Papa In Heaven Quotes

Madame? What do I look like?” “You have many thousands of freckles.” “Papa used to say they were like stars in heaven. Like apples in a tree.

Why do you have to study together?” Mr. Ray asked. “When I was a boy we didn’t study in droves. And what help is all the fudge?” “Nourishment, Papa, nourishment,” Betsy explained. “We need strength.

People think blood red, but blood don't got no colour. Not when blood wash the floor she lying on as she scream for that son of a bitch to come, the lone baby of 1785. Not when the baby wash in crimson and squealing like it just depart heaven to come to hell, another place of red. Not when the midwife know that the mother shed too much blood, and she who don't reach fourteen birthday yet speak curse 'pon the chile and the papa, and then she drop down dead like old horse. Not when blood spurt from the skin, on spring from the axe, the cat-o'-nine, the whip, the cane and the blackjack and every day in slave life is a day that colour red. It soon come to pass when red no different from white or blue or black or nothing. Two black legs spread wide and mother mouth screaming. A black baby wiggling in blood on the floor with skin darker than midnight but the greenest eyes anybody ever done seen. I goin' call her Lilith. You can call her what they call her.

It is hard to lose the people we love ,but feeling sorry they died is selfish.Dying is going heaven home to God we know your papa is in heaven with our Lady and Jesus.Let us try to be happy for him.

My self… is a dramatic ensemble. Here a prophetic ancestor makes his appearance. Here a brutal hero shouts. Here an alcoholic bon vivant argues with a learned professor. Here a lyric muse, chronically love-struck, raises her eyes to heaven. Here papa steps forward, uttering pedantic protests. Here the indulgent uncle intercedes. Here the aunt babbles gossip. Here the maid giggles lasciviously. And I look upon it all with amazement, the sharpened pen in my hand. A pregnant mother wants to join the fun. ‘Pshtt!’ I cry, ‘You don’t belong here. You are divisible.’ And she fades out.

My Uncle Reed is in heaven, and can see all you do and think; and so can papa and mama: they know how you shut me up all day long, and how you wish me dead.” Mrs. Reed soon rallied her spirits: she shook me most soundly, she boxed both my ears, and then left me without a word. Bessie supplied the hiatus by a homily of an hour’s length, in which she proved beyond a doubt that I was the most wicked and abandoned child ever reared under a roof. I half believed her; for I felt indeed only bad feelings surging in my breast.

I live my life for a face-to-face encounter with my Heavenly Father. When I become overwhelmed with the pressure and demands of life, I crawl up into my Father’s lap and gaze into His eyes. I live life by the principal that I am a little boy with a big Papa. We can live from one of two perspectives – big problems…little Papa, or big Papa…little problems.

We're not like God, [Papa] says. We can't know. We can't live like we do know or should have known.

PAPA: This damn country has done us in. That's why I'm like this. We should be there. Home. NASSER: But that country has been sodomized by religion. It is beginning to interfere with the making of money. Compared with everywhere, it is a little heaven here.

She took stamps from the drawer in the kitchen her father saw but didn't say they drove and she watched out the window fingering them carefully in her pocket together they climbed the grassy hill up to the acorn tree stopping at a rock perfectly carved with a woman's name - for a long time and a careful time she looked and thought but never cried. "Papa?" she finally said, "How many stamps does it take to reach heaven?" "One will do, my love -" And so, she put one stamp on and placed one inside and left the letter by her mother's side.

