Ross Friends Quotes

There's nothing wrong with having a tree as a friend.

You know me, I think there ought to be a big old tree right there. And let's give him a friend. Everybody needs a friend.

Tedn't law. Tedn't right. Tedn't just. Tedn't sense. Tedn't friendly.

She and Roman would survive this war. They would have the chance to grow old together, year by year. They would be friends until they both finally acknowledged the truth. And they would have everything that other couples had—the arguments and the hand-holding in the market and the gradual exploration of their bodies and the birthday celebrations and the journeys to new cities and the living as one and sharing a bed and the gradual sense of melting into each other. Their names would be entwined—Roman and Iris or Winnow and Kitt because could you truly have one without the other?—and they would write on their typewriters and ruthlessly edit each other’s pieces and read books by candlelight at night.

Genuine friends don't view oceans as boundaries

They would be friends until they both finally acknowledged the truth. And they would have everything that other couples had—the arguments and the hand-holding in the market and the gradual exploration of their bodies and the birthday celebrations and the journeys to new cities and the living as one and sharing a bed and the gradual sense of melting into each other. Their names would be entwined—Roman and Iris or Winnow and Kitt because could you truly have one without the other?

Well, you know that old saying, “Keep your friends close and make out with your enemies.

Even when you are happy to see your friends again and laugh at their jokes, the relief is mixed with sadness and, maybe, guilt. It

We usually know more about suppressing anger than feeling it. Tell a counselor how angry you are. Share it with friends and family. Scream into a pillow. Find ways to get it out without hurting yourself or someone else. Try walking, swimming, gardening—any type of exercise helps you externalize your anger. Do not bottle up anger inside. Instead, explore it. The anger is just another indication of the intensity of your love.

So…what are you up to?” she asked. “I’m looking at a pretty girl.” Huh? If this were texting, that would definitely earn a WTF reply. “Okaay…” “She’s blonde, wearing blue and standing with two friends. She’s talking on her phone, probably to some unworthy jerk, but damn, I wish I were him.

He suddenly found that the thing he had set out to prove had proved something quite different. Human nature had outmaneuvered him. For if she would not desert a friend, neither could he. •

No matter how strong our resolve, we eventually find ourselves enslaved by the compulsive preference for one particular woman. You’ve been caught, my friend. You may as well reconcile yourself to it.” Nick did not bother trying to deny it. “I was going to be so much smarter than you,” he muttered. Sir Ross grinned. “I prefer to think that intelligence has nothing to do with it. For if a man’s intellect is measured by his ability to remain untouched by love, I would be the greatest idiot alive.

Try as often as you can to give tribute to your friends, to stay in contact, to be at their momentous occasions. Drive across the country and go into debt to go to their weddings, fly across the country and be with them when their parents pass away. You cannot make any new old friends.

Every single thing in the world has its own personality, and it is up to you to make friends with the little rascals.

But at the time of transition, your guides, your guardian angels, people whom you have loved and who have passed on before you, will be there to help you. We have verified this beyond a shadow of a doubt, and I say this as a scientist. There will always be someone to help you with this transition.

There was nothing left for me to do, but go. Though the things of the world were strong with me still. Such as, for example: a gaggle of children trudging through a side-blown December flurry; a friendly match-share beneath some collision-titled streetlight; a frozen clock, a bird visited within its high tower; cold water from a tin jug; towering off one’s clinging shirt post-June rain. Pearls, rags, buttons, rug-tuft, beer-froth. Someone’s kind wishes for you; someone remembering to write; someone noticing that you are not at all at ease. A bloody ross death-red on a platter; a headgetop under-hand as you flee late to some chalk-and-woodfire-smelling schoolhouse. Geese above, clover below, the sound of one’s own breath when winded. The way a moistness in the eye will blur a field of stars; the sore place on the shoulder a resting toboggan makes; writing one’s beloved’s name upon a frosted window with a gloved finger. Tying a shoe; tying a knot on a package; a mouth on yours; a hand on yours; the ending of the day; the beginning of the day; the feeling that there will always be a day ahead. Goodbye, I must now say goodbye to all of it. Loon-call in the dark; calf-cramp in the spring; neck-rub in the parlour; milk-sip at end of day. Some brandy-legged dog proudly back-ploughs the grass to cover its modest shit; a cloud-mass down-valley breaks apart over the course of a brandy-deepened hour; louvered blinds yield dusty beneath your dragging finger, and it is nearly noon and you must decide; you have seen what you have seen, and it has wounded you, and it seems you have only one choice left. Blood-stained porcelain bowl wobbles face down on wood floor; orange peel not at all stirred by disbelieving last breath there among that fine summer dust-layer, fatal knife set down in pass-panic on familiar wobbly banister, later dropped (thrown) by Mother (dear Mother) (heartsick) into the slow-flowing, chocolate-brown Potomac. None of it was real; nothing was real. Everything was real; inconceivably real, infinitely dear. These and all things started as nothing, latent within a vast energy-broth, but then we named them, and loved them, and in this way, brought them forth. And now we must lose them. I send this out to you, dear friends, before I go, in this instantaneous thought-burst, from a place where time slows and then stops and we may live forever in a single instant. Goodbye goodbye good-

Your cruelties and mistakes may look damning to you, but that is not what I see. Every human conversation is more elegant and complex than the entire solar system that contains it. You have no idea how marvelous you are, but I am not only here to protect what you are now, I am here to protect what you will become. I can't tell you what that might be because I don't know. That unknown is a diamond in a universe of dirt. Uncertainty. Unpredictability. It is when you turn your emotions into art. It is BTS and the Sistine Chapel and Rumi's poetry and Ross Geller on the stairs yelling, 'Pivot.' Every creation great and small, they are our diamonds. And what you may be in two hundred years, we can guess with fair accuracy. What you are in two thousand . . . Oh, my friends . . . my best friends, you cannot know.

Friends are the most important commodity in the world. Even a tree needs a friend.

Okay, you promised, just two friends having dinner.” I slurred. He shook his head and laughed. “No you said that not me,” He smirked.

