Met You Sooner Quotes

No sooner met but they looked; no sooner looked but they loved; no sooner loved but they sighed; no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy; and in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage...

Kinda wished I had met you sooner,” he said quietly.

Miracles do happen. You just admitted to a mistake. What was your mistake? Not f-cking me sooner?' 'It was my mistaken-' he turned and met her eyes '-thinking we had all the time in the world.

Hypnos was beautiful at a distance. Up close, he was just plain staggering. Enrique stumbled to his feet, hoping the other boy hadn’t noticed. When he looked up, Hypnos’s eyes looked darker. The pupils blown out, as if he was trying to take in all of him too. “Had I known what pretty company you keep, I might have met with you sooner, Séverin,” said Hypnos, not taking his eyes off Enrique.

I wish I'd met you sooner,' he said. 'Things might be different.' 'You didn't and they're not. So let's take what we can get , eh?

I met with a man. His name is, "Michael Bush", a very sophisticated sage. He said to me, "Michael, don't associate yourself with people in your age bracket, but relate with elderly men, who had achieve in life far more greater than you, and then, there will be no hidden place for jealousy in his heart, but if you happen to mingle with your mates, they will always say, "why always Michael, why not me?" and you'll be poisoned sooner or later.

Sooner or later, all talk among foreigners in Pyongyang turns to one imponderable subject. Do the locals really believe what they are told, and do they truly revere Fat Man and Little Boy? I have been a visiting writer in several authoritarian and totalitarian states, and usually the question answers itself. Someone in a café makes an offhand remark. A piece of ironic graffiti is scrawled in the men's room. Some group at the university issues some improvised leaflet. The glacier begins to melt; a joke makes the rounds and the apparently immovable regime suddenly looks vulnerable and absurd. But it's almost impossible to convey the extent to which North Korea just isn't like that. South Koreans who met with long-lost family members after the June rapprochement were thunderstruck at the way their shabby and thin northern relatives extolled Fat Man and Little Boy. Of course, they had been handpicked, but they stuck to their line. There's a possible reason for the existence of this level of denial, which is backed up by an indescribable degree of surveillance and indoctrination. A North Korean citizen who decided that it was all a lie and a waste would have to face the fact that his life had been a lie and a waste also. The scenes of hysterical grief when Fat Man died were not all feigned; there might be a collective nervous breakdown if it was suddenly announced that the Great Leader had been a verbose and arrogant fraud. Picture, if you will, the abrupt deprogramming of more than 20 million Moonies or Jonestowners, who are suddenly informed that it was all a cruel joke and there's no longer anybody to tell them what to do. There wouldn't be enough Kool-Aid to go round. I often wondered how my guides kept straight faces. The streetlights are turned out all over Pyongyang—which is the most favored city in the country—every night. And the most prominent building on the skyline, in a town committed to hysterical architectural excess, is the Ryugyong Hotel. It's 105 floors high, and from a distance looks like a grotesquely enlarged version of the Transamerica Pyramid in San Francisco (or like a vast and cumbersome missile on a launchpad). The crane at its summit hasn't moved in years; it's a grandiose and incomplete ruin in the making. 'Under construction,' say the guides without a trace of irony. I suppose they just keep two sets of mental books and live with the contradiction for now.

I've never met anyone like you, Bianca. Anyone born to be a vampire, I mean. But as I understand it, you can't put it off forever. Sooner or later, you'll have to kill.

Thomas rather thought Foley might ask what purpose was served by an economy whose success and protection depended on people living in ugly, sterile, unhealthy environments-he'd met that argument before and admittedly had had some difficulty refuting it-but the ex-pilot merely shrugged and said, "There's more to trees than you think. I've run across some trees I'd sooner hug than a woman.

If only I had met Molly sooner, when it was still possible to choose one road rather than another! Before that bitch Musyne and that little turd Lola crimped my enthusiasm! But it was too late to start being young again. I didn't believe in it any more! We grow old so quickly and, what's more, irremediably. You can tell by the way you start loving your misery in spite of yourself. Nature is stronger than we are, no two ways about it. She tries us in one particular mould, and we're never able to throw it off. I had started out as the restless type. Little by little, without realizing it, you begin to take your role and fate seriously, and, before you know it, it's too late to change. You're a hundred per cent restless, and it's set that way for good.

...a final word to "the children": do you want to get suckered like your big brothers and sisters? Those saps who spent 2008 standing behind the Obamessiah swaying and chanting, "We are the dawning of the Hopeychange" like brainwashed cult extras? Sooner or later you guys have to crawl out from under the social engineering and rediscover the contrarian spirit for which youth was once known...This will be the great battle of the next generation--to reclaim your birthright from those who spent it. If you don't, the entire global order will teeter and fall. But, if you do, you will have won a great victory. Every time a politician proposes new spending, tell him he's already spent your money, get his hand out of your pocket. Every time a politician says you can stay a child until your twenty-seventh birthday, tell him, "No, you're the big baby, not me--you've spent irresponsibly, and me and my pals are the ones who are gonna have to be the adults and clean up your mess. Don't treat met like a kid when your immaturity got us into this hole." This is a battle for the American idea, and it's an epic one, but--to reprise the lamest of lame-o-lines--you can do anything you want to do. So do it.

Now, if two men have to walk along together for two or three hours at a time, even if they feel a really strong desire to communicate, they will inevitably, sooner or later, fall into awkward silences and possibly end up loathing each other. One of these men might be unable to resist the temptation to hurl his companion down a steep riverbank. People are quite right when they say that three is god’s number, the number of peace and concord. When there are three in a group, one of the three can remain silent for a few minutes without that silence being noticed. Trouble could arise, however, if one of the three men has been walking along plotting how best to get rid of his neighbor in order to make off with his share of the provisions, and then invites the third man in the group to collaborate in this reprehensible scheme, only to be met with the regretful answer, I can’t, I’m afraid, I’ve already agreed to help him kill you.

