Safety Belt Quotes

If you're worried about safety, you might like to follow my example and put on that seat belt." "The what?" Xavier shook his head in disbelief. "You worry me," he muttered.

Don't talk to strangers. Don't do drugs. Don't smoke. Don't drink and drive. Don't have sex. Wear a condom. Wear sunblock. Wear a seat belt. Wear a helmet. If you see something, say something. Just say no. Stop, drop, and roll. Stop, look, and listen. Look both ways before you cross the street... Safety is an illusion. Bad things can happen to anyone at any time, whether you follow the rules or not. You can check left, check right, check left again before you step off the curb and into the crosswalk, but that won't stop an anonymous asshole in his shitty pickup from putting you in intensive care...

The seat belt irked his father more than Uncle Colin's not eating meat, because, though his father never said it, Larry knew he considered seat belts cowardly.

Being older, I began to understand the lyrics. At the beginning, it sounds like a guy is trying to get his girlfriend to secretly meet up with him at midnight. But it’s an odd place for a tryst, a hanging tree, where a man was hung for murder. The murderer’s lover must have had something to do with the killing, or maybe they were just going to punish her anyway, because his corpse called out for her to flee. That’s weird obviously, the talking-corpse bit, but it’s not until the third verse that “The Hanging Tree” begins to get unnerving. You realize the singer of the song is the dead murderer. He’s still in the hanging tree. And even though he told his lover to flee, he keeps asking if she’s coming to meet him. The phrase Where I told you to run, so we’d both be free is the most troubling because at first you think he’s talking about when he told her to flee, presumably to safety. But then you wonder if he meant for her to run to him. To death. In the final stanza, it’s clear that that’s what he was waiting for. His lover, with her rope necklace, hanging dead next to him in the tree. I used to think the murderer was the creepiest guy imaginable. Now, with a couple of trips to the Hunger Games under my belt, I decide not to judge him without knowing more details. Maybe his lover was already sentenced to death and he was trying to make it easier. To let her know he’d be waiting. Or maybe he thought the place he was leaving her was really worse than death. Didn’t I want to kill Peeta with that syringe to save him from the Capitol? Was that really my only option? Probably not, but I couldn’t think of another at the time.

About ten days ago, I started noticing little additions to his car. In the back seat, he installed the car seat's base so we don't have to use the safety belt each time. A few days after that, a mirror that rests on the headrest and looks down at her appeared. Then, the newest addition, an emergency kit in the trunk. Filled with items that would tide us over until he could get to me in the event of a flat tire or some other issue.

The back of the seat in front of Richards was a revelation in itself. There was a pocket with a safety handbook in it. In case of air turbulence, fasten your belt. If the cabin loses pressure, pull down the air mask directly over your head. In case of engine trouble, the stewardess will give you further instructions. In case of sudden explosive death, hope you have enough dental fillings to insure identification.

Here is the safety belt,” he said to Jun Do. “A hero may wear one or not, as he wishes. I am old and have no need for safety, but Comrade Buc, you must apply the belt. You are young, you have a wife and children.

we all know we should wear a seat belt in a car, but do they make us safer? Some research suggests they might not reduce car accident fatalities because people drive with less care, feeling there is a margin of safety between them and injury.

Carly grabbed at Howard, who was in the driver’s seat, while she was buckled in behind him. She flopped back in the seat of the car over and over, screaming and crying, throwing herself hard against the constraints of the safety belt. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?” they asked over and over. When they finally arrived at Barb’s several minutes later and turned off the car, Carly calmed sufficiently to respond. “You need a seat belt,” Carly observed. Sheepishly, Howard acknowledged he hadn’t fastened his when leaving our house.

When you think of how the world’s changed in your lifetime, what do you think about?” “I think of killing.” Her gaze was steady. “Really? Why?” “Have you ever had to do it?” François sighed. He didn’t like to think about it. “I was surprised in the woods once.” “I’ve been surprised too.” It was evening, and François had lit a candle in the library. It stood in the middle of a plastic tub, for safety. The candlelight softened the scar on Kirsten’s left cheekbone. She was wearing a summer dress with a faded pattern of white flowers on red, three sheathed knives in her belt. “How many?” he asked. She turned her wrist to show the knife tattoos. Two.

