Postcard Photo Quotes

My mom passed away 3 years ago. Recently, I found her “special” photo album- the one in which she saved her favorite pictures, postcards and memories. Halfway through the album I found a small, wrinkled, slip of paper. When I looked closer, I could see that it was a “re-admittance” slip for me, to get back into school... in the 10th grade! Why would she save that all these years???

Where do you flee when facing darkness and shadows in life? Find a favorite photo of a mountain or hill. It could be a photograph from a vacation, nearby sites, or even a postcard, magazine cut-out or greeting card. Put it in a place where you will see it whenever you face difficulties. Then envision Jesus carrying you up the mountain of myrrh where He will bring you refreshment and healing so that you can return to bring His fragrance to others.

Our bus pulled in to a museum consisting of only one exhibit—a history of lynching. Every wall was filled with photographs of dark-skinned human beings swinging by their necks. A mother and son hanging over a bridge. Burned bodies swinging over dying fires. White children staring in wide-eyed wonder while their parents proudly point to the mutilated body behind them. The cruel smiles of white faces testifying to the joy of the occasion. We came across newspaper stories that advertised lynchings as community events. In another case we saw a postcard. On the front was a photo of a mutilated man still hanging from a rope. On the other side, a handwritten note: “Sorry we missed you at the barbecue.

These visitors remain far removed from the conversations between archaeologists, historians, and government officials concerning Bagan’s legacy. Instead, they arrive intrigued by the cover photo of so many Myanmar guidebooks: a panoramic shot of the sprawling, temple-filled plains of a grand ancient city. To the vast majority of these tourists, Bagan isn’t a complex matrix of preservation, economic growth, and cultural tradition. It isn’t a place to be debated or discussed or analyzed. To many of these tourists, Bagan is simply a place to look around, to take pictures, to buy souvenirs. To them, Bagan is a postcard. This

But I guess you get good at kidding yourself when you’re grieving. You pretend that they’re merely on holiday, only to return very soon, armed with luggage and souvenirs from their travels. You expect a postcard plastered with stamps and photos from the beach through your letterbox saying, ‘wish you were here!’ It’s times like those that make seeing the grave feel like punch to the gut, acting as a stark reminder that they’re never coming back.

Calling students on the first day of school and praying for them. Sending students photos taken of them at youth group events. (Always get double prints.) Dropping by their workplaces just to say hi. Attending the last quarter, inning, or set of their games. (Although you can drop by earlier, coming at the end affords the opportunity to interact with your students after-ward.) Mailing favorite snacks to arrive on their birthdays. Calling students' parents just to brag on them. (e.g.,“Mrs. Gates, your son Billy is doing some amazing things with computer graphics for our small groups!”) Taping notes of encouragement to the front door during exams or other stressful periods. (Ring the doorbell and disappear.) Actually taping notes of encouragement directly on students. Inviting students over for dinner. Letting a group of (same-sex) students spend the night. Following up a few days after a student shares a prayer request. Using your students as positive illustrations in your message or Bible study. (It's always a good idea to get permission first.) Mailing goofy postcards for no reason. Dropping off brain food (a double cheeseburger) the night before a big test. Asking students—on a one-to-one basis—to pray for you. Remembering students’ names

she had graduated from the Beaux Arts in Caen. She worked entirely on her body, she explained to me; I looked at her anxiously as she opened her portfolio. I was hoping she wasn't going to show me photos of plastic surgery on her toes or anything like that - I'd had it up to here with things like that. But no, she simply handed me some postcards which she had had made, with the imprint of her pussy dipped in different coloured paints. I chose a turquoise and a mauve; I was a little sorry I hadn't brought photos of my prick to return the favour.