. "A long list indeed." "So it's no wonder you would rather avoid society. I would too if I had no idea who my enemies were. It's certainly preferable to apologizing to every conquest and hope that you got the right one." She didn't say it meanly, or even mockingly, but there was definitely an edge to her husky voice. "Is this what we've come to, Rose?" he demanded. "You've added your name to the list of the women I've wronged?" She laughed then, knocking him even more off guard. "Of course not. I knew what I was getting myself into when I hatched such a foolhardy plan. No, your conscience need not bear the weight of me, grey." When she moved to stand directly before him, just inches away, it was all he could do to stand his ground and not prove himself a coward. Her hand touched his face, the slick satin of her gloves soft against his cheek. "I wish you would stop living under all this regret and rejoin the world," she told him in a tone laden with sorrow. "You have so much to offer it. I'm sure society would agree with me if you took the chance." Before he could engineer a reply, there was another knock at the door. Rose dropped her hand just as her mother stuck her head into the room. "Ah, there you are. Good evening, Grey. Rose, Lord Archer is here." Rose smiled. "I'll be right there, Mama." When the door closed once more, she turned to Grey. "Let us put an end to this disagreeable conversation and put it in the past where it belongs. Friends?" Grey looked down at her hand, extended like a man's. He didn't want to take it. In fact, he wanted to tell her what she could do with her offer of friendship and barely veiled insults. He wanted to crush her against his chest and kiss her until her knees buckled and her superior attitude melted away to pleas of passion. That was what he wanted.

Rose, we were seen together naked and in my bed by my brother, my butler and two men who are about to become intimately acquainted with this family. We must marry.” She frowned, delicate brow pulling in a manner that made him want to kiss it smooth and promise everything would be all right. He’d do his best to make her happy. Yes, he would willfully lie to ease her burden. “But, you’ve sacrificed so much for me and Mama already.” Christ, she wasn’t going to cry, was she? “It doesn’t seem fair that you be forced to marry me because I made the mistake of coming to your room.” “Is that what it was? A mistake?” His head swam and his heart felt strangely tight. Hadn’t she told him earlier that she wanted this? Perhaps she hadn’t come right out and said it, but he had thought it was obvious. Her eyes widened, big brown circles that stared helplessly at him. “You aren’t the least bit angry with me, are you?” “No,” he replied. “Strangely enough I’m not angry at myself either, although I could strangle Bronte’s future father-in-law for arriving when he did.” Rose glanced away, but not before he saw the flash of desire in her eyes as she remembered what he was about to do to her before they were interrupted. “Yes, I could strangle the poor man as well.” Sweet God, were it not for Bronte he’d throw her on the bed right now and screw her senseless. “When I return I will procure a special license for us to marry.” Her gaze flew to his. “Grey-“ He could not bear to have her refuse him now. “We will be wed. And then we will continue what we begun tonight-no interruptions.” And just in case she didn’t believe him, he too her by the arms and hauled her roughly against his chest, lowering his head to bruise her lips with his own. She was his now. Or at least, she soon would be. Till death do them part. As he left her to rejoin the men downstairs, he found himself wishing to live to be a very old man.