While Middleton was in an inner office with the commander, his driver slumped in a chair outside to catch a few minutes’ sleep. No sooner had he dropped off than someone stepped heavily on his feet. The driver woke angry. “Why, you son of a bitch,” he cried, “don’t you know I’m trying to sleep?” Then he saw he was looking up at George Patton. Patton leaned back and laughed. “Son,” he said, “you’re the first son of a bitch I’ve met today who knows what he’s trying to do.

I wish I could answer your question. All I can say is that all of us, humans, witches, bears, are engaged in a war already, although not all of us know it. Whether you find danger on Svalbard or whether you fly off unharmed, you are a recruit, under arms, a soldier." "Well, that seems kinda precipitate. Seems to me a man should have a choice whether to take up arms or not." "We have no more choice in that than in whether or not to be born." "Oh, I like choice, though," he said. "I like choosing the jobs I take and the places I go and the food I eat and the companions I sit and yarn with. Don't you wish for a choice once in a while ?" She considered, and then said, "Perhaps we don't mean the same thing by choice, Mr. Scoresby. Witches own nothing, so we're not interested in preserving value or making profits, and as for the choice between one thing and another, when you live for many hundreds of years, you know that every opportunity will come again. We have different needs. You have to repair your balloon and keep it in good condition, and that takes time and trouble, I see that; but for us to fly, all we have to do is tear off a branch of cloud-pine; any will do, and there are plenty more. We don't feel cold, so we need no warm clothes. We have no means of exchange apart from mutual aid. If a witch needs something, another witch will give it to her. If there is a war to be fought, we don't consider cost one of the factors in deciding whether or not it is right to fight. Nor do we have any notion of honor, as bears do, for instance. An insult to a bear is a deadly thing. To us... inconceivable. How could you insult a witch? What would it matter if you did?" "Well, I'm kinda with you on that. Sticks and stones, I'll break yer bones, but names ain't worth a quarrel. But ma'am, you see my dilemma, I hope. I'm a simple aeronaut, and I'd like to end my days in comfort. Buy a little farm, a few head of cattle, some horses...Nothing grand, you notice. No palace or slaves or heaps of gold. Just the evening wind over the sage, and a ceegar, and a glass of bourbon whiskey. Now the trouble is, that costs money. So I do my flying in exchange for cash, and after every job I send some gold back to the Wells Fargo Bank, and when I've got enough, ma'am, I'm gonna sell this balloon and book me a passage on a steamer to Port Galveston, and I'll never leave the ground again." "There's another difference between us, Mr. Scoresby. A witch would no sooner give up flying than give up breathing. To fly is to be perfectly ourselves." "I see that, ma'am, and I envy you; but I ain't got your sources of satisfaction. Flying is just a job to me, and I'm just a technician. I might as well be adjusting valves in a gas engine or wiring up anbaric circuits. But I chose it, you see. It was my own free choice. Which is why I find this notion of a war I ain't been told nothing about kinda troubling." "lorek Byrnison's quarrel with his king is part of it too," said the witch. "This child is destined to play a part in that." "You speak of destiny," he said, "as if it was fixed. And I ain't sure I like that any more than a war I'm enlisted in without knowing about it. Where's my free will, if you please? And this child seems to me to have more free will than anyone I ever met. Are you telling me that she's just some kind of clockwork toy wound up and set going on a course she can't change?" "We are all subject to the fates. But we must all act as if we are not, or die of despair. There is a curious prophecy about this child: she is destined to bring about the end of destiny. But she must do so without knowing what she is doing, as if it were her nature and not her destiny to do it. If she's told what she must do, it will all fail; death will sweep through all the worlds; it will be the triumph of despair, forever. The universes will all become nothing more than interlocking machines, blind and empty of thought, feeling, life...

We might decide just to stay friends.” The fuck we will. I take a step closer, and not caring that I’m letting my insanity show, I growl, “You and I will never be friends, Everleigh. I’m giving you the time you asked for but make no mistake, you’re mine. From the moment we met to the moment we die, you will always be mine.” Her lips part with a gasp, but it doesn’t stop me from adding, “We’ll date so you can get used to us, but come hell or high water, there’s only one outcome. We will get married, and we will be a family. The sooner you accept it, the easier all of this will be.

I don’t understand,” she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. “How are you going to stop him talking about it?” “I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do.” “I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves.” “Exploits?” cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. “My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?” “Yes,” said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. “Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?” An idea rushed across Lucy’s brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. “I propose to speak to him,” said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.

I looked up at the moon and meant to ask about my life. But her answer came far sooner than I was able to formulate the question. For twenty years you’ve lived a dead man’s life. Everyone knows. Even your wife and your children and your wife’s friend, and the couple you met at a conference on the Jewish expatriates from the Third Reich can read it on your face. Erica and Paul know it, and those scholars who study Greek fire and Greek triremes, even the Pre-Socratics themselves, dead two thousand years ago, can tell. The only one who doesn’t know is you. But now even you know. You’ve been disloyal. To what, to whom? To yourself. I

I am consoled only to see that I was not mistaken: Chicago is just as I remembered it. I was here twenty five years ago. My father brought me and Scott up to see the Century of Progress and once later to the World Series. Not a single thing do I remember from the first trip but this: the sense of the place, the savor of the genie-soul of the place which every place has or else is not a place. I could have been wrong: it could have been nothing of the sort, not the memory of a place but the memory of being a child. But one step out into the brilliant March day and there it is as big as life, the genie-soul of the place Which, wherever you go, you must meet and master first thing or be met and mastered. Until now, one genie-soul and only one ever proved too strong for me: San Francisco—up and down the hills I pursued him, missed him and was pursued, by a presence, a powdering of fall gold in the air, a trembling brightness that pierced to the heart, and the sadness of coming at last to the sea, the coming to the end of America. Nobody but a Southerner knows the wrenching rinsing sadness of the cities of the North. Knowing all about genie-souls and living in haunted places like Shiloh and the Wilderness and Vicksburg and Atlanta where the ghosts of heroes walk abroad by day and are more real than people, he knows a ghost when he sees one, and no sooner does he step off the train in New York or Chicago or San Francisco than he feels the genie-soul perched on his shoulder.