I furrow my brow. “And how would that even affect you?” Since I’m not seeing his logic, he slowly spells it out for me. “Sides, dude. People break up, their friends take sides. Dean’s my buddy, so obviously the bro code says I have to side with him. But this one—” He jerks a thumb at Hannah, “is my girlfriend. Girlfriend trumps buddy. Wellsy’ll take Allie’s side, and I’ll have to take Wellsy’s side, vis-à-vis, I’m taking Allie’s side.” “I don’t think you’re using vis-à-vis right,” Morris pipes up. “Yeah, I believe the word you’re looking for is therefore.” Logan’s lips are twitching wildly. “I wouldn’t expect you to take Allie’s side on my behalf,” Hannah protests. “And you’re being such a jackass about this. We’re adults. If they break up, we’ll all still be able to co-exist peacefully.” “Ross and Rachel co-existed,” Logan agrees. Fitzy snorts.

if you go and dance at a lot of weddings, youll cry at a lot of funerals. if you were at the beginning of many moments, youll be there when they end. if you have a lot of friends, youll experience that many break ups. if you think that the loss you feel is great, its because youve attempted that many things in your life. if you made a lot of mistakes, its better than having lived without doing anything at all. it is not unhappiness to be unable to reach a star, unhappiness is that you don't have a star that you cannot reach.

The result is a nation where gurus and therapists have filled the roles once occupied by spouses and friends, and where professional caregivers minister, like seraphim around the throne, to the needs of people taught from infancy to look inside themselves for God. Therapeutic religion promises contentment, but in many cases it seems to deliver a sort of isolation that’s at once comfortable and terrible—leaving us alone with the universe, alone with the God Within.

I long to grow up, to be a man. I long to be in a hurry to do something, before time runs out. I long for the feeling that life is precious, that I have to cram as much as I can into every sun-drenched day and every frost-filled night; to know that childhood is special because it dies not last forever; to have friends, like Aiden and Roxy, who will not look at me strangely, and then turn away from me when I fail to age like them.

I'm the bridge jumping friend parents warned you about.

A true friend is someone who pushes you and encourages you to become the best version of yourself. They don’t enable your bad habits and tendencies.

I’m not that bad.” Macy lifted her head and searched Candace’s face. “Am I?” “I’m not one to give an objective opinion. I’ve known you my whole life, I’m used to you.” “Great. In other words, ‘You’re a raging bitch only a best friend could love’. I had no idea I had so little self-awareness.” “Get over it. I’d have to say you’re more a snob than a raging bitch. Oh, and maybe a control freak though you’re better about that now than you used to be. But I love you anyway. So could he.

She’d been in love with the way Todd made her feel about herself. Evan had been her best friend, but his treatment of her, in a way, had been a rejection. Every single day for two damn years, she’d felt rejected by him. It was no wonder her self-esteem had been so beaten down she’d fal en for the first sweet-talker to come along.

Claudia reported that her depression eventually passed and she began to do more and get out more. She went back to work part-time and started accepting offers from friends to do things. “Time had passed; I was better, functional and improving, when suddenly the depression returned. I’d thought I was done with it, but I guess it wasn’t done with me. “This

At times Leonardo was troubled by his lack of achievement. As a young man he appears to have developed a reputation for melancholia. “Leonardo,” wrote a friend, “why so troubled?” A sad refrain runs through his notebooks: “Tell me if anything was ever done,” he often sighs. Or in another place: “Tell me if ever I did a thing.

To God, to Life, to Love, to Family, to Friends, to Prosperity,

I could say how well he dances, but that isn't true, for he dances like that big friendly bear I saw last Christmas.

An old friend of mine used to say our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising again each time we do.

Mr. Ross and his love interest, our English teacher, Miss Wannamaker, had passed up that magic number long ago. Closer to fifty-two, Mr. Ross was a widower.

If we’re being completely honest, I don’t even think you should have to be “a couple” in the classical sense to get married. I want people to be able to marry as many of their platonic friends as they want. If I’m Phoebe (and I am), why shouldn’t I be able to marry both Monica and Rachel? I mean we all (basically) live together, we’re functionally co-dependent, and we all find Ross obnoxious. Sounds like marriage material to me . . .

I rammed the rifle into his neck and blasted him in the throat. The blood pooled beneath him. I had no qualms about desecrating holy ground. If there was a God, he watched as they murdered my family. I didn’t need friends like Him.

WILDE: Oh — Bosie! (He weeps.) I have to go back to him, you know. Robbie will be furious but it can't be helped. The betrayal of one's friends is a bagatelle in the stakes of love, but the betrayal of oneself is a lifelong regret. Bosie is what became of me. He is spoiled, vindictive, utterly selfish and not very talented, but these are merely the facts. The truth is he was Hyacinth when Apollo loved him, he is ivory and gold, from his red rose-leaf lips comes music that fills me with joy, he is the only one who understands me. 'Even as a teething child throbs with ferment, so does the soul of him who gazes upon the boy's beauty; he can neither sleep at night nor keep still by day,' and a lot more besides, but before Plato could describe love, the loved one had to be invented. We would never love anybody if we could see past our invention. Bosie is my creation, my poem. In the mirror of invention, love discovered itself. Then we saw what we had made — the piece of ice in the fist you cannot hold or let go. (He weeps.)

The farmers, who rent out their house so they can stay afloat, and sleep all together in a studio, but spend their days off outside on a picnic blanket, living the lives they want to live. Drew and Melanie, with their two homes and their horses and their love story. And Rene, traveling across the world, painting temporary masterpieces. Even my uncle Pete has something good worked out with Melinda and his day trips and his best friend, my dad, who has a small nice house in San Francisco and a dozen neighborhood vendors who know him by name. All of these different ways of living. Even Sophie, with her baby in that apartment, with her record store job and her record collection. I imagine her twirling with her baby across her red carpet with Diana Ross crooning, the baby laughing, the two of them getting older in that apartment, eating meals on red vinyl chairs. Walt, too, as pathetic as his situation is, seems happy in his basement, providing entertainment to Fort Bragg's inner circle. All of them, in their own ways, manage to make their lives work.

All of the day’s planned tasks are canceled. Bob stays inside Hot Topic for the rest of the day. Left to their own devices, the group huddles together in the communal Old Navy on the first floor. At first, I think they’re holding a memorial service, but then I hear the TV playing. They’re watching DVDs of Friends on a giant, monolithic plasma screen. A citywide blackout forces Monica, Ross, Rachel, Phoebe, and Joey to hang out together. They light candles and talk about the weirdest places they’ve had sex. Phoebe sings a song. I hate Friends but I’ve seen most of the episodes.

And I’m not sure who you are, where you are. If you are breathing the same hour, the same minute as me, or if you are decades before or years to come. I don’t know what is connecting us—if it’s magical thresholds or conquered god bones or something else we’ve yet to discover. Most of all, I don’t know why I’m writing to you now. But here I am, reaching out to you. A stranger and yet a friend.