On trial were two men, one in a plaid shirt, and the other with a long, ZZ Top-style beard. They looked intimated by the crowd that had turned out, even though Plaid Shirt stood six foot four. He was the main perpetrator, charged with animal cruelty. He had brought his young son along during the bear killing for which he was on trial. The main reason the state managed to bring charges is that the hunters had made a videotape of their gruesome acts. The state trooper who confiscated the video couldn’t even testify at the time of the trial, he was so emotionally overcome. Then they showed the video in court, and I understood why. ZZ Top and Plaid Shirt cornered the bear cub. In order to preserve the integrity of the pelt, they attempted to kill the cub by stabbing it in the eyes. It was absolutely gut-wrenching to watch. The bear struggled for its life, but Plaid Shirt kept thrusting his knife, moving back as the animal twisted frantically away, then moving forward to stab again. The bear cub screamed, and it sounded eerily as though the bear was actually crying “Mama,” over and over. Plaid Shirt and ZZ Top sat unfazed in court. The bear screamed, “Mama, mama, mama.” From my place in the gallery, I watched as a towering man in a police uniform burst into tears and walked out of the courtroom. At the end of the video, Plaid Shirt brought his nine-year-old son over to stand triumphantly next to the dead bear cub. “Clearly, you deserve jail,” the judge told Plaid Shirt as he stood for sentencing. “Unfortunately, the jails are filled with people even more heinous than you: rapists, murderers, and armed robbers. So I am going to sentence you to three thousand hours of community service.” I approached the judge after the trial, furious that this man might end up collecting a bit of rubbish along the highway as his penance. “I want him,” I said, referring to Plaid Shirt. I said that I ran a wildlife rehabilitation facility and could use a volunteer. The first day Plaid Shirt showed up, he actually looked scared of me. He cleaned cages, fed animals, and worked hard. He liked the bobcat I was taking care of, “Bobby.” He said it was the biggest one he had ever seen. It would make a prize trophy. I asked him every question I could think of: where he hunted, how he hunted, why he hunted. Whether he had any kind of shirt other than plaid. I felt as though I was in the presence of true evil. For months he helped. He had some skills, like carpentry, and he could lift heavy things. He fulfilled his community service. In the end, I couldn’t tell if I had made any difference or not. I was only slightly encouraged by his parting words. “You know,” Plaid Shirt said, “I never knew cougars purred.

A similar theological—and particularly ecclesiological—logic shapes the Durham Declaration, a manifesto against abortion addressed specifically to the United Methodist Church by a group of United Methodist pastors and theologians. The declaration is addressed not to legislators or the public media but to the community of the faithful. It concludes with a series of pledges, including the following: We pledge, with Cod’s help, to become a church that hospitably provides safe refuge for the so-called “unwanted child” and mother. We will joyfully welcome and generously support—with prayer, friendship, and material resources—both child and mother. This support includes strong encouragement for the biological father to be a father, in deed, to his child.27 No one can make such a pledge lightly. A church that seriously attempted to live out such a commitment would quickly find itself extended to the limits of its resources, and its members would be called upon to make serious personal sacrifices. In other words, it would find itself living as the church envisioned by the New Testament. William H. Willimon tells the story of a group of ministers debating the morality of abortion. One of the ministers argues that abortion is justified in some cases because young teenage girls cannot possibly be expected to raise children by themselves. But a black minister, the pastor of a large African American congregation, takes the other side of the question. “We have young girls who have this happen to them. I have a fourteen year old in my congregation who had a baby last month. We’re going to baptize the child next Sunday,” he added. “Do you really think that she is capable of raising a little baby?” another minister asked. “Of course not,” he replied. No fourteen year old is capable of raising a baby. For that matter, not many thirty year olds are qualified. A baby’s too difficult for any one person to raise by herself.” “So what do you do with babies?” they asked. “Well, we baptize them so that we all raise them together. In the case of that fourteen year old, we have given her baby to a retired couple who have enough time and enough wisdom to raise children. They can then raise the mama along with her baby. That’s the way we do it.”28 Only a church living such a life of disciplined service has the possibility of witnessing credibly to the state against abortion. Here we see the gospel fully embodied in a community that has been so formed by Scripture that the three focal images employed throughout this study can be brought to bear also on our “reading” of the church’s action. Community: the congregation’s assumption of responsibility for a pregnant teenager. Cross: the young girl’s endurance of shame and the physical difficulty of pregnancy, along with the retired couple’s sacrifice of their peace and freedom for the sake of a helpless child. New creation: the promise of baptism, a sign that the destructive power of the world is broken and that this child receives the grace of God and hope for the future.29 There, in microcosm, is the ethic of the New Testament. When the community of God’s people is living in responsive obedience to God’s Word, we will find, again and again, such grace-filled homologies between the story of Scripture and its performance in our midst.