Mama,” the child exclaimed, breathless and agitated. Phoebe looked down at him in concern. “Justin, what is it?” “Galoshes brought me a dead mouse. She dropped it on the floor right in front of me!” “Oh, dear.” Tenderly Phoebe smoothed his dark, ruffled hair. “I’m afraid that’s what cats do. She thought it was a fine gift.” “Nanny won’t touch it, and the housemaid screamed, and I had a fight with Ivo.” Although Phoebe’s younger brother Ivo was technically Justin’s uncle, the boys were close enough in age to play together and quarrel. “About the mouse?” Phoebe asked sympathetically. “No, before the mouse. Ivo said there’s going to be a honeymoon and I can’t go because it’s for grownups.” The boy tilted his head back to look up at her, his lower lip quivering. “You wouldn’t go to the honeymoon without me, would you, Mama?” “Darling, we’ve made no plans to travel yet. There’s too much to be done here, and we all need time to settle in. Perhaps in the spring—” “Dad wouldn’t want to leave me behind. I know he wouldn’t!” In the electrified silence that followed, Tom shot a glance at West, who looked blank and startled. Slowly Phoebe lowered to the ground until her face was level with her son’s. “Do you mean Uncle West?” she asked gently. “Is that what you’re calling him now?” Justin nodded. “I don’t want him to be my uncle—I already have too many of those. And if I don’t have a dad, I’ll never learn how to tie my shoes.” Phoebe began to smile. “Why not call him Papa?” she suggested. “If I did, you’d never know which one I was talking about,” Justin said reasonably, “the one in heaven or the one down here.” Phoebe let out a breath of amusement. “You’re right, my clever boy.” Justin looked up at the tall man beside him with a flicker of uncertainty. “I can call you Dad … can’t I? Do you like that name?” A change came over West’s face, his color deepening, small muscles contorting with some powerful emotion. He snatched Justin up, one of his large hands clasping the small head as he kissed his cheek. “I love that name,” West said unsteadily. “I love it.” The boy’s arms went around his neck. “Can we go to Africa for our honeymoon, Dad?” he heard Justin ask. “Yes,” came West’s muffled voice. “Can I have a pet crocodile, Dad?” “Yes.” Phoebe produced a handkerchief from seemingly out of nowhere and tucked it discreetly into one of West’s hands.

To this dearly loved sister I confided my most intimate thoughts; she cleared up all my doubts. One day I expressed surprise that God does not give an equal amount of glory to all the elect in Heaven—I was afraid that they would not all be quite happy. She sent me to fetch Papa's big tumbler, and put it beside my tiny thimble, then, filling both with water, she asked me which seemed the fuller. I replied that one was as full as the other—it was impossible to pour more water into either of them, for they could not hold it. In this way Pauline made it clear to me that in Heaven the least of the Blessed does not envy the happiness of the greatest.

What would Uncle Reed say to you, if he were alive?” was my scarcely voluntary demand. I say scarcely voluntary, for it seemed as if my tongue pronounced words without my will consenting to their utterance: something spoke out of me over which I had no control. “What?” said Mrs. Reed under her breath: her usually cold composed grey eye became troubled with a look like fear; she took her hand from my arm, and gazed at me as if she really did not know whether I were child or fiend. I was now in for it. “My Uncle Reed is in heaven, and can see all you do and think; and so can papa and mama: they know how you shut me up all day long, and how you wish me dead.” Mrs. Reed soon rallied her spirits: she shook me most soundly, she boxed both my ears, and then left me without a word.

My Peni has conquered his cold, and when the weather gets milder I shall let him out. Meanwhile he has taken to — what do you suppose? I go into his room at night and find him with a candle regularly settled on the table by him, and he reading, deeply rapt, an Italian translation of ‘Monte Cristo.’ Pretty well for a lion-cub, isn’t it? He is enchanted with this book, lent to him by our padrona; and exclaims every now and then, ‘Oh, magnificent, magnificent!’ And this morning, at breakfast, he gravely delivered himself to the following effect: ‘Dear mama, for the future I mean to read novels. I shall read all Dumas’s, to begin. And then I shall like to read papa’s favourite book, “Madame Bovary.”’ Heavens, what a lion-cub! Robert and I could only answer by a burst of laughter. It was so funny. That little dot of nine and a half full of such hereditary tendencies. And ‘Madame Bovary’ in a course of education!...

Are you going to be my papa now?” the child had asked Zachary, sitting with her arms looped around his neck. She had flown to him with shrill cries of delight when Holly had brought her to visit the estate, and he had swung her in the air until her little petticoats and white stockings had been a white blur. Touched by the obvious happiness of the pair, Holly had felt a great settling of comfort and peace inside. If she had had any lingering doubts about the rightness of this new life for her daughter, they dissolved at the sight of Rose's beaming face. The child would be spoiled, undoubtedly, but she would also be loved wholeheartedly. “Is that what you'd like?” Zachary said in answer to Rose's question. She wrinkled her face thoughtfully, and her doubtful gaze flickered to Holly before returning to Zachary. “I should like very much to live in your big house,” she replied with all the candor of a young child, “and I don't mind that Mama will marry you. But I don't want to call you Papa. It would make my papa in heaven sad, I think.” The words stunned Holly, and she fumbled for a reply. Helplessly she watched as Zachary touched the little girl's round chin and turned her face toward him. “Then call me whatever you like,” he said matter-of-factly. “But believe me, princess, I'm not going to replace your papa. I'd be a fool to try, fine man that he was. I just want to take care of you and your mother. I imagine—I hope—that your papa will be somewhat relieved to see that someone will be looking after you down here while he's unable.” “Oh,” Rose said in obvious satisfaction. “I think that's all right, then, as long as we don't forget him. Isn't that right, Mama?” “Yes,” Holly whispered, her throat tight with emotion, her cheeks flushed with happiness. She stared at Zachary with glittering brown eyes. “You're absolutely right, Rose.