In one sense, the dialogue between Job and his friends serves as one of the greatest worship examples in the Bible. Though the five men differed in their understanding of God and his ways, each stayed with the conversation, wrestling with his beliefs, and meanwhile repeatedly extolling God for his greatness, majesty, justice, and mercy. Each man revered him as Creator and ultimate Authority over all creation.

What if my da is Breccan?” Frae kicked a pebble on the road, keeping her eyes on the ground. “Would you still want to walk me home?” Ella was quiet for a moment, but maybe only because the question had taken her by surprise. Frae snuck a glance at her. For the past several days, Ella had walked her home from school and the boys had not bothered her again. But there were still whispers and pointed glances. A few times during class, no one had wanted to partner up with Frae. “If your da is a Breccan,” Ella began to say, “then yes, I’d still walk you home, and I’d still be your friend, Frae. Do you want to know why?” Frae nodded, but she could feel her face flush, her relief knotted with shame that she even had to ask this question when no other children she knew did. “Because your heart is good and brave and kind,” Ella said. “You are thoughtful and smart. And those are the kind of people who I want to be friends with. Not the ones who think they are above everyone else. Who scowl and judge things they don’t understand and throw mud and have cowardly hearts.” Frae soaked in Ella’s words, which were warm and soft as a plaid, and she suddenly could walk faster, her chin held higher. “And,” Ella added with a mischievous smile, “you make the best berry pies.

When we ask someone "How old are you?" we are really asking them "What time are you?" We're trying to slap a frame of reference on the person by bringing the past into play. When I find out how old you are, I know what memories you are likely to have. Depending on your age, you may know all about the Marshall Plan, Jackie O., the first moon walk, dial phones, disco, or DOS. I can call this information up in a friendly way, singing old Beatles songs with you. I can bring it back in a hostile way, thinking that you're a fool to have gotten caught up in "flower power." In either case, I'm not seeing you exactly as you are now. I'm judging by what I see as the sum of your past experiences.

She and Roman would survive this war. They would have the chance to grow old together, year by year. They would be friends until they both finally acknowledged the truth. And they would have everything that other couples had—the arguments and the hand-holding in the market and the gradual exploration of their bodies and the birthday celebrations and the journeys to new cities and the living as one and sharing a bed and the gradual sense of melting into each other. Their names would be entwined—Roman and Iris or Winnow and Kitt because could you truly have one without the other?—and they would write on their typewriters and ruthlessly edit each other’s pieces and read books by candlelight at night. She wanted him. Leaving him behind in the trenches wasn’t even a possibility.

So do I. But I am a good friend of hers now. We are deeply attached to each other. Perhaps in time she would forgive me.’ ‘What are you trying to say?’ ‘I’m trying to say that if I told her what had happened between us she would be hurt. But no more so, I believe, than you hurt her in London.’ Ross put down his knife. ‘I don’t understand that at all.’ ‘You killed a man because of her. Oh, I know it was his challenge. And I know the quarrel was about some seat in the House. And I know you disliked each other from the start. But it was really because of her that you killed him, wasn’t it?’ ‘Partly, yes. But I don’t see—’ ‘Ross, when you fought Monk Adderley, it was not really him you were killing, was it.’ ‘Wasn’t it?’ ‘No . . . it was Hugh Armitage.’ He took a gulp of wine this time. ‘Damn you, Caroline, it was a plain straightforward duel—’ ‘It was nothing of the sort, and you know it! You killed him because you couldn’t kill Hugh Armitage,

When this all goes to shit and my best friend rightfully punches me the fuck out, takes my company, and kicks me out of his life, I'm going to remember this moment right here. The moment it all seems worth it." Her lips start to lift, and I tell myself that I'm doing the right thing. The right thing for me, for once in my damn life. "With you standing in front of me, back straight, fire in your eyes, hair a mess from my hands, and that ring on your finger. When that happens, help me remember, okay?" Courtney nods, licking her lips and moving into my space. She presses me into the counter with her body, bare tits pressed to my chest and hope in her eyes. Hope for me. For us. And it's beautiful and sweet and all I ever wanted. "It'll be okay, Kaede. It'll be finer than fine, I promise." Sure, it will. I nod, even though I don't believe her. I'm only risking ... everything. Court might lose some face, and yeah, Ross will be mad at her. But she's his sister. He'll forgive her. But he legit might kill me. I kiss her anyway, signing my own death certificate.

Although Mollie’s disappearance created a stir in the Digbys’ neighborhood, it did not immediately warrant unusual notice in New Orleans as a whole. Hundreds of children went missing in the city every year. Most were later found and returned to their parents. In a metropolis plagued by crime and violence, moreover, Mollie’s disappearance was just one of many unsavory events that day. On that same Thursday, a boy stabbed his friend in the head in a dispute over a ball game. A jewel thief robbed a posh Garden District home. Two toughs fought a gory knife battle on St. Claude Avenue. A drowned child was found floating in the Mississippi River. A prostitute in the Tremé neighborhood stole $30 from a customer. Someone poisoned two family dogs. And two women in a saloon bloodied one another with broken ale bottles as they fought over a lover. Because crime was so common, most incidents received little attention. If a crime occurred in a poor district, on the docks, or in one of the infamous concert saloons, or if its victim was an immigrant or black person, it seldom warranted more than a sentence or two in the “City Intelligence” columns of the dailies. 5

While he’s examining them he glances over at Sergeant Disney who is lying on the deck with his feet propped-up on a bench. Then, Rob struggles to his feet and immediately lies back down—over and over again. What is happening is that he feels better with his feet propped up on the bench, higher than his heart. Gravity helps force the life-giving fluids into his body’s core and brain. The IV fluids along with his elevated feet counteract the shock brought on by his blood loss. As soon as he starts to feel better his instinct to help others kicks in and he tries to get up and assist his wounded friends. But as soon as he gets up, blood drains away from his brain, the shock returns, the world begins to spin and he nearly passes out. Sergeant Disney’s instinct for self-preservation reasserts itself and he quickly lies down and puts his feet back up on the bench. Soon he begins to feel better, and once again rises, only to be forced back down by dizziness. Funches yells at Disney to stay down, but Rob’s up and down antics continue until Ross returns to his side. As the helicopter speeds through the air, Disney briefly passes out. When Sergeant Funches glances over to check on him, his eyes are closed and he appears to be dead. Sergeant Funches goes ballistic and immediately screams at Disney. Sergeant Disney is abruptly startled awake.