He hadn’t been aware of staring, but when her questioning gaze locked with his, Grey felt as though he’d been smacked upside the head by the open palm of idiocy. “Is something troubling you, Grey?” He loved the sound of his name on her tongue, and hated that he loved it. She made him weak and stupid. One sweet glance from her and he was ready to drop to his knees. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even infatuation. It was pure unmitigated lust. He could admit that. Hell, he embraced it. Lust could be managed. Lust could be mastered. And lust would eventually fade once she was out of his care and out of his life. That was the cold, hard, blessed truth of it. “I was wondering if you were eagerly anticipating Lady Shrewsbury’s ball tomorrow evening?” How easily the lie rolled off his tongue as he lifted a bite of poached salmon to his mouth. She smiled softly, obviously looking forward to it very much. “I am. Thank you.” Camilla shared her daughter’s pleasure judging from her coy grin. “Rose has renewed her acquaintance with the honorable Kellan Maxwell. He requested that she save the first waltz of the evening for him.” The fish caught in Grey’s throat. He took a drink of wine to force it down. “The same Kellan Maxwell who courted you during your first season?” Rose’s smile faded a little. No doubt she heard the censure in his tone, his disapproval. “The same,” she replied with an edge of defensiveness. The same idiot who abandoned his pursuit of Rose when Charles lost everything and scandal erupted. The little prick who hadn’t loved her enough to continue his courtship regardless of her situation. “Mm,” was what he said out loud. Rose scowled at him. “We had no understanding. We were not engaged, and Mr. Maxwell behaved as any other young man with responsibilities would have.” “You defend him.” It was difficult to keep his disappointment from showing. He never thought her to be the kind of woman who would forgive disloyalty when she was so very loyal herself. She tilted her head. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m no debutante, Grey. If I’m to find a husband this season I shouldn’t show prejudice.” Common sense coming out of anyone else. Coming out of her it was shite. “You deserve better.” She smiled a Mona Lisa smile. “We do not always get what we deserve, or even what we desire.” She knew. Christ in a frock coat, she knew. Her smile faded. “If we did, Papa would be here with us, and Mama and I wouldn’t be your responsibility.” She didn’t know. Damn, what a relief. “The two of you are not a responsibility. You are a joy.” For some reason that only made her look sadder, but Camilla smiled through happy tears. She thanked him profusely, but Grey had a hard time hearing what she was saying-he was too intent on Rose, who had turned her attention to her plate and was pushing food around with little interest. He could bear this no longer. He didn’t know what was wrong with her, or why she seemed so strange with him. And he couldn’t stand that he cared. “Ladies, I’m afraid I must beg your pardon and take leave of you.” Rose glanced up. “So soon?” He pushed his chair back from the table. “Yes. But I will see you at breakfast in the morning.” She turned back to her dinner. Grey bid farewell to Camilla and then strode from the room as quickly as he could. If he survived the Season it would be a miracle.

Lord, instill in me and Your church a high view of Scripture. Help me teach my children to examine ideas and teachings and understand terms correctly and not be deceived by slick-sounding lies. Help me teach my children to hold to biblical rather than cultural definitions. May my children never align their Bible to their thinking, but rather, align their thinking to Your Word. Give us insight to recognize the convincing lies and near-truths that are touted as Christian. Protect my children from starting on a path that would take them on the slow descent to atheism. And in the unchanging name of Jesus, don’t let our feelings or experiences dictate our theology. In the name of the eternal God, amen.

Mama, what kept you moving forward through droughts, wild animals, loneliness? We had no choice. Sadness was as dangerous as panthers and bears. The wilderness needs your whole attention.

The best motivator for apologetics is love: We need to love our children enough to listen to them and do the hard work of finding answers to their questions.

Each one of us has a tremendous responsibility. We are involved with creatures whose only language is not a human one. We need to be truly versatile – Love like a child, Practice with devotion, Listen with openness, and Advocate like a mama bear.