Jesus is the true and better Adam who passed the test in the garden, a much more difficult garden, and whose obedience is imputed to us. Jesus is the true and better Abel who, though innocently slain, has blood now that cries out, not for our condemnation, but for acquittal. Jesus is the true and better Abraham who answered the call of God to leave all the comfortable and familiar and go out into the void not knowing wither he went to create a new people of God. Jesus is the true and better Jacob who wrestled and took the blow of justice we deserved, so we, like Jacob, only receive the wounds of grace to wake us up and discipline us. Jesus is the true and better Joseph who, at the right hand of the king, forgives those who betrayed and sold him and uses his new power to save them. Jesus is the true and better Moses who stands in the gap between the people and the Lord and who mediates a new covenant. Jesus is the true and better Job, the truly innocent sufferer, who then intercedes for and saves his stupid friends. Jesus is the true and better David whose victory becomes his people’s victory, though they never lifted a stone to accomplish it themselves. Jesus is the true and better Esther who didn’t just risk leaving an earthly palace but lost the ultimate and heavenly one, who didn’t just risk his life, but gave his life to save his people. Jesus is the true and better Jonah who was cast out into the storm so that we could be brought in. The Bible’s really not about you—it’s about him.

That’s where the shouts and yells of the twenty houses round about crash and rebound, even the cries of the concierges’ little birds, rotting away as they pipe for the spring they will never see in their cages beside the privies, which are all clustered together out at the dark end with their ill-fitting, banging doors. A hundred male and female drunks inhabit those bricks and feed the echoes with their boasting quarrels and muddled, eruptive oaths, especially after lunch on a Saturday. That’s the intense moment in family life. Shouts of defiance as the drink pours down. Papa is brandishing a chair, a sight worth seeing, like an axe, and Mama a log like a sabre! Heaven help the weak! It’s the kid who suffers. Anyone unable to defend himself or fight back – children, dogs and cats – is flattened against the wall. After the third glass of wine, the black kind, the worst, it’s the dog’s turn, Papa stamps on his paw. That’ll teach him to be hungry at the same time as people. It’s good for a laugh when he crawls under the bed, whimpering for all he’s worth. That’s the signal. Nothing arouses a drunken woman so much as an animal in pain, and bulls aren’t always handy. The argument starts up again, vindictive, compulsive, delirious, the wife takes the lead, hurling shrill calls to battle at the male. Then comes the mêlée, the smash-up. The uproar descends on the court, the echo swirls through the half-darkness. The children yap with horror. They’ve found out what Mama and Papa have in them! Their yells draw down parental thunders.

Andrew, what are you doing out of bed? You’re ill, you need to rest.” I crouched beside the ring, speechless with surprise, but Andrew jumped to his feet. “Hannah,” he cried, “Hannah.” Although he was right in front of her, Hannah didn’t see her brother. She walked through him as if he didn’t even exist. “I’ve been lying awake worrying about you,” she said to me. “When I heard noises, I thought you and Theo were up here. But you’re all alone.” Andrew clung to his sister. “He’s not alone, I’m with him. Look at me, Hannah, please look at me.” Unaware of anything but the cold, Hannah shivered. “Lord,” she whispered, “I’m freezing. You’ll catch your death in this draft, Andrew.” When I neither spoke nor moved, Hannah dropped to her knees and gazed into my eyes. “You’re in a trance,” she whispered. “For heaven’s sake, wake up.” Finding my voice at last, I said, “Can’t you see him?” “See who?” Pale with fright, Hannah stared at me. I pointed at Andrew. “He’s standing right in front of you!” “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Hannah grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “There’s no one in this attic but you and me.” Andrew was crying now, hanging on to his sister, begging her to see him. But Hannah was too scared by my behavior to see or hear anything but me. Deaf to Andrew’s sobs, she pulled me to my feet. “You must go back to bed.” “No,” I shouted. “Not yet! I have to finish this game.” I couldn’t leave Andrew, not now, not when I was finally winning. Hannah released me so suddenly I staggered backward. “I’ll fetch Papa!” she cried. Andrew threw himself at her. “Hannah, stop, you’re ruining everything!” I grabbed his arm. “Let her go. We don’t have much time!