What did this Madame Moon tell you?” Her friend frowned slightly. “It was so strange. She said there was a man here tonight who was everything I could ever want, and that if I did not find him, my life would be empty and…tragic.” “Good lord.” Rose dug in her heels. “I’m not going near this woman. It’s all about men.” “We’re women,” Eve needlessly reminded her, giving her a shove toward the tent entrance. “Of course it’s all about men. Now get in th…oh my.” Rose turned her head. Her friend was staring at someone on the other side of the room-a man. A handsome, lean, dangerous-looking man with the grace of a cat. A very predatory cat, and he was staring at Eve as though she was the sweetest, plumpest mouse he’d ever seen. Perhaps there was more to this Madame Moon than she first suspected. One look at Eve’s face and she could tell her friend was just as taken by this man as he by her. “Go,” Rose whispered. And then loudly she said, “Eve, is not that Amanda Ross by the punch bowl? She said she had a recipe for a new face cream. Go get it from her, will you?” Eve shot her a startled glance, because they both knew Amanda Ross was standing not two feet away from Vienna La Rieux, who was conversing with Mr. Dangerous. But as startled as her friend might have been by the encouragement, she also realized that both of their chaperones were in line to have their fortunes told and that she might never have an opportunity like this again. “Of course,” she replied loudly as well. “I will be right back.” And off she went. Alone, and the target of exasperated looks by the ladies waiting their turns, Rose ducked into the tent to face her future.

Because he’d talked to her about Catriona Bruce. He must be a lonely man. Living all on his own in that house since his mother died. Suddenly he had company, someone sympathetic, wanting him to talk, listening to him. Perhaps she had her own reasons for encouraging him to speak. She wanted his stories for her film. Perhaps she was just a nice kid who felt sorry for him. And the temptation was too much for him. Perhaps he’d had a whisky or two and that loosened his tongue. Whatever.’ ‘I can see that,’ Perez said. ‘I can even see him killing her afterwards to keep the whole thing quiet. But I can’t see him going into the Ross house, searching her room and finding the disk, finding the script and wiping all trace of it from the PC. I don’t get that.’ They sat looking at each other for a moment in silence. Taylor stretched, shuffled in his chair. He’d told Perez he had a bad back, disc trouble, that was why he couldn’t sit still, but Perez wasn’t convinced. It was the man’s mind that didn’t know how to rest, not his body. ‘So what do we do about it?’ Taylor said. ‘Time’s running out for me. I’ve promised I’ll be back at the end of the week. Any longer than that and they’ll start talking about a disciplinary.’ ‘I’m going to take another trip to the Anderson,’ Perez said. ‘Check she didn’t hand the film in early, give it to a friend to look at. If the film is safe we have to let the whole thing go. Like you said, the note on the back of the receipt incriminates Magnus. It shows he talked to her about Catriona. Euan says there’s no other way she could have known about the girl.’ Taylor stood up, lifting the plan with both hands on his way.

………………………………………….. Taylor was keenly aware of his vulnerability as he entered the cottage. He had no weapons, no friends, and no idea why he was there. If they wanted his head, it was theirs, and there was little he could do about it. And yet, he did not feel unsafe. He felt kept. Inside was a small, dimly lit room with just four or five candles planted here and there around it, including one in a long silver holder that stood atop a small, elegantly carved table in the center. Before the table was a stool, also beautifully carved, with another, similar one opposite. There was a stool in the corner as well, and two more next to a hardwood desk on the right. The walls were rough with the texture of the clay, and looked peach in the candlelight. There were arched doorways leading off to unlit corridors, and one large doorway behind the table, covered by a red velvet curtain. If it was going to be a sneak attack, Taylor would be an easy target. “Sit here,” the stout man said, motioning to the stool before the table. “And wait.” He did so, and the stout man walked off through the velvet curtain with his staff. A moment later Taylor could hear mutterings between him and another, but he could not make out what they were saying. For a few seconds there was silence, and Taylor became suddenly worried. Then, to his relief, the stout man reemerged and took his seat in the corner, his eyes set on the room from whence he had just come. Taylor, too, set his eyes on the curtain, unsure whether there would emerge a man or a wild beast, but curious nonetheless. His curiosity was answered when the

Once you dedicate yourself to being present with your child’s emotions, you will find opportunities to connect with her in meaningful ways on a day-to-day basis. From a series of seemingly mundane incidents, you’ll form an important, lasting bond. You’ll become what my friend and developmental psychologist Ross Parke refers to as “a collector of moments.” You’ll recognize your interactions as precious opportunities and value aspects that others might miss. And when you look back, you’ll see your relationship with your child as you would a treasured string of pearls.

You are not among those who would shatter the family, friends and spouse to pursue your dreams. You adore the family gatherings after the busy days of your life. You are not among those who would shatter the family, friends and spouse to pursue your dreams. You are pleasurable, wanderer of your destiny and joyous. You always harvest the fruits of your deeds. You see the people who would be more fancier, glad and thankful. You see the people smiling and choose to travel the world. You see some of your strangest friends turn out to be your true friends. You see your strangest friends traveling and delighting their life in striving for joy. You realize that the happiest people would be the one who would be living their life with their family and spouse." - Shwin J Brad

Your thoughts, your dreams and all of your past is your inspiration and life lesson that you have gather throughout your lifetime. Your thoughts, your dreams and all of your past is your inspiration and life lesson that you have gather throughout your lifetime. You feel the tears of the needy one. You remember the time when you were there for yourself. Through your many tears you help yourself really see that you were always there for yourself. You always stood for yourself like the friend and you will always stand for yourself until the end. You will never forget yourself and the things you have overcome. You are your inspiration because you were always there when yourself needed you." - Shwin J Brad

Everyone don't know what made them trust you. Everyone still remember the day when they told you what they have been through. Everyone had nowhere to turn and they had nowhere to go. This is just something everyone think you need to know. Everyone don't know what made them trust you. Everyone still remember the day when they told you what they have been through. Everyone thought they should run away and hide their heart, but you really brought out everyone's true soul. Each time when everyone wanted to cry you stayed right there by their side and because of you their faith and trust became stronger in you. Even though you don't have time, you always look over them and see if they are fine. Everyone is so glad that you were there when they were sad and this is what makes you not just their teacher but also their friend." - Shwin J Brad