If only I had met Molly sooner, when it was still possible to choose one road rather than another. Before that bitch Musyne and that little turd Lola crimped my enthusiasm. But it was too late to start being young again. I didn't believe in it anymore. We grow old so quickly and, what's more, irremediably. You can tell by the way you start loving your misery in spite of yourself. Nature is stronger than we are, no two ways about it. She tries us in one particular mold, and we're never able to throw it off. I had started out as the restless type. Little by little, without realizing it, you begin to take your role and fate seriously, and before you know it, it's too late to change. You're a hundred-percent restless, and it's set that way for good.

Guess where I’ve been? To the Verdurins’.” I had no sooner said these words than Albertine, her face contorted with feeling, replied, her words seeming to explode with a force that could not be contained, “I know it.—I didn’t think you’d mind if I went to the Verdurins’.” (It is true she had not said that she did mind, but I could see it in her face. It is true too that I had not thought that she would mind. And still, faced with the explosion of her anger, as at those moments when a kind of retrospective double vision makes us feel we have experienced them before, it seemed to me that I could never have expected anything else.) “Mind? Why on earth should I mind? I couldn’t care less. Wasn’t Mlle Vinteuil supposed to be there?” These words infuriated me, and “You didn’t tell me you’d met Mme Verdurin the other day,” I said, to show that I knew more about her doings than she realized. “Did I meet her?

from Testimony" Outside the night was cold, the snow was deep on sill and sidewalk; but in our kitchen it was bright and warm. I smelt the damp clothes as my mother lifted them from the basket, the pungent smell of melting wax as she rubbed it on the iron, and the good lasting smell of meat and potatoes in the black pot that simmered on the stove. The stove was so hot it was turning red. My mother lifted the lid of the pot to stir the roast with a long wooden spoon: Father would not be home for another hour. I tugged at her skirts. Tell me a story! Once upon a time (the best beginning!) there was a rich woman, a baroness, and a poor woman, a beggar. The poor woman came every day to beg and every day the rich woman gave her a loaf of bread until the rich woman was tired of it. I will put poison in the next loaf, she thought, to be rid of her. The beggar woman thanked the baroness for that loaf and went to her hut, but, as she was going through the fields, she met the rich woman's son coming out of the forest. "Hello, hello, beggar woman!" said the young baron, "I have been away for three days hunting and am very hungry. I know you are coming from my mother's and that she has given you a loaf of bread; let me have it--she will give you another." "Gladly, gladly," said the beggar woman, and, without knowing it was poisoned, gave him the loaf. But, as he went on, he thought, I am nearly home-- I will wait. You may be sure that his mother was glad to see him, and she told the maids to bring a cup of wine and make his supper--quickly quickly! "I met the beggar woman," he said, "And was so hungry I asked for the loaf you gave her." "Did you eat it, my son?" the baroness whispered. "No, I knew you had something better for me than this dry bread." She threw it right into the fire, and every day, after that, gave the beggar woman a loaf and never again tried to poison her. So, my son, if you try to harm others, you may only harm yourself. And, Mother, if you are a beggar, sooner or later, there is poison in your bread.

There followed a three-year spectacle during which [Senator Joseph] McCarthy captured enormous media attention by prophesying the imminent ruin of America and by making false charges that he then denied raising—only to invent new ones. He claimed to have identified subversives in the State Department, the army, think tanks, universities, labor unions, the press, and Hollywood. He cast doubt on the patriotism of all who criticized him, including fellow senators. McCarthy was profoundly careless about his sources of information and far too glib when connecting dots that had no logical link. In his view, you were guilty if you were or ever had been a Communist, had attended a gathering where a supposed Communist sympathizer was present, had read a book authored by someone soft on Communism, or subscribed to a magazine with liberal ideas. McCarthy, who was nicknamed Tailgunner Joe, though he had never been a tail gunner, was also fond of superlatives. By the middle of 1951, he was warning the Senate of “a conspiracy so immense and an infamy so black as to dwarf any previous such venture in the history of man.” McCarthy would neither have become a sensation, nor ruined the careers of so many innocent people, had he not received support from some of the nation’s leading newspapers and financing from right-wingers with deep pockets. He would have been exposed much sooner had his wild accusations not been met with silence by many mainstream political leaders from both parties who were uncomfortable with his bullying tactics but lacked the courage to call his bluff. By the time he self-destructed, a small number of people working in government had indeed been identified as security risks, but none because of the Wisconsin senator’s scattershot investigations. McCarthy fooled as many as he did because a lot of people shared his anxieties, liked his vituperative style, and enjoyed watching the powerful squirm. Whether his allegations were greeted with resignation or indignation didn’t matter so much as the fact that they were reported on and repeated. The more inflammatory the charge, the more coverage it received. Even skeptics subscribed to the idea that, though McCarthy might be exaggerating, there had to be some fire beneath the smoke he was spreading. This is the demagogue’s trick, the Fascist’s ploy, exemplified most outrageously by the spurious and anti-Jewish Protocols of the Elders of Zion. Repeat a lie often enough and it begins to sound as if it must—or at least might—be so. “Falsehood flies,” observed Jonathan Swift, “and the truth comes limping after it.” McCarthy’s career shows how much hysteria a skilled and shameless prevaricator can stir up, especially when he claims to be fighting in a just cause. After all, if Communism was the ultimate evil, a lot could be hazarded—including objectivity and conventional morality—in opposing it.