Sarah lifted her head. “Did we make it across the frontier?” Blood bubbled up from her colorless lips, slid down her chin. “We did,” Rachel said. “We did. We are all safe now.” “I was brave,” Sarah said, “wasn’t I?” “Oui,” Rachel said brokenly. “So brave.” “I’m cold,” Sarah murmured. She shivered. Sarah drew in a shuddering breath, exhaled slowly. “We are going to go have some candy now. And a macaron. I love you, Sarah. And Papa loves you. You are our star.” Rachel’s voice broke. She was crying now. “Our heart. You know that?” “Tell Sophie I…” Sarah’s eyelids fluttered shut. She drew a last, shuddering breath and went still. Her lips parted, but no breath slipped past them. Vianne knelt down beside Sarah. She felt for a pulse and found none. The silence turned sour, thick; all Vianne could think about was the sound of this child’s laughter and how empty the world would be without it. She knew about death, about the grief that ripped you apart and left you broken forever. She couldn’t imagine how Rachel was still breathing. If this was any other time, Vianne would sit down beside Rachel, take her hand, and let her cry. Or hold her. Or talk. Or say nothing. Whatever Rachel needed, Vianne would have moved Heaven and Earth to provide; but she couldn’t do that now. It was another terrible blow in all of this: They couldn’t even take time to grieve.

Papa whispered to Mama, “I do not know how to keep my daughters safe from such madness. There is no law in our country—only hunger, cold and vengeance.

Papa, Jesus is the only prophet I know who made the blind see, healed the sick, made the deaf hear and the paralyzed walk. He can’t only be a prophet; He must be more. Jesus not only raised the dead; He was also raised from the dead Himself. His tomb is empty. He is alive. Muhammad’s bones are still buried in Mecca, and he is dead. Jesus is my Superhero!” I said to my father. Father sat back in his chair and smiled at me. “Yes, Jesus was one of the greatest prophets, even in Islam. We know in the end times He will come from heaven as a judge to judge the world,” he replied. When Papa told me Jesus would come again to judge the world, he unknowingly inspired me to learn more about Him.

In our culture it is important to show respect to the dead and to comfort the survivors. This commitment was even more important since the one who died was Jabir, meaning “Comforter,” my father’s uncle. Jabir had comforted and taken care of my papa, who was only five years old, as well as his youngest brother and his mom, when his father had been killed fighting as a warrior in World War II. So Papa was adamant that he should go to the funeral, despite my mother’s fears for his safety.

My father and brothers did the best they could to keep us fed as the violence of the war escalated around us. They brought us potatoes, beans and sometimes apples. Packs of wild dogs, hungry and dangerous, roamed the streets at night. I guessed that sometimes the dogs became meat for our stew pot. We did not ask where food came from when Papa or one of my brothers brought home a chunk of meat. I didn’t allow myself to think of what I was eating or anticipate what the evening meal might be made of.

At home, our Qur’an was kept in the highest place on a shelf in my parents’ bedroom, covered with a cloth. When Papa took it down, he would first ceremoniously kiss the cover, then touch his right eye with the book, kiss it again, touch the Qur’an to his left eye and kiss and finally the forehead and kiss. So much honor was shown to the book. We owned three Qur’ans, each translated into a different language.

Every one of us needs that direction from a caring Father. And He’s more than happy to provide it. His covenant promise to us is “I will work everything—absolutely everything—for your good because I love you.”4 God invites us to see the world and our own history from His perspective. He says, Child, climb up onto My lap and see the whole picture as I see it with the sealed-up victory of your life in plain view! I encourage you to take some time with Papa right now, sitting on His lap and asking Him to review your history with you—including what you perceive to be your failures—from His perfect perspective.