What if my da is Breccan?” Frae kicked a pebble on the road, keeping her eyes on the ground. “Would you still want to walk me home?” Ella was quiet for a moment, but maybe only because the question had taken her by surprise. Frae snuck a glance at her. For the past several days, Ella had walked her home from school and the boys had not bothered her again. But there were still whispers and pointed glances. A few times during class, no one had wanted to partner up with Frae. “If your da is a Breccan,” Ella began to say, “then yes, I’d still walk you home, and I’d still be your friend, Frae. Do you want to know why?” Frae nodded, but she could feel her face flush, her relief knotted with shame that she even had to ask this question when no other children she knew did. “Because your heart is good and brave and kind,” Ella said. “You are thoughtful and smart. And those are the kind of people who I want to be friends with. Not the ones who think they are above everyone else. Who scowl and judge things they don’t understand and throw mud and have cowardly hearts.” Frae soaked in Ella’s words, which were warm and soft as a plaid, and she suddenly could walk faster, her chin held higher. “And,” Ella added with a mischievous smile, “you make the best berry pies.

PIVOT

Sometimes I’m afraid to love other people. Everyone I care about eventually leaves me, whether it’s death or war or simply because they don’t want me. They go places I can’t find, places I can’t reach. And I’m not afraid to be alone, but I’m tired of being the one left behind. I’m tired of having to rearrange my life after the people within it depart, as if I’m a puzzle and I’m now missing pieces and I will never feel that pure sense of completion again. I lost someone close to me, yesterday. It doesn’t feel real yet. And I’m not sure who you are, where you are. If you are breathing the same hour, the same minute as me, or if you are decades before or years to come. I don’t know what is connecting us—if it’s magical thresholds or conquered god bones or something else we’ve yet to discover. Most of all, I don’t know why I’m writing to you now. But here I am, reaching out to you. A stranger and yet a friend. All those letters of mine you received for several months … I thought I was writing to Forest. I wrote with the unfaltering, teeth-clenched hope that they would reach him despite the kilometers between us. That my brother would read my words, even if they were minced with pain and fury, and he would come home and fill the void I feel and fix the messiness of my life. But I realize that people are just people, and they carry their own set of fears, dreams, desires, pains, and mistakes. I can’t expect someone else to make me feel complete; I must find it on my own. And I think I was always writing for myself, to sort through my loss and worry and tangled ambitions. Even now, I think about how effortless it is to lose oneself in words, and yet also find who you are. I hope I’m making sense. I’m probably not, because I’m writing to you but I’m also writing for me. And I don’t expect you to respond, but it helps to know someone is hearing me. Someone is reading what I pour onto a page. It helps to know that I’m not alone tonight, even as I sit in quiet darkness.

The next words she said Iris felt in her chest, resounding like a second heartbeat. Words that were destined to bind them together as friends. “I don’t want to wake up when I’m seventy-four only to realize I haven’t lived.

The man who rescued the crusade, Giannozzo Manetti, then fifty-nine years old, was the close friend and mentor of Vespasiano.

The man who rescued the crusade, Giannozzo Manetti, then fifty-nine years old, was the close friend and mentor of Vespasiano. For many years he had been at the heart of Florence’s humanist movement, one of the men who gathered in Vespasiano’s bookshop, “admirably disputing great things.” The son of one of Florence’s wealthiest merchants, he had studied alongside Tommaso Parentucelli, whose secretary he later became and for whom, when Tommaso became pope, he made translations from both Greek and Hebrew. He was a dedicated scholar, sleeping no more than five hours a night in order to devote more time to his studies. Like his friends Poggio and Leonardo Bruni, he was also a busy civic official, serving Florence numerous times as an ambassador to Venice, Genoa, Milan, Naples, and Rome. He took up the thankless post of governor of various Florentine dependencies such as Pistoia and Scarperia, where, as Vespasiano observed, he “found everything in great disorder and full of deadly feuds.”16 Manetti’s greatest claim to fame was his treatise On the Dignity and Excellence of Man, which he completed in 1452 and dedicated to King Alfonso of Naples. The tribute was a rare diplomatic misstep on Manetti’s part, because Alfonso was at war with Florence at the time, leading to mutterings in Florence of Manetti’s treason. Vespasiano prudently waited until 1455 and the Treaty of Lodi before producing a copy of the manuscript. As with the “Decades of the King,” the manuscript was elegantly and expertly produced, featuring the “new antique letters” and white vine-stem decorations in which Vespasiano had come to specialize. Giannozzo Manetti (1396–1459): scholar, businessman, diplomat, writer.

All evil is born from ignorance,” as Vespasiano wrote. “Yet writers have illuminated the world, chasing away the darkness.” This darkness he and his friends hoped to dispel by casting onto their fractured and unhappy times the pure radiance of the past, one scribe and one manuscript at a time.

Later, with the benefit of hindsight, some would contend that this unusual use of water damned the ship, but at the time, Arizona was a dry state and, according to the Times, “the ‘teetotalers’ and the rest of the Arizonians demanded that the Arizona be named with water as well as wine.” As the ship slid faster and faster down the ways, one estimate claimed it bested fifteen knots by the time it hit the water of the East River and floated off in the direction of the Williamsburg Bridge. A flotilla of tugs swarmed around the hull and shepherded it to a dock in the Navy Yard for completion.2 Afterward, before an invited luncheon crowd of nine hundred guests, Secretary of the Navy Josephus Daniels expounded at length on the role of the United States Navy on the global stage. When it was her turn to say a few words, Esther Ross came right to the point: “Mr. Secretary, friends,” she told Daniels and those seated before her, “this is the proudest day of my life, because I have christened the largest battleship in the world with the name of the greatest state in the union.”3

The other is Pico della Mirandola, Marsilio Ficino’s friend and fellow Plato enthusiast: a tall, green-eyed intellectual virtuoso who can read, among other languages, Aramaic and Chaldean, and who can recite the entirety of Dante’s Divine Comedy both forward and backward. The awestruck Ficino regards him as a member of “a superhuman race.”5 “They wanted to see everything in our library,” Brother Gregorio later notes of his distinguished visitors.