After we finished the interview Paul thanked me for my time and told me he thought I was great on the radio. He suggested I think about it as a career. I thanked him and said I’d consider it. But really all I was thinking about was Jamie. As soon as I got in my car I looked on my phone and saw I had a Facebook friend request from her. I felt schoolgirl giddy. I accepted the request and immediately called my Army buddy Max. Max is one of the guys who came with me on that first Tough Mudder. We are really close friends, and he’s someone I’ve always confided in. Just a few weeks before I had called and told him, “You know what? I’m done with women for the time being, but the next time I talk to a girl, I’m shooting out of my league.” So now I called Max and said, “I’ve met a girl way out of my league and I’m gonna take a shot.” I wasn’t good at asking women out and felt really nervous. I told Max she had sent me a friend request and he urged me to send her a private message on Facebook. I typed out a pretty long message and hit SEND. Then I finally put the keys in the ignition and left the radio station parking lot. Every red light I hit, I checked my phone to see if she had responded. She hadn’t. Why wasn’t she responding? Finally, I pulled over and looked again. The message hadn’t gone through! I panicked and called Max back. “What am I gonna do? What if I send another one and the first one is just floating through the Internet and it eventually goes through? Do I send another one? Do I make it sound exactly the same? I’m gonna look like a crazy person! What do I do? I don’t know what to do!” Max calmed me down again and I rewrote my original message. This time she responded. “Jamie, it was great meeting you and Paul today. Sorry you got stuck with a used bracelet. If I run into you again I will hook you up with a new one. You’ll just have to give that one back. They aren’t free. LOL. Take care.” She responded: “Ha ha. Actually, Noah Galloway, I got the one I wanted ;). Great to meet you, too. Love your story. Tragedy to triumph. I can’t imagine the number of people you inspire every day. Hope to run into you sooner rather than later.

Hey…you okay?” Marlboro Man repeated. My heart fluttered in horror. I wanted to jump out of the bathroom window, scale down the trellis, and hightail it out of there, forgetting I’d ever met any of these people. Only there wasn’t a trellis. And outside the window, down below, were 150 wedding guests. And I was sweating enough for all of them combined. I was naked and alone, enduring the flop sweat attack of my life. It figured. It was usually the times I felt and looked my absolute best when I wound up being humbled in some colossally bizarre way. There was the time I traveled to my godmother’s son’s senior prom in a distant city and partied for an hour before realizing the back of my dress was stuck inside my panty hose. And the time I entered the after-party for my final Nutcracker performance and tripped on a rug, falling on one of the guest performers and knocking an older lady’s wineglass out of her frail arms. You’d think I would have come to expect this kind of humiliation on occasions when it seemed like everything should be going my way. “You need anything?” Marlboro Man continued. A drop of sweat trickled down my upper lip. “Oh, no…I’m fine!” I answered. “I’ll be right out! You go on back to the party!” Go on, now. Run along. Please. I beg you. “I’ll be out here,” he replied. Dammit. I heard his boots travel a few steps down the hall and stop. I had to get dressed; this was getting ridiculous. Then, as I stuck my big toe into the drenched leg of my panty hose, I heard what I recognized as Marlboro Man’s brother Tim’s voice. “What’s she doing in there?” Tim whispered loudly, placing particularly uncomfortable emphasis on “doing.” I closed my eyes and prayed fervently. Lord, please take me now. I no longer want to be here. I want to be in Heaven with you, where there’s zero humidity and people aren’t punished for their poor fabric choices. “I’m not sure,” Marlboro Man answered. The geyser began spraying again. I had no choice but to surge on, to get dressed, to face the music in all my drippy, salty glory. It was better than staying in the upstairs bathroom of his grandmother’s house all night. God forbid Marlboro Man or Tim start to think I had some kind of feminine problem, or even worse, constipation or diarrhea! I’d sooner move to another country and never return than to have them think such thoughts about me.

One day, on the verge of dying of boredom, Uncle Johnny had had enough. He turned to me and said sternly, “Noah, I’m not gonna sit in here like we’re in an oversized coffin. We’re either opening the door or we’re turning the TV on. Which one do you want?” I rolled my eyes and grumbled for a few minutes before answering, “All right. Turn on the TV.” Without hesitation Uncle Johnny shot up out of that chair and reached up to hit the power button on the TV mounted from the ceiling. No sooner had his butt hit the chair seat than he was right back up again. “Fuck that. I am opening the door, too, because I want it open.” He vigorously emphasized his intention so I didn’t protest. He marched over and swung that door open. I swear he might have even taken a deep breath as if it were fresh mountain air. Then he came back to his chair and sat down. There was a movie on starring Matthew Broderick. I’d never heard of it before but Uncle Johnny was explaining to me that this was a remake and Gene Wilder had played Broderick’s character in the original film. In spite of myself, and my stubborn wish to sit and suffer in silence, I really liked the movie. And I remember thinking, I am really enjoying myself. I even turned to Uncle Johnny and said, “I’m glad we turned the TV on. This is great!” Uncle Johnny just smiled as if to say, “Of course! Finally!” We were right in the middle of the movie when one of my machines started to malfunction. The machine’s beeps drowned out the movie. A nurse came in to fix the problem and it just happened to be the hot nurse I had a crush on. She had short hair, a few tattoos on her arm, and she always wore a bandana over her head. The machine she was trying to fix was plugged in on the other side of the bed, up against the wall. “Oh, I see. Hold on. I have to move the bed out from the wall to fix this,” she said. At this point I was just watching her. She fixed the machine and pushed the bed back up against the wall. She actually hit the wall with the bed and zap! The TV went out! “WHAT?! NO!” I screamed. She couldn’t get it to turn back on. She tried but nothing worked. “Oh no, I’m sorry. We’ll have to get maintenance down here to fix it,” she said with an apologetic look that I met with a glare of disdain. She was no longer hot to me. She was just the nurse who broke the TV. Maintenance didn’t come to repair the TV until the next day. I didn’t get to watch the rest of the movie. In fact, I never saw the end of the movie and I didn’t even know the name of it until years later. Maybe one of these days I’ll get to see The Producers from start to finish.