Inform my worship with Spirit, truth, and sound doctrine. Empower me to recognize and reject all beliefs raised up against the knowledge of You while still affirming the person who is made in Your image. In the name above all names, Jesus. Amen.

Apart from salvation by grace through faith in Jesus, we remain alienated from the One who knows us best, loves us most, and who offers us the only real path toward redemption and healing.

tolerance is still defined there as “the ability or willingness to tolerate the existence of opinions or behavior that one dislikes or disagrees with.” According to the actual definition, for tolerance to exist, there must be (1)dislike or (2) disagreement.

Self-discovery, however hard it may sound, is truly the easy way out. According to self-helpism, I don’t have to deny myself or repent of anything. I only have to find myself. For Christ followers, it’s the opposite.11 We don’t truly live until we die—die to selfish desires that exalt us against the wisdom, love, guidance, and righteousness of our maker. We are called to surrender all.

In self-helpism, we are the source—the solution to all our problems. Our own latent powers can supposedly save us. But according to Christianity, God is our source, and He alone has the solutions.

No broken thing can fix itself, and that includes our hearts. Even though some self-help teachings may offer beneficial insights, they never go the distance to lasting growth—which keeps people coming back for another book, seminar, or guru. The number of self-help books on a gal’s shelf is evidence enough that self-helpism fails. If it truly worked, you’d only see one.

the only reason we have anything good coming our way is because God is good, not because we are. Be aware when you hear people touting rights. Often, what they call a right is really a gift to which they feel entitled.

The greatest protection we can give our kids is to equip them to face the cultural lies head-on while remaining gracious, loving, and winsome.

For those of us who have been reconciled to God, our measuring rod for truth or success is not our feelings (which we will talk more about in the chapter on Emotionalism). Our goal is not merely to feel good or to have the most comfort or to live on Easy Street. Our goal is to be conformed to the image of Christ in word and deed, no matter the cost.

Even birds can use a mama bear sometimes. Please see that this one is loved until we’ve made a safer den for her. Show her some kindness and a window with some sunshine, and she’ll be a fast friend. Love, VerBear

Della, on the other hand, looked like she’d gone into full mama-bear mode and was imagining the many ways she could use her fancy defense training to drop-kick Stina across the room and then step on her with the spikes of her heels.

The irony of relativism is that in order for something to be relative, there has to be something else that is absolute.

The debate is really about which absolute we are starting from. As Christians, we believe that everything is relative to God’s moral law. C.S. Lewis said in Mere Christianity, My argument against God was that the universe seemed so cruel and unjust. But how had I got this idea of just and unjust? A man does not call a line crooked unless he has some idea of a straight line. What was I comparing this universe with when I called it unjust?

Greg Koukl’s book Tactics in Defending the Faith.

Honestly, that’s the last place the Infected want to corner themselves, with a hoard of ferocious mama bears.

I’m tired of being the bigger person with these people,” he says. “I’m tired, Mama.” I can see the weight of his exhaustion straining his spirit, and I feel guilty for bringing him in this world to bear it. I put my hand on his back. “What was it your daddy used to say?” I ask. “You got to give respect to get it.” “They killed that good pig and you talking to me about respect.” Eliza walks up to comfort him, but he turns away from her, toward me. “I’m sorry, Mama,” he says. “I’m just tired. I’m just so, so tired. I’m tired of carrying it. I want somebody else to carry it for a minute. It never lets up. It’s like somebody’s fingers pinching me on the inside of my chest, and it won’t ease up, it won’t let me feel like a man. It won’t never let me feel like a man. That’s all I want is to go somewhere with my child, and feel whole, all the way, but it won’t let me, but you got these white people out here not good enough to shine my shoes and they get to feel like there ain’t no limit to what the world owes them.” He pauses. “Jericho looks up to me, I can feel it. He always in my shadow and it should feel good but it wears on me ’cause I know one day he gon’ look at me the way I looked at Daddy the first time I saw him for who he really was. And I can’t bear it, Mama. I swear to God I can’t bear it.” I