Even the love for and from our families and friends is based on expectations and conditions. Inevitably, these expectations and conditions are not met, and the details of real life become the thread that creates a nightmare.

intelligence for the sector. “They say they’re uncle and nephew, and they’re clean: no tattoos. That third one, though—he’s a keeper.” The third man had given his name as José Hernández, which was the equivalent of a Caucasian claiming to be called John Smith. He had not been picked up in the sweep of the yard, but a couple of hours later, supposedly as he waited for a bus to Tucson, although it was more likely he was waiting for a ride back to Mexico, since the next bus for Tucson wasn’t scheduled to leave until the following morning. He was smaller and leaner than the others, and had so far done his best not to make eye contact with any of his interrogators. He was also the only one who had been wearing a long-sleeved shirt, fully buttoned, when detained. “What did Lagnier have to say about him?” Ross asked. “Beyond the fact that Hernández had been working for him on and off for about five days,” said Zaleski, “Mr. Lagnier had nothing to say about him at all, and that’s ‘nothing’ with a heavy emphasis.” “Meaning?” “Meaning Lagnier knew better than to ask about José’s background. It’s probably not the first time Lagnier’s done a solid for some friends from across the border: a place for cousins to sleep, a little work to replenish funds before they head farther north. But sometimes…” Zaleski let it hang. Parker figured everyone in the room now knew that Lagnier had an arrangement with the ATF, and if they didn’t, they had no business being there. “Sometimes it’s a more substantial favor,” finished Newton, one of the Maricopa detectives. “One he doesn’t share with his handlers.” “Not unless Lagnier wants to try holding his silverware without thumbs,” said Zaleski. “This whole territory belongs to the Sinaloa cartel, and nothing moves in or out without their knowledge. Young José in there has himself a collection of tattoos under that shirt. He didn’t much approve of us having a look-see, but he knew better than to kick up a fuss.” Zaleski took out her phone and displayed a series of photographs of Hernández’s adornments.

Almost under his breath he said, “First threatenings an’ now bribery. Bribery as I’m alive! Money for Judas, I reckon they’m thinking. Stand up in a court o’ law agin an old friend. Worse’n Judas, for he did it on the quiet, like. An’ for what? Thirty bits o’ silver. An’ I’m reckoning they wouldn’t

While Ross had saved up for the perfect ring with which to propose, when he romantically asked his girlfriend for her hand in marriage (Say yes, please say yes), she instead said she had to tell Ross something (Well, this doesn’t sound good). At which point she admitted that during the past year or so she had cheated on him with several different men. (Several? As in more than one? Yes. Several.) To make matters worse, one of them was one of Ross’s best friends.

The old adage "you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink," is as true todoay as it was when it first originated. Your employees (and friends or family members for that matter) have to see (and often feel) a reason to take specific measured actions before they will do so. Dr. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross documented this in her work on dealing with the loss of a loved one, where people often negotiated or denied rather than deal with what was in front of their faces. This is just as relevant in business as it is in relationships.

Chinese techno-authoritarianism scares the West. The language used is dystopian, and the fear heightened. Readers or viewers are meant to take away the idea that Beijing under President Xi Jinping is destined to create a global infrastructure of control, a unique threat to the world and incomparable to any other nation. Take a September 2020 article in the Atlantic in which journalist Ross Anderson painted a petrifying image of China wanting to have worldwide domination of artificial intelligence. “In the near future,” he wrote, “every person who enters a public space could be identified, instantly, by AI matching them to an ocean of personal data, including their every text communication, and their body’s one-of-a-kind protein-construction schema.” He noted that algorithms will soon be able to gather a multitude of data points, such as reading habits, purchases, travel records, and friends, as well as predict political opposition before it occurs.

I’ve dreamt of you,” he said. “I think you and I were friends before I left for the war cause.” “Friends?” “Or enemies.” “You and I were never enemies, Kitt. Not exactly.” “Then were we something more?” Iris was quiet. She could feel the ache in her throat, how it brimmed with words she yearned to say but should probably swallow. In the end, she spoke them—in a husky whisper that he leaned closer to hear. “Yes. I’m your wife.

This is the most elegant and artful diabetes-friendly cookbook I've ever used, and proof that healthy food doesn't have to be unimaginative.” —Ross Wollen, senior editor, Diabetes Daily

With your smile you make every day a weekend of happiness.

I hate stars,’ Huston said, exchanging his empty glass for a full one. ‘They’re not actors. I’ve been around actors all my life, and I like them, and yet I never had an actor as a friend. Except Dad. And Dad never thought of himself as an actor. But the best actor I ever worked with was Dad. All I had to tell Dad about his part of the old man in Treasure was to talk fast. Just talk fast.’ Huston talked rapidly, in a startling and accurate imitation of his father. ‘A man who talks fast never listens to himself. Dad talked like this. Man talking fast is an honest man. Dad was a man who never tried to sell anybody anything.

A man who had been standing at the bar picked up his Martini and strolled over to a front booth near us. ‘I have a great story for you,’ he said to the group seated there. ‘This actor comes back from a funeral and he’s bawling and carrying on, the tears streaming down his face. So his friend tells him he never saw anybody take a funeral so hard. The actor says, “You should have seen me at the grave!

... his letter felt like an embrace. Like reaching for a friend in the darkness and finding their hand.

Two years later, Betsy’s old friend John Claypoole asked her to be his wife. They were married on May 8, 1783.

Baltimore I wonder if the sign I used to see on Spruce Street is still there? It read: LITTLE FRIENDS DAY SCHOOL. I always expected a bunch of dwarf Quakers to run out of the building.

The next words she said Iris felt in her chest, resounding like a second heartbeat. Words that were destined to bind them together as friends. "I don't want to wake up when I'm seventy-four only to realize I haven't lived.

Turn a foe into a friend, and you’ll have one less enemy.

She wondered if she had dreamt that moment with him, when they had almost spoken to one another like old friends

Since his father’s death in 1464, Piero de’ Medici had done his best to maintain his family’s preeminent position in Florence. According to a chronicler, Piero enjoyed “great authority, many friends, wealth, and a power similar to his father’s.”24 By 1466, however, Piero, at fifty years old, was increasingly disabled by gout. As a result, government meetings and ambassadorial receptions were held not in the Palazzo della Signoria but in the Palazzo Medici, which increasingly served as the seat of government. Moreover, Piero lacked his father’s shrewdness and experience, and his power and grandeur soon provoked indignation among the citizens. His father had faced similar crises due to rivals and malcontents, most recently in 1458. On that occasion, the Medici maintained their power thanks to Cosimo’s longtime ally, the duke of Milan, Francesco Sforza, who sent troops to quell an insurrection. As mercenary troops poured into the city, Cosimo took the opportunity to arrest 150 opponents, torture a few others, and strengthen his grip on power. However, the death of Sforza in March 1466 robbed Piero, so soon after losing his father, of this reliable supplier of military might.