Remember, the author of Proverbs writes, “In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight. Do not be wise in your own eyes; fear the LORD and turn away from evil. It will be healing to your body and refreshment to your bones” (3:6–8). We make wrong decisions. Satan will never tell you about the consequences. He always wants to tell you about what you are feeling and how unfair the circumstances are or how your needs should be met. Only the Spirit of God will warn you about the consequences of sin and disobedience. The prodigal walked away from his father’s love and the very things he longed to have—security and a future. All too often we do the same thing. We abandon God’s will for what we think will be greener pastures, but this is never the case. Sin may seem pleasurable for a season, but sooner rather than later, we find out the truth and also the price of our rebellion. The issue at stake is whether we will do whatever we feel is best or whether we will obey the Lord. The decision to walk away from God is always a disastrous one.

Do you sense a depression in the body of Christ in America, as if something is badly wrong? We’re losing influence within our culture as the anti-Christian sentiment grows, yet you’d never know it in most churches—the smoke, lights, loud music and preaching rolls on as if all is well…Too often people come to the church, are deeply disappointed and as a result are turned off from the gospel. The church promises solutions but only offers lip service. We’ve become excellent at giving people a show on Sunday but lousy at showing them how to actually live…I recently spoke with two businessmen friends about why it’s hard to find a good church. Both are successful financially and are passionate believers. On the surface, they’re what every pastor needs. Yet after being active in a local church, they both became disillusioned with what they saw and how they were treated. As they recounted stories of how pastors felt threatened by their powerful personalities and positions, I felt sorry for my friends (for never experiencing the community they sought) and for the insecure leaders they served. Countless other mature Christians have been so wounded by leadership that they stay home on Sunday and “go to church” by watching Charles Stanley or Jack Hayford. They get a good message, some good music and an opportunity to “tithe” to that ministry. Sometimes this is a transitional period. Too often it’s not. But this isn’t Christian community. Aren’t we supposed to assemble with other believers? Aren’t we supposed to bring a hymn or a Scripture or a prophetic word when we meet? In larger churches this need is met in small groups or in various ministries of the church. There are many examples of healthy churches where this happens. But too often it isn’t…Until this happens, people—like my businessmen friends—will feel as if they’re drifting. They’ll never really find their place in the body of Christ. And sooner or later, they will ‘vote with their feet’ by going somewhere else—or worse still, nowhere.

FREDERICK (taking Lee's head in his hands and looking at her) Oh...Lee, you are my whole world. (pausing) Good God! Have you been kissed tonight?! LEE (reacting, pushing Frederick's hands from her face) No. FREDERICK (reacting) Oh, yes, you have! LEE (quickly standing up, defensively) No. FREDERICK (raising his voice) You've been with someone! LEE (overlapping, running away from the bed) Stop accusing me! Lee runs into the kitchen, her hands tight around her chest. FREDERICK (offscreen) I'm too smart, Lee! You can't fool me! You're turning all red! Lee, fraught with emotion, briefly puts her outstretched hands on the refrigerator door, then turns around and leans against it, hugging herself, her blouse still unbuttoned, her hair still wet and bedraggled. LEE Leave me alone! Frederick enters the kitchen area and leans against the counter. FREDERICK (angrily) Oh, Christ! What's wrong with you?! LEE (leaning against the refrigerator, sighing) I'm sorry. FREDERICK Oh, couldn't you say something? You have to slither around behind my back! LEE (overlapping, her voice emotionally raised) I'm saying it now! FREDERICK So you met somebody else? LEE (sighing, nodding) Yeah. Frederick cringes, reacting. He puts his hand to his forehead; he sighs. LEE (walking into the bathroom) But you, God, you knew that was going to happen sooner or later. I can't live like this! FREDERICK (turning to face Lee in the bathroom, his arms crossed) Who is it? LEE (frantically putting things in her purse, glaring at Frederick) What's the difference?! It's just somebody I met! FREDERICK But who? Where did you meet him? LEE It doesn't make a difference! I have to move out! FREDERICK You are, you are my only connection to the world! Lee turns and faces Frederick in the bathroom doorway. LEE (gesturing emotionally) Oh, God, that's too much responsibility for me. It's not fair! I want a less complicated life, Frederick. I want a husband, maybe even a child before it's too late. FREDERICK (reacting, his face in his hand) Jesus...Jesus! LEE (gesturing, moving closer to Frederick) Oh, God, I don't even know what I want. FREDERICK (sighing heavily, reacting) Oh... LEE (rubbing Frederick's shoulder tenderly) Tch, oh, what do you get out of me, anyway? I mean... (laying her head against his shoulder, sighing deeply) it's not sexual anymore. It's certainly not intellectual. I mean, you're so superior to me in every way that-- Frederick furiously shakes Lee away. He pounds his fist against a cupboard. Lee, gasping, moves away. FREDERICK Please, don't patronize me! He puts his hand on his forehead, then turns to the offscreen Lee.

You are giggling.” She poked him in the arm. “I’ve never seen you giggle.” “I can’t help it.” He dissolved into another fit. “I shagged the Lady Vera Drake in broad daylight in the middle of the Dowager Duchess of Arlington’s drawing room. My reputation will never survive it.” “Your reputation was headed for ruin the moment you met me,” she reminded him. He brushed a finger on her cheek. “No, that was my heart.” She cupped his face. “And what a mighty heart it is.” There were tears in her eyes again. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but you are an extraordinary man.” “I but know what is important to me. And I should have known it much sooner.” He linked their hands together. “Will you marry me, Verity, and make me the happiest man alive?” “Yes. It will be my honor and my privilege and my heart’s desire,” she said.