Nahhh, sis! We need to get our shit and get the fuck out of here. We don’t know these muthafuckin’ people. What if they try to kill us in our sleep and take Hailey? Just by looking at her, that nigga know you had his baby. Ion think we made the best decisions in life, but this by far is the most fucked-up decision we made by coming here. We let a lil’ fun in the sun be our one and muthafuckin’ done! Mmmm mmmm, this ain’t it. I didn’t picture myself dying in Belize! He’s so pissed right now, and ion got time to be fighting Lucifer’s son! Write that nigga a check for his money, and ummmmm, ion know what the fuck you gone give him for Hailey Bear ‘cause technically you stole half of his seed too. I just don’t think this is the time for you to walk up in these people shit and be like, heyyyy I’m the muthafuckin’ girl that robbed you five years ago, had yo’ baby, but I’m here to do yo’ sister and mama makeup.

That’s when the tears started. One tear at first. Then another. Then several more. And before I knew it, I was making sounds I had never heard come out of me before. It was like they were coming from my soul. I couldn’t stop myself and my wails and sobs got louder and louder. Grandma came over and Mama and Katie Bell, and they all put their hands on me and the baby. Nobody tried to tell me to stop. They just let me cry. It was too much for Daddy. He left out of the room sobbing himself. But my sisters, my grandmother, and my mama kept their hands on me, crying with me, like we were a chorus of weeping women. I heard the door open, and I felt more hands. All the women in my family were there. It was like I was birthing a baby all over again, but this time, the baby was grief, and they were my midwives. They weren’t here to stop my pain; they were here to bear witness to it.

I’m sallow-Mama Alice says olive-and I have straight black hair and crooked teeth and no real chin, which is okay because I’ve already decided nobody’s ever going to kiss me.

Your hormones after giving birth go batshit crazy. Mama Bear rage is potent and real.

Honeymoon Charles used to want to go for long walks around Balmoral the whole time when we were on our honeymoon. His idea of enjoyment would be to sit on top of the highest hill at Balmoral. It is beautiful up there. I completely understand; he would read Laurens van der Post or Jung to me, and bear in mind I hadn’t a clue about psychic powers or anything, but I knew there was something in me that hadn’t been awoken yet and I didn’t think this was going to help! So anyway we read those and I did my tapestry and he was blissfully happy, and as far as he was happy that was fine. He was in awe of his Mama, intimidated by his father, and I was always the third person in the room. It was never ‘Darling, would you like a drink?’ it was always ‘Mummy, would you like a drink?’ ‘Granny, would you like a drink?’ ‘Diana, would you like a drink?’ Fine, no problem. But I had to be told that that was normal because I always thought it was the wife first--stupid thought! Terribly, terribly thin. People started commenting ‘Your bones are showing.’ So that was the October and then we stayed up there [at Balmoral] from August to October. By October I was about to cut my wrists. I was in a very bad way. It rained and rained and rained and I came down early from Balmoral to seek treatment, not because I hated Balmoral but because I was in such a bad way. Anyway, came down here [London]. All the analysts and psychiatrists you could ever dream of came plodding in trying to sort me out. Put me on high doses of Valium and everything else. But the Diana that was still very much there had decided it was just time; patience and adapting were all that were needed. It was me telling them what I needed. They were telling me ‘pills’! That was going to keep them happy--they could go to bed at night and sleep, knowing the Princess of Wales wasn’t going to stab anyone.