You're in History class with me, right, Kim? Russian history with Mr. Ross? Well, guess what? My sister and her horrible friends are like Stalin and his cabinet. You're only in until someone decides you're a traitor and then you're out. Your days are numbered.

want to give him shit for how overconfident he sounds considering how long it took him to even admit he likes me—some Ross and Rachel from Friends style bullshit—but then a throat clears behind us and we break

Early on, Ross paid a call to the local Catholic churches, whose priests—thanks to Alinsky’s friend Monsignor John O’Grady, head of Catholic Charities in Washington, DC—had already received instruction from the local bishop to provide whatever support Ross might need.

The second element to why the show has worked is undoubtedly my team. And guess what? I am not alone out there. I work with a truly brilliant, small tight-knit crew. Four or five guys. Heroes to a man. They work their nuts off. Unsung. Up to their necks in the dirt. Alongside me in more hellholes than you could ever imagine. They are mainly made up of ex-Special Forces buddies and top adventure cameramen--as tough as they come, and best friends. It’s no surprise that all the behind-the-scenes episodes we do are so popular--people like to hear the inside stories about what it is really like when things go a little “wild.” As they often do. My crew are incredible--truly--and they provide me with so much of my motivation to do this show. Without them I am nothing. Simon Reay brilliantly told me on episode one: “Don’t present this, Bear, just do it--and tell me along the way what the hell you are doing and why. It looks amazing. Just tell me.” That became the show. And there is the heroic Danny Cane, who reckoned I should just: “Suck an earthworm up between your teeth, and chomp it down raw. They’ll love it, Bear. Trust me!” Inspired. Producers, directors, the office team and the field crew. My buddies. Steve Rankin, Scott Tankard, Steve Shearman, Dave Pearce, Ian Dray, Nick Parks, Woody, Stani, Ross, Duncan Gaudin, Rob Llewellyn, Pete Lee, Paul Ritz, and Dan Etheridge--plus so many others, helping behind the scenes back in the UK. Multiple teams. One goal. Keeping one another alive. On, and do the field team share their food with me, help collect firewood, and join in tying knots on my rafts? All the time. We are a team.

Stand tall, my friends, when the fool comes around.

When did we revert back to sticks and shields, Uniform uniforms, stylized agenda reveals, Hiding behind glass with nods to our reflection, Blocking out the light that sparked the deception? Who do we see staring across the isle, A path once for feet now stretched into miles, Removed from our view to a place unseen, Forcing poisonous venom through a flickering screen? Where should we gather outside of the homes, But a place for the masses to manifest from their phones, The hatred and evil broadcasting the waves, Telling you daily, “Elvis lives and Jesus saves”? What could restart a flawed mental state, Built on cause and guilt for an unfulfilled faith In policy, redemption, a nation self aware, Our values compressed and trapped in despair? How can we rise with the odds in their favor, Sedated once more, still waiting for a Savior Willing to spare from thoughts profound? Stand tall, my friends, when the fool comes around.

Not after seeing Denise MacKenzie in full, glorious technicolour. “Could have happened to anyone,” was all he said, looking away. “Always seems to happen to you, doesn’t it?” She brushed past him haughtily and helped herself to a coffee. Ryan sidled up to his friend and clucked his tongue sympathetically. “Got a temper on her, that one,” he said under his breath. “You can say that again,” Phillips said heatedly. “A temper and, if you don’t mind me saying, an excellent arse.” “You can say that…” Phillips cleared his throat and brushed some lint from his jacket. “I couldn’t possibly comment. Like a perfect gent, I averted my eyes.” “Like hell you did,” Ryan said. Phillips warred with himself for a nanosecond. “Mighty fine arse,” he said gruffly. “Shame she’s got a tongue like a poisoned dagger.

Michelle Phan grew up in California with her Vietnamese parents. The classic American immigrant story of the impoverished but hardworking parents who toil to create a better life for the next generation was marred, in Phan’s case, by her father’s gambling addiction. The Phan clan moved from city to city, state to state, downsizing and recapitalizing and dodging creditors and downsizing some more. Eventually, Phan found herself sleeping on a hard floor, age 16, living with her mother, who earned rent money as a nail salon worker and bought groceries with food stamps. Throughout primary and secondary school, Phan escaped from her problems through art. She loved to watch PBS, where painter Bob Ross calmly drew happy little trees. “He made everything so positive,” Phan recalls. “If you wanted to learn how to paint, and you wanted to also calm down and have a therapeutic session at home, you watched Bob Ross.” She started drawing and painting herself, often using the notes pages in the back of the telephone book as her canvas. And, imitating Ross, she started making tutorials for her friends and posting them on her blog. Drawing, making Halloween costumes, applying cosmetics—the topic didn’t matter. For three years, she blogged her problems away, fancying herself an amateur teacher of her peers and gaining a modest teenage following. This and odd jobs were her life, until a kind uncle gave her mother a few thousand dollars to buy furniture, which was used instead to send Phan to Ringling College of Art and Design. Prepared to study hard and survive on a shoestring, Phan, on her first day at Ringling, encountered a street team which was handing out free MacBook laptops, complete with front-facing webcams, from an anonymous donor. Phan later told me, with moist eyes, “If I had not gotten that laptop, I wouldn’t be here today.

A choose-your-own Jesus mentality, by contrast, encourages spiritual seekers to screen out discomfiting parts of the New Testament and focus only on whichever Christ they find most congenial. And our religious culture is now dominated by figures who flatter this impulse, in all its myriad forms—conservative and liberal, conspiratorial and mystical, eco-friendly and consumerist, and everything in between.

Him an’ me’s friends,” she said. “Well?” She did not speak for a time. “Garrick an’ me’s done everything together. I couldn’t leave ’im to starve.” “Well?” “I couldn’t, mister. I couldn’t—” In distress she began to slip off the mare. He suddenly found that the thing he had set out to prove had proved something quite different. Human nature had outmaneuvered him. For if she would not desert a friend, neither could he.