James dragged the ledger into his lap. “The talk had to do with Elsmore and the auditor at Wentworth and Penrose, a female. He’s been seen sharing a coach with her, and the clerks at Wentworth’s say a couple weeks back he met with her for most of two afternoons. They are petrified of the woman. They claim she can find a missing farthing in pitch darkness amid gale-force winds.” Eddie’s desire to leave became urgent. Leave the bank, leave London, perhaps even leave England. “I can’t say I’d care for such a woman.” “She took a holiday from Wentworth’s at the same time my eyes and ears at Dorset House claim His Grace collected all the ducal ledgers for his personal review.” “But those ledgers…” “Are brought to me at the bank to be tallied at the end of every month. I thought it only fair to warn you. By this time next week, I will be enjoying a change of air. If this auditor is halfway competent, she’ll advise Elsmore to turn the bank inside out once she’s wreaked havoc on the personal accounts. Sooner or later, awkward questions will be asked. I don’t intend to be here when that happens.

sooner he left, the better. As Dreyan entered the living room of his parents' home, he was met with an angry stare. "Do you have any idea how late the hour is?" his father asked him, his blond beard shaking as he spoke. Next to him, his mother looked relieved. "I was worried," his mother said, as she walked over to him and took hold of his hands. "There have been rumors of wandering strangers,

I turned and there he stood, wearing a loose T-shirt and sweatpants. A modest shapechanger, how refreshing. You wouldn’t even know that he had changed, save for the glistening sheen of dampness on his skin. He looked me over slowly, judging, taking my measure. I could blush demurely or I could do the same to him. I chose not to blush. A couple of inches taller than me, the Beast Lord gave an impression of coiled power. Easy, balanced stance. Blond hair, cut too short to grab. At first glance he looked to be in his early to mid-twenties, but his build betrayed him. His shoulders strained his T-shirt. His back was broad and corded with muscle, showing the power and strength a man developed in his early thirties. “What kind of a woman greets the Beast Lord with ‘here, kitty, kitty’?” he asked. “One of a kind.” I murmured the obvious reply. Eventually I had to look him in the eye. Better sooner than later. The Beast Lord had a strong square jaw. His nose was narrow with a misshapen bridge, as though it had been broken more than once and hadn’t healed right. Considering the regenerative powers of the shapechangers, someone must’ve pounded his face with a sledgehammer. Our stares met. Little golden sparks danced in his gray eyes. His gaze made me want to bow my head and look away. He regarded me as if I was an interesting new snack. “I’m the lord of the Free Beasts,” he said. “I figured.” Perhaps he expected me to curtsy. He leaned forward a little, puzzling over me as if I were an odd-looking insect. “Why would a knight-protector hire a no-name merc to investigate the death of his diviner?” I gave him my best cryptic smile.

At the end of the long corridor, he opened another door and we stepped out into a huge kitchen filled with bustling staff who were refilling champagne glasses and making up more of the fancy bite-sized bits of food. Darius skirted the madness and I followed him, careful not to get in anyone’s way. He approached a woman who was working on a tray of creamy puff things and leaned close to ask her something. She instantly stopped what she was doing and headed away with a bow. Darius beckoned for me to follow him and I gritted my teeth as I did, wondering why I’d even come down here with him. The drink was making my head swimmy and apparently it was affecting my judgement too. He led me through a door to a darkened room with a few soft chairs by the far window and a small table in the centre of the space. Darius headed for the chairs but I ignored him, taking a perch on the table instead. “Do you ever do as you’re told?” he asked me, noticing the fact that I’d stopped following him. “Nope. Do you ever stop telling people what to do?” I asked. “I think I might just miss your smart mouth when you fail The Reckoning,” he muttered. I didn’t validate that with a response. He removed his black jacket and I eyed his fitted white shit appreciatively before pulling my gaze away. I did not need to fall under the spell of Darius Acrux’s stupidly hot appearance. Darius tossed his jacket down on the closest chair and moved to stand beside me. I could feel his eyes on me but I gave my attention to the room, studying portraits of old men in stuffy clothes and dragons soaring across the sky. Their choice in decor was boringly repetitive. The door opened and the kitchen maid came in carrying two plates with subs for us. I smiled at her as I accepted mine. “Thanks,” I said and she stared at me like I’d just slapped her before heading out of the room. “What was that about?” I asked before taking a bite of my sandwich. Holy hell that's good. “Serving jobs are generally taken by Fae with negligible amounts of magic,” Darius said as I ate like a woman possessed. “Thanking them for their work is kind of like the sun thanking a daisy for blooming. Just having a position in our household is beyond what they expect in life.” I paused, my food suddenly tasting like soot in my mouth. Of course that was how they viewed people with less than them. They were the elite, top of the pecking order, why would they waste time thanking those beneath them? If we’d met in the mortal world he never would have looked at me at all... and I’d have robbed him blind while he pretended not to notice my existence. I ate the last few bites of my food in silence and put the plate down beside me as soon as I was done. “I’d like to go back to the party now,” I said coldly. Darius eyed me over his own sandwich which he’d barely touched. “Because I don’t thank servants for doing their jobs?” he asked with barely concealed ridicule. “Because you’re boringly predictable just like everyone else here. You’re all more concerned about what everybody else thinks and sees than you are about enjoying life. What difference does it make if someone’s the most powerful Fae in the room or the least? I’d sooner have the time of my life with a powerless nobody than stand about posturing with a guy who doesn’t even know how to have fun.” I shrugged and got to my feet, intending to make my own way back to the ballroom but Darius moved forward a step, boxing me against the table as he placed his sandwich down. (Tory)

The University of Michigan psychologist Dick Nisbett, after he’d met Amos, designed a one-line intelligence test: The sooner you figure out that Amos is smarter than you are, the smarter you are.