Your heavenly Papa puts amazing dreams inside of you, and He has every intention of helping you fulfill your dreams. It’s His joy to do so. In fact, His dreams for you are so big, they are completely beyond you without His help. That’s purposeful, because His plan is to be the supplier of absolutely everything you need.

Papa continually extends His hand and invites all of His children into His good and perfect plan for their lives, even in the midst of our poor choices. Grace in its most raw and pure form, unmarred by religion’s death grip, almost sounds wrong or too good to be true. But the more you hear the truth of genuine grace, the more you are set free to enjoy your Papa who so enjoys you!

If you are like a kicking, screaming child having a temper tantrum of sorts, He will hold you until you get it all out and finally fall limp and exhausted into His strong arms that never let you go. Even depression or suicidal thoughts and actions cannot keep Him at a distance. Do you think when you are at your worst and when you need Him the very most He would choose that time to pull away from you? It won’t happen, because Papa God is 100 percent committed to you and to loving you through every moment of your life. Whether you feel Him or not, the reality of His presence and His devotion to attending to you never changes.

Heaven will not only be great in spite of all that we suffer. It will be great because of all that we suffer. Our afflictions

Lord God in heaven! The same people, the same talk, Papa holding his cup and blowing his tea the same as he always does,’ thought Natasha, with a terrible sense of revulsion welling up inside her at the sight of all these people, disgusting in their inevitable sameness.

I think a major shift in the next missionary movement is going to be in identity where people realize, “I am the Beloved son and daughter whom the Papa loves, in whom He is well pleased.” Lucifer was the first orphan. So when he left heaven, he has had one major assignment – making sure people don't get home. And that's what Jesus came for. Jesus says in John 14:18, “I will not leave you as an orphan. I will come to you.” Identity has to be the foundation of the next missionary movement. You teach what you know, but you reproduce what you are. So there's going to be impartation of identity in Him.

Don't talk to me about fate, I wanted to say to Dora. Fate is just another word for saying we're all powerless. Me. Mama. Papa. Maggie. All of us. Love something long enough and true enough and fate will tear it right out of your hands if it chooses, and there's nothing you can do about it.

Who Failed to Pray? When my wife and I were first married, we lived temporarily in my parents’ home before beginning our pastorate in another state. One night each week my parents drove several miles to a country schoolhouse, where my father conducted a Bible study and prayer meeting. One evening, while they were away, my wife and I were alone in my parents’ home, praying on our knees, when a sudden premonition of terrible danger swept over me. I began to plead God’s mercy, lifting my hands in agony of prayer. I did not know what the danger was and thought perhaps a robber was outside our window. For ten minutes or more I could only plead the blood of Jesus and claim the name of Jesus. Then the burden lifted. My wife could not understand what had happened to me, and said my face was as white as a sheet. She asked me what I thought it was. I replied that I did not know, only that I was sure God had delivered from some great danger. About twenty minutes later there was a knock on our bedroom door. It was my mother. Her first words confirmed my earlier apprehension: “Oh, Wesley, God has been so merciful to us tonight! When Papa and I were driving home on the highway, the bright light of an oncoming car blinded our eyes. The car was coming at high speed straight at us. At the last moment it swerved and just missed us. When it was past, we realized that we were on the wrong side of the road!” Explain it as you will. Perhaps it was the hand of prayer that guided the steering wheel of the speeding car and swerved it to avoid a collision. Perhaps I had touched heaven’s throne, and God sent an angel to handle the situation. I do not know. But this I do know: God alerted us to intercede and at the very time of danger spared the lives of my parents to many more years of ministry. Thereafter, when I hear that a valuable servant of God has been killed in an accident, I ask myself: “Who failed to pray?

One time I was expressing surprise that God should not give equal glory in heaven to all His elect, and I was afraid that everyone would not be happy. Then Pauline told me to go get Papa’s big glass and to put it next to my little dice cup, and to fill them with water. Then she asked me which one was the most full. I told her that one was as full as the other and that it was impossible to put in more water than they could hold. Then my dear mother helped me understand that in Heaven, God would give to His elect as much glory as they could hold, and so the last would have nothing to envy about the first.

Dear God," she prayed from the very depth of her soul, "help me not to grieve-to willingly let him return to You and the Heaven he so well deserves.