He crossed the room and standing beside her in the quiet, stroked a hand over her hair. She was the loving, fierce mama bear his girls never had. And she was the woman he loved with everything in him.

covering myself in my blankie. Oh no, I dropped Mama Bear! My door creaked open, and light came through the seams of my blankie. “Olivia?” Daddy said softly. I didn’t answer. Mommy was always telling me to make smart choices. I chose to stay perfectly still and not to breathe too loudly, but

My train! This is the train Papa promised me!” He pulled a little red engine from the branches of the tree. “And it’s red. Just like I wanted!” Confused, Aletta joined him, and Andrew held up the toy, a tag bearing his name hanging off the smokestack. “All really good trains are red, Mama,” he said, as though everyone should know that. The train was hand carved, not nearly as detailed as the one she’d ordered from the Nashville mercantile, and it had no railcars and certainly didn’t make any sounds. But when she turned the train over and saw the writing on the bottom, she felt the prick of tears. I love you, buddy, Jake. She read the inscription aloud, and Andrew’s eyes lit. He raced over to Jake, who knelt and hugged him tight. “I love my train!” Andrew drew back. “Does this mean I get to call you Jake now?” Jake looked across the room at her, much like everyone else, and Aletta smiled. “I imagine that would be just fine.” Andrew gave a loud shout and went to show Winder his red engine. Aletta joined Jake, who stood quietly off to the side. “How did you know?” She searched his gaze. “That was the kind of train he wanted? And that he wanted red?” “I didn’t. But that’s the kind of train I had when I was his age. Besides . . . aren’t all really good trains red?

So, is it chic for white women to adopt black kids these days?” I took a deep breath and stood up to meet his gaze. “Are you a Christian?” I asked him. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Did God save you because it was chic?” We locked eyes until he dropped his head. He stammered something unintelligible and backed away slowly, seeming to understand that even when the bear does not look like the cubs, the trauma of having one’s head ripped off by a protective mama can be bloody business.

Lord, help me share the gift of forgiveness. I know You can do anything . . . even tame a wild mama bear.

I am so proud of you.” It was the last thing Eve expected her mother to say, much less in a public location. “Proud of me?” “Oh, you rode like a Windham. I wish Bartholomew had been alive to see his baby sister out there, soaring over one fence after another. I wish St. Just had been here to brag on you properly. I wish… oh, I wish…” She reached for Eve and enfolded her daughter in a fierce, tight hug. “You showed them, Eve. You showed us all. Deene will be wroth with you for such a stunt, but he’ll get over it. A man in love forgives a great deal. Just ask your father.” Her Grace whispered this between hugs, tighter hugs, and teary smiles. “Mama, Deene is the one who said I ought to ride. I would never have had the…” The courage. The faith in herself. The determination… All the things she’d called upon time after time in the past seven years, her own strengths, and she’d been blind to them. “I could not have ridden that race without my husband’s blessing and support, Mama.” “But you did ride it,” Her Grace said, pulling Eve in for another hug. “I about fainted when you had that bad moment. Your father had to watch the last fences for me, but then the finish… You were a flat streak, you and that horse. I’ve no doubt he’d jump the Channel for you did you ask it. Oh, Eve… You must promise me never to do such a thing again, though. I could not bear it. Your father nearly had another heart seizure.” “I did no such thing, and I will ask you, Duchess, to keep your voice down if you’re going to slander my excellent health in such a manner.” His Grace was capable of bellowing, of shouting down the rafters, of letting every servant on three floors know at once of his frequent displeasures, but the duke was not using ducal volume as he approached his wife and youngest daughter. He was using his husband-voice, his volume respectful, even if his tone was a trifle testy. “Papa.” Eve pulled back from her mother’s embrace to meet her father’s blue-eyed gaze. Mama might be willing to make allowances, but His Grace was another matter entirely. “Evie.” He glanced from daughter to mother. “You’ve upset your mother, my girl. Gave her a nasty moment there at that oxer.” She was to be scolded? That was perhaps inevitable, given that His Grace— Her father pulled her into his arms. “But what’s one bad moment, if it means you’re finally back on the horse, though, eh? I particularly liked how you took the water—that showed style and heart. And that last fence… quite a race you rode, Daughter. I could not be more proud of you.” He extended an arm to the duchess, who joined the embrace with a whispered, “Oh, Percival…” So