I wish I’d met you sooner. When I was young. Before I knew how vicious life could be. I wish I’d met you when my light outweighed my darkness. I could’ve given you so much more when I had hope to spare.

Are you?” he asks skeptically. “Are you really fine?” I glance up at him. He can’t just leave things alone, can he? I drop my pencil on the table and turn to face him. He’s always pushing for more truth. Always wanting to know what the hell I’m thinking. If this is what he wants, we might as well get it over with. I take a deep breath and prepare to answer all the questions he’s ever asked, and even ones he hasn’t gotten around to asking yet. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m not great. I’m not terrible. I’m just fine. I’m fine because I have a roof over my head and a boyfriend who loves me, despite the fact that he makes bad choices. Do I wish he were a better person? Yes. If I had the means, would I leave him? Yes. Absolutely. Do I wish there wasn’t so much constantly going on at my house that I could actually find a quiet place to do homework, or heaven forbid, get some sleep? Hell yes. Do I wish I could graduate sooner and get out of this mess? Yes. Am I embarrassed by the way Asa treats me? Yes. Do I wish you weren’t a part of this? Yes. Do I wish you could be the guy I thought you were the first time I met you in class? Yes. Do I wish you could save me?” I let out a short, defeated sigh and look down at my hands. “So much, Carter,” I whisper. “I wish you could save me from all this shit so, so much. But you can’t. I’m not in this life for myself. If I were, I would have left a long time ago.

It is not unusual to be drawn into a love relationship with a person we hurt in the distant past in an attempt to heal. The problem is that instead of healing an ancient wound, most often we end up reinjuring each other. That person who once burned you at the stake for your beliefs in a Christian or pagan god, and whom you confuse for your beloved, ends up lighting the kindling under you once again. And you’re left wondering why you are choking from the smoke of the relationship. When you are sure that you have met your dream lover, your soul mate, and every cell in your body is quivering with excitement, run away as fast as you can. Unless, of course, you are ready to sign up for another lesson in the school of emotional storms. We never got the best parents, only the right parents for us. We never got the best spouse, only the right spouse. The sooner we recognize this the faster we will be able to move on to more interesting engagements with the world. Learning to love the people you do not necessarily approve of or agree with is a challenge, but they are often our greatest teachers. They hold the mirror up to us so we can see hidden and neglected parts of ourselves in them. As for your soul mate, accept that you will never find that person perfectly designed to your romantic specifications. They do not exist. But know that you can become the right partner. This will only happen once you stop looking for him or her.

To Dream Is To Die. I often found myself betwixt the worlds. In the sacred space where dreams and reality met, I wandered. I was chasing after hopes and dreams, … ephemerality's beyond my reach. Transient in Mind. And soul. Was I. And I was happy. Though soon, the tides changed. My body grew. And so with it did the expectations of the world around me. They are shackling me to the ground. Clipping the wings, with which my mind soared I was stripping the shadow with which my soul took flight. She was convincing me that folly was to dream. And to dream. I was to die. And so I set it aside. I stopped wandering. I stayed put. and marched along the path predestined for me. We are told to STOP dreaming as we grow. TO exit the space in between, where hopes are chased, and dreams are forged. To give up the childish whims of our youth. To come down to reality. And stay there. Many are lost in this way. Believing dreams and reality are best kept separate But fewer still realize That this life. That this here, and now. It is nothing but a dream within a dream. And I am the dreamer. We are the place between wisdom and wonder. We are the bridge between discernment and delusion We are the dream. And the dreamer. And no sooner can the two be separated.. than can the green, on the back, of the leaf, be stripped off. and tossed into the ether… Walking contradictory completions Perfectly imperfect creations Definite Death. And Limitless Life. All in one. Don't you see? To live is to dream. And to Dream is to live.

It was weird, ’cause there we were in Italy listening to people singing in German. The music was nice, though, and there was this guy dressed up like a parrot. If you’d asked me a year ago to guess what opera was like, I’d never have guessed it had guys dressed as parrots. I might’ve wanted to go and see some sooner if I’d known. It was a sweet story, ’cause he met this girl who was dressed as a parrot too, and they got off together.

Last week of June 2012 The next set of questionnaires arrived from Dr. Arius sooner than I had anticipated. The good doctor inquired: Dear Young, Thank you for being honest, truthful and straight to the point with your answers. I appreciate you taking the time to respond to my queries. Here’s the next set of questions for you to ponder. * How did you react when you were in your father’s presence? * Did you get to meet or know his mistress Annie? If so, how did you find her as a person? Was she the kind of woman that your aunties said she was? How was your rapport with her and vice versa? * Did you ever try to resolve your differences with your dad in later years? * How did you feel when you entered Daltonbury Hall? Was your life in Malaya very different from your life in England? How did you cope when you first arrived in the United Kingdom? * What were your reactions when you were suddenly assigned to a good-looking and understanding ‘big brother’? During your early days at the boarding school, did you open up immediately to your ‘big brother’ Nikee or to other ‘big brothers’ in your House? * Were you unreserved by nature or was it a learned trait? As always, I enjoy our regular correspondence. I feel like I already know you even though we have not met. I hope one day, in the not-too-distant future, I’ll have the opportunity to talk with you in person. Take excellent care of your good self. Best Wishes! Love, A. S.