God in heaven, Windham. Did Her Grace have no influence on her menfolk whatsoever?” “Of course, she did. I am a very good dancer. I have some conversation. I know how to dress and how to flirt with the wallflowers.” “But one expects a certain dignity from the ducal household. Did your papa have no influence on you?” “A telling influence. Thanks to him, my brothers and I learned to indulge in the foregoing mischief and a great deal more without getting caught.” Darius eyed his companion skeptically. “And here I thought you must have been spouting King James in utero, reciting the royal succession by the time you were out of nappies, and strutting about with a quizzing glass by the age of seven.” “That would be more my brother Gayle, though Anna has gotten him over the worst of it. The man is too serious by half.” “And you’re not?” Darius was carefully surveying the surrounds as he posed this question. “I am the soul of levity,” Val rejoined straight-faced.

A Poem For Papa She visit you on any giving day. With only a few words to say. She bow her head and start to pray. I know in heaven you will stay. As I look above into the sky. I no longer ask God why. We miss you, the family and I. There are times I begin to cry. When I'm no longer happy, but mad. Thinling of the good times we had. Knowing you're gone, makes me sad. You no longer suffer, I'm glad. Papa I say this with love. Knowing you're smiling with me. Your presence will be miss. From Dynistee with a smile and a kiss.

A Poem For Papa She visit you on any giving day. With only a few words to say. She bow her head and start to pray. I know in heaven you will stay. As I look above into the sky. I no longer ask God why. We miss you, the family and I. There are times I begin to cry. When I'm no longer happy, but mad. Thinking of the good times we had. Knowing you're gone, makes me sad. You no longer suffer, I'm glad. Papa I say this with love. Knowing you're smiling with me. Your presence will be miss. From Dynistee with a smile and a kiss.

Beneath the previously mentioned disappointments on both sides and the disputes I have mentioned there lurked a deep-seated bitterness and disillusionment over the images of one another that we had fashioned for ourselves. Occasionally such feelings were expressed under the veil of an exchange of letters that the infant Stefan and I would leave out for each other. Stefan’s letters were in Dora’s handwriting, but they were written with Walter’s knowledge and possibly even with his participation. On June 20—six weeks after my arrival!—Stefan wrote me with reference to a letter of mine that, as far as I recall, never existed: Dear Uncle Gerhardt [sic]: Herewith I am sending you a better photo of me which has arrived in the meantime. Thank you very much for your letter; various things may be said about it, and that is why I am writing you, for if I visit you, you will again tell me so many things that I won’t be able to get a word in edgeways. Well then, first I must tell you that you ought to know I no longer remember. For if I could remember, I certainly would not be here, where it is so unpleasant and you are creating such a bad atmosphere; no, I long since would have returned where I came from. That’s why I can’t read the end of your letter. My mother read the rest to me. Incidentally, I have very strange parents; but more about that later. When I was in town yesterday, something occurred to me: When I grow up, I’m going to be your pupil. Better start thinking now. Best of all, start keeping a little book in which you note everything down. Now I will tell you something about my parents. I won’t say anything about my mother, because she is, after all, my mother. But I have all sorts of things to tell you about my father. You are wrong in what you write, dear Uncle Gerhardt. I believe you really know very little about my Papa. There are very few people who know anything about him. Once, when I was still in heaven, you wrote him a letter that made all of us think that you did know him. But perhaps you don’t after all. I think a man like that is born only once in a great while, and then you just have to be kind to him and he will do everything else by himself. You, dear Uncle Gerhardt, still think that one has to do a great deal. Perhaps I shall also think that way when I am a grown man, but now I think more like my Mama, that is, not at all or very little; and so all this to-do and the great excitement over everything seems much less important to me than which way the wind is blowing. But I don’t want to be smart-alecky, for you know everything much better. That’s the whole trouble. Many regards from Stefan

Like the story of La Mama and El Papa traveling across the galaxy to find each other.” I used to love that story as a kid. The two major Deos were once separated by their enemies, and so they had to reach across the heavens, creating night and day. “Exactly,

Pain consumed him, but Cade concentrated on the softness of her touch, the tenderness in her voice. She bathed his face, and then his chest, and he was certain he had died and gone to heaven. He couldn't remember anyone ever caring for him before. He could remember countless times lying injured in whatever lonesome shack he had occupied at the moment, but no one had ever bothered to tend him. It was almost worth the injury to know this sense of belonging. "Papa.