I say he hurled himself into the sea because he couldn’t live with what he’d done.” Anger burned briefly in his friendly face but was quickly snuffed out when another patron called out to him. He snapped the beard back into place. “Turned out he’d mortgaged the pub to the hilt. There were massive debts to clear, so they sold the old cottage to Mark Bowers. He rents it out to holiday-makers now. The girls were happy to sell the pub on to me with the

Young rarely showed outward grief and discouraged public displays of mourning. He had kept his tears to himself after Joseph Smith’s death, and he did not participate in deathbed vigils for his first wife Miriam or his father. When his daughter Mary Eliza Croxall (by Clarissa Ross) died in 1871, a “shocked” and sickened Young cancelled all business and simply remained inside for a day. As the summer of 1875 drew to a close, though, Young’s emotions were unusually ragged. One month after Joseph Angell’s death, George A. Smith died. For four decades, Smith and Young had been at the center of the church’s history: the 1834 Zion’s Camp march, the 1840–1841 mission to England, the tumultuous events of Nauvoo, and the exodus. At his friend’s funeral, Young uncharacteristically wept.2

What are you planning to tell your mother about all this when you get home, Andrew?” “I don’t see any need to tell her anything.” “You don’t? What do you say when she asks where you’ve been all day?” “Why,” said Sara cheerfully, “we were on a boat trip on the canal. It was very interesting and instructive. We learned something about dustmen and dust yards and about Indian religions. But, best of all, we met a police officer from India who turned out to be a good friend of Beasley’s as well as the inspector’s and whom he’ll almost certainly invite to dinner.” “Isn’t there a folk saying about teaching one’s grandmother to suck eggs?” said Captain Ross with a smile. “There is,” said Wyatt. “And the interesting part of it is that every word of what she said is true.

Drew, a friend helping Loren in her research, "...This may be the most important class I’ve never paid for nor received credit hours for taking. Let’s lift our glasses to Professor Finkel!

Hannah laughs at her best friend and adds, in a more serious tone, “If you lose a match, people will think you’re not ready for Helios.” “Right. Technically, I’m supposed to be the baddest thing alive. That’s why Dennis tried fixing my matches.” The two women start a fake boxing match. Michelle swings at Hannah. Though she misses, Hannah dramatically collapses on the ground. That’s actually a great depiction of how badly the match I had last year looked. The student my father paid off practically had to fall on his own in order to lose. Michelle tickles Hannah to get

Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers. ~Charles W. Eliot Books let us into their souls and lay open to us the secrets of our own. ~William Hazlitt The smallest bookstore still contains more ideas of worth than have been presented in the entire history of television. ~Andrew Ross To choose a good book, look in an inquisitor’s prohibited list. ~John Aikin Books and ideas are the most effective weapons against intolerance and ignorance. ~ Lyndon B Johnson For friends... do but look upon good Books: they are true friends, that will neither flatter nor dissemble. ~Francis Bacon "Tell me what you read and I'll tell you who you are" is true enough, but I'd know you better if you told me what you reread. ~François Mauriac I have friends whose society is delightful to me; they are persons of all countries and of all ages; distinguished in war, in council, and in letters; easy to live with, always at my command. ~Francesco Petrarch To read without reflecting is like eating without digesting. ~Edmund Burke There is no such thing as a moral or immoral book; books are well written or badly written. ~Oscar Wilde

Conservative elites first turned to populism as a political strategy thanks to Richard Nixon. His festering resentment of the Establishment’s clubby exclusivity prepared him emotionally to reach out to the “silent majority,” with whom he shared that hostility. Nixon excoriated “our leadership class, the ministers, the college professors, and other teachers… the business leadership class… they have all really let down and become soft.” He looked forward to a new party of independent conservatism resting on a defense of traditional cultural and social norms governing race and religion and the family. It would include elements of blue-collar America estranged from their customary home in the Democratic Party. Proceeding in fits and starts, this strategic experiment proved its viability during the Reagan era, just when the businessman as populist hero was first flexing his spiritual muscles. Claiming common ground with the folkways of the “good ole boy” working class fell within the comfort zone of a rising milieu of movers and shakers and their political enablers. It was a “politics of recognition”—a rediscovery of the “forgotten man”—or what might be termed identity politics from above. Soon enough, Bill Clinton perfected the art of the faux Bubba. By that time we were living in the age of the Bubba wannabe—Ross Perot as the “simple country billionaire.” The most improbable members of the “new tycoonery” by then had mastered the art of pandering to populist sentiment. Citibank’s chairman Walter Wriston, who did yeoman work to eviscerate public oversight of the financial sector, proclaimed, “Markets are voting machines; they function by taking referenda” and gave “power to the people.” His bank plastered New York City with clever broadsides linking finance to every material craving, while simultaneously implying that such seductions were unworthy of the people and that the bank knew it. Its $1 billion “Live Richly” ad campaign included folksy homilies: what was then the world’s largest bank invited us to “open a craving account” and pointed out that “money can’t buy you happiness. But it can buy you marshmallows, which are kinda the same thing.” Cuter still and brimming with down-home family values, Citibank’s ads also reminded everybody, “He who dies with the most toys is still dead,” and that “the best table in the city is still the one with your family around it.” Yale preppie George W. Bush, in real life a man with distinctly subpar instincts for the life of the daredevil businessman, was “eating pork rinds and playing horseshoes.” His friends, maverick capitalists all, drove Range Rovers and pickup trucks, donning bib overalls as a kind of political camouflage.

One of the most powerful ways we do this is by creating stereotypes. We begin to learn how to “read” different kinds of people. As we encounter them, we instantly compare them to other people we have encountered before. Were the others friendly, safe, and welcoming? If so, then we are likely to feel comfortable with these individuals. On the other hand, were the others hostile or unfriendly? Then the mind sends a different message: Be careful! Stereotypes provide a shortcut that helps us navigate through our world more quickly, more efficiently, and, our minds believe, more safely. Of course, even when we haven’t encountered a particular kind of person before, we may have the same judgments and assessments based on things that we have heard or learned about “people like that.” As far back as 1906, William Graham Sumner, the first person to hold an academic chair in sociology at Yale University, identified the phenomenon of “in-group/out-group bias.” Sumner wrote that “each group nourishes its own pride and vanity, boasts itself superior, exists in its own divinities, and looks with contempt on outsiders.”[6] This phenomenon is magnified when the “in” group is the dominant or majority culture in a particular circumstance.

You may be going through a dark season, you may feel isolated and alone, but you are not unnoticed and you are never alone. The heavens are cheering you on. In another realm an unseen group of people is rooting for you to accomplish God’s plans of bringing the heavenlies to earth. Moses and Abraham, grandmothers and departed friends, all the saints who went before you. The great cloud of witnesses cheers you on from heaven. And it isn’t as far away as you might think.