Lass, I’ve loved you since you drew a dagger on me. I might not have realized it then, but I admired your spirit and your bravery from the first moment we met.” “You did?” “I still do. My only regret is that I didn’t tell you sooner.” “Say it,” she whispered, loving the way he grinned down at her. “I love you.” “Say it again,” she pressed. “I love—” Victoria surged forward and kissed him, knocking them both to the ground. They

Look for others to bless Let me ask you: Who are you serving? Who are you being good to? Who are you lifting up? Be on the lookout for others you can bless. God puts people in our lives on purpose so we can brighten their days. You should get up every morning and say, “God, show me my assignment today. Help me to be sensitive to the needs of those around me.” I once baptized nearly eight hundred people on one Saturday. Among them was an older man who’d had a stroke. He couldn’t walk at all. They rolled him up in a wheel chair. To get in the church baptistery, you have to go up some stairs and then walk down stairs into the water. The younger man pushing him in the wheelchair was about my age. You could tell that he really cared about the man. He went to great lengths to make sure he was okay. A couple of men helped the older man stand up. Then the younger man put his arms under his legs and his back so he could carry the elderly man into the water, just like you would carry a sleeping baby. It was a very moving scene, watching the younger man go out of his way to help someone so determined to be baptized despite his age and disabilities. With the young man’s help we were able to baptize the elderly man. After we returned him to his wheelchair, I asked the younger man: “Is that your father?” He shook his head no. “Is he your uncle, or your relative?” I asked. The younger man explained that they’d just met in church a few weeks earlier. He said that on the Sunday I announced the baptism date, the older man in the wheelchair turned to him and said, “I wish I could be baptized. I always wanted to, but I had this stroke. I knew I should have done it sooner.” The young man offered to help him achieve his goal to be baptized. The elderly man said he didn’t have any family to bring him to church, explaining that he normally took a bus that served people in wheelchairs. The young man said, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” He picked up the stranger at his home, helped him to get to the baptism at our church, and carried him in and out of the baptistery. They’d only met once before in church. My prayer is “God help us all to have that same compassion. Help us not to be so busy, so caught up in our own lives that we miss opportunities to serve others.” God is asking you, will you carry someone? Maybe not physically, but will you help lighten their loads? Will you help bring their dreams to pass? Will you go out of your way to be good to them?

When the company had passed on, Rising Hawk laid the deer carcass on the ground at her feet. “This is for Polly,” he said shyly. “It is unthinkable for a bridegroom to claim his bride without proof of his hunting skill. The deer around here are not well. Your winter must have been bad, like ours. This was the best I could find.” His eyes finally met hers. He was the same, a little haggard. She was older. Neither of them was sure that they read anything in the looks they gave each other. “Gideon gave you my message? I was afraid it would not get here before I did.” “He told me yesterday,” she said, “but he didn’t tell me you were bringing a wedding party.” She was cool, without anger, very polite--as if she were addressing an acquaintance, and a distant one at that. Rising Hawk felt his confidence melting away. “Why didn’t you send word sooner?” she asked, her voice accusing. “I tried, but there was no one to take my message, once I had the courage to try. Anyway, there seemed to be no words for my sorrow that you had not heard before.” “Oh.” He was beginning to think he had made a mistake. This was shaping up as a refusal. And after all the persuading he had wasted on his uncle and grandmother. He glanced down at the deer. It was humiliating, but he hadn’t come all this way to stand here dumb, like a chastened twelve-year-old. Without raising his eyes he said, “I missed you so much my soul was sick. My only dreams were of you. On the winter hunt my aim was terrible, like an old man with fading sight. My friends pitied me. I could listen to stories in the longhouse, but I could not tell any afterward because my heart held no memory of them.” He paused, ashamed to admit it. “I tried drinking for a while.” He saw her start slightly and she said, less harshly, “Me too.” “What happened between us was my fault.” “No, it wasn’t. I said I wouldn’t marry you. What else could I expect? Your only fault was in leaving without saying good-bye. That made it terrible.” “I’m sorry, Livy. I behaved like a spiteful boy.” “Yes, you did.” She agreed much too easily, he thought. She might be more gracious about it.

No sooner met, but they looked; no sooner looked, but they loved.

After years of strenuous effort, I had met fiasco! With sanguine expectations, I endeavored even harder - changing countries, improving on my degrees, professional experiences, cultural adaptation and society integration, just to find out that it is not for me, yet. Now, is not my time and I don't fit in. I endured, still not giving-up but got exhausted repeating the venture. I had not lost the aspiration but was losing the yearning. Reluctantly enough, used to the knocks but keeping certitude, I plunged again with scantest prospect. Fortunately, this time, I broke-through. It happened and I did it. Almighty Allah finally showered his grace compensating my perseverance. That intrinsic desire to prove myself, get appreciated for who I am, finally got rewarded! Sustain the Perseverance with a NEVER- Quit conviction and you will be rewarded sooner or later! Keep determined, dedicated and diligent! - KacyC

You’re getting your tattoo.” I threw my arms around Dad’s neck. “Thank you!” “Hey,” Mom said. “I’m the one who had to persuade him it wasn’t going to turn his little girl into a streetwalker.” “I never said that,” Dad said. “No?” I said. “Cool. Cause I’ve decided to skip the paw print. I’m thinking of a tramp stamp with flames that says ‘Hot in Here.’ No, wait. Arrows. For directionally challenged guys.” Mom grabbed Dad’s shoulders and steered him away from me. “She’ll get exactly what we agreed on. Now go hang out in a guy store and we’ll call when we’re done.” “This is so cool,” I said loudly as Dad walked away. “Have you met the tattoo artist? Is he hot?” “He’s a she,” Mom said. “Is she hot? Cause I’m still young, you know. My sexual identity isn’t fully formed.” “Your father can’t hear you anymore, Maya.” Mom sighed. “Poor guy. Why can’t you be a normal teenage daughter who’d sooner die than say the words ‘sexual identity’ in front of him?” “You guys raised me right. You should be proud.

This is so cool,” I said loudly as Dad walked away. “Have you met the tattoo artist? Is he hot?” “He’s a she,” Mom said. “Is she hot? Cause I’m still young, you know. My sexual identity isn’t fully formed.” “Your father can’t hear you anymore, Maya.” Mom sighed. “Poor guy. Why can’t you be a normal teenage daughter who’d sooner die than say the words ‘sexual identity’ in front of him?