So I rose. Now my grandbaby is coming down the stairs we own. Wearing the dress I paid off more than sixteen years ago. Me and Po’Boy, we’ve bought our life back. We’ve scrimped and saved and spent to get what should have been ours outright and always. What should’ve been everything my own grandma paid for. Lucille’s Hair Heaven. Sounds like a place you can walk out of feeling like somebody’s dream for you. Papa Joe’s Supper Club. Can’t help but imagine plates piled high with ribs and greens. Buttermilk biscuits and powdaddy, probably. Hot peach cobblers in cast-iron pans.

Jewish people commonly addressed God as “our heavenly Father” when they prayed, although such intimate titles as “Abba” (Papa) were rare (see comment on Mk 14:36).

So I was privileged to see the last rites of the Bokononist faith. We made an effort to find someone among the soldiers and the household staff who would admit that he knew the rites and would give them to "Papa". We got no volunteers. That was hardly surprising, with a hook and an oubliette so near. So Dr. von Koenigswald said that he would have a go at the job. He had never administered the rites before, but he had seen Julian Castle do it hundreds of times. "Are you a Bokononist?" I asked him. "I agree with one Bokononist idea. I agree that all religions, including Bokononism, are nothing but lies." "Will this bother you as a scientist," I inquired, "to go through a ritual like this?" "I am a very bad scientist. I will do anything to make a human being feel better, even if it's unscientific. No scientist worthy of the name could say such a thing." And he climbed into the golden boat with "Papa". He sat in the stern. Cramped quarters obliged him to have the golden tiller under one arm. He wore sandals without socks, and he took these off. And then he rolled back the covers at the foot of the bed, exposing "Papa's" bare feet. He put the soles of his feet against "Papa's" feet, assuming the classical position for boko-maru. "Gott mate mutt," crooned Dr. von Koenigswald. "Dyot meet mat," echoed "Papa" Monzano. "God made mud," was what they'd said, each in his own dialect. I will here abandon the dialects of the litany. "God got lonesome," said Von Koenigswald. "God got lonesome." "So God said to some of the mud, 'Sit up!'" - "So God said to some of the mud, 'Sit up!'" "'See all I've made,' said God, 'the hills, the sea, the sky, the stars.'" - "'See all I've made,' said God, 'the hills, the sea, the sky, the stars.'" "And I was some of the mud that got to sit up and look around." - "And I was some of the mud that got to sit up and look around." "Lucky me; lucky mud." "Lucky me, lucky mud." Tears were streaming down "Papa's" cheeks. "I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had done." - "I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had done." "Nice going, God!" "Nice going, God!" "Papa" said it with all his heart. "Nobody but You could have done it, God! I certainly couldn't have." - "Nobody but You could have done it, God! I certainly couldn't have." "I feel very unimportant compared to You." - "I feel very unimportant compared to You." "The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud that didn't even get to sit up and look around." - "The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud that didn't even get to sit up and look around." "I got so much, and most mud got so little." - "I got so much, and most mud got so little." "Deng you vore da on-oh!" cried Von Koenigswald. "Tz-yenk voo vore lo yon-yo!" wheezed "Papa". What they had said was, "Thank you for the honor!" "Now mud lies down again and goes to sleep." - "Now mud lies down again and goes to sleep." "What memories for mud to have!" - "What memories for mud to have!" "What interesting other kinds of sitting-up mud I met!" - "What interesting other kinds of sitting-up mud I met!" "I loved everything I saw!" - "I loved everything I saw!" "Good night." - "Good night." "I will go to heaven now." - "I will go to heaven now." "I can hardly wait..." - "I can hardly wait..." "To find out for certain what my wampeter was..." - "To find out for certain what my wampeter was..." "And who was in my karass..." - "And who was in my karass..." "And all the good things our karass did for you." - "And all the good things our karass did for you." "Amen." - "Amen.

Papa Francisco‏ La fe se nutre con la memoria: ¡cuántas cosas hermosas ha hecho Dios por cada uno de nosotros! ¡Qué generoso es nuestro Padre celestial! Faith nourishes itself with memory: how many beautiful things God has done for every one of us! How generous is our heavenly Father! Translated by MựcTím. Đức tin được nuôi dưỡng bởi trí nhớ: có bao nhiêu điều đẹp đẽ Thiên Chúa đã làm cho mỗi người chúng ta! Cha chúng ta rộng lượng như thế nào!