Humanitarian Benefits of Cadaver Research on Injury Prevention,” Albert King calculated that vehicle safety improvements that have come about as a result of cadaver research have saved an estimated 8,500 lives each year since 1987. For every cadaver that rode the crash sleds to test three-point seat belts, 61 lives per year have been saved. For every cadaver that took an air bag in the face, 147 people per year survive otherwise fatal head-ons. For every corpse whose head has hammered a windshield, 68 lives per year are saved.

Do not sit back and relax, take the driving seat, put your safety seat belt and dare to take the risk because either it is today or never!!!

Some wings are organza stitched onto school backpacks; some are quilted cotton stuffed with dried flowers and clipped to jacket shoulders. Some few have been carefully glued together from dozens of butterflies’ discarded wings—but only those butterflies that died naturally, of course. Thus adorned, children who can run through the streets do so, leaping off curbs and making whooshing sounds as they pretend to fly. Those who cannot run instead ride special drones, belted and barred and double-checked for safety, which gently bounce them into the air. It’s only a few feet, though it feels like the height of the sky.

Clotho: [At last the change came – the turning of the aura. We knew it would come, but not when it would come. When it did, we went to him and sent him on.] [‘Sent him on to where?’] It was Lois who asked the question, broaching the touchy subject of the afterlife almost by accident. Ralph grabbed for his mental safety belt, almost hoping for one of those peculiar blanks, but when their overlapped answers came, they were perfectly clear. Clotho: [To everywhere.] Lachesis: [To other worlds than these.]

In a 1995 Journal of Trauma article entitled “Humanitarian Benefits of Cadaver Research on Injury Prevention,” Albert King calculated that vehicle safety improvements that have come about as a result of cadaver research have saved an estimated 8,500 lives each year since 1987. For every cadaver that rode the crash sleds to test three-point seat belts, 61 lives per year have been saved. For every cadaver that took an air bag in the face, 147 people per year survive otherwise fatal head-ons. For every corpse whose head has hammered a windshield, 68 lives per year are saved.

While on the staff of a large magazine a few years ago, I wanted to print the fact that four grams of niacinamide (Vitamin B-3) will abort most bad LSD trips. The editors rejected this because “it might encourage kids to think they can take acid without risks.” Now, that argument may be valid, but it reminds me of the old assertion that automobiles should not have safety belts because such protection would just encourage drivers to be more careless. People who are going to be damn fools probably can’t be stopped no matter what restrictions are placed on them, but those who want to minimize risks should have safety information available to them.

Albert King calculated that vehicle safety improvements that have come about as a result of cadaver research have saved an estimated 8,500 lives each year since 1987. For every cadaver that rode the crash sleds to test three-point seat belts, 61 lives per year have been saved. For every cadaver that took an air bag in the face, 147 people per year survive otherwise fatal head-ons. For every corpse whose head has hammered a windshield, 68 lives per year are saved.

Living one’s desire is an adventure like no other. There are no safety nets, no seat belts. In fact, when you plight your troth to your desires, you’re kind of asking for it. You’re grabbing the hand of the Great Pussy in the Sky and asking to be broken open. Asking to be remade. Asking for the current version of you to be shattered and reassembled into the woman you were born to become. This is part of the life cycle of what it means to be a woman. Just as the seasons are cyclical, with winter as necessary as spring, and the sun and moon move in cycles, with times of light and times of darkness, so moves the body and soul of a woman. We each require the dark night of the soul as much as we require the light. The word I use to describe this undoing? Rupture.

His choice had to be swift as the wind. Should he take cover behind the row in front of him and toss the bit of metal in the snow (it'd be noticed but they wouldn't know who the culprit was) or keep it on him? For that strip of hacksaw he could get ten days in the cells, if they classed it as a knife. But a cobbler's knife was money, it was bread. A pity to throw it away. He slipped it into his left mitten. At that moment the next row was ordered to step forward and be searched. Now the last three men stood in full view-- Senka, Shukhov, and the man from the 32nd squad who had gone to look for the Moldavian. Because they were three and the guards facing them were five, Shukhov could try a ruse. He could choose which of the two guards on the right to present himself to. He decided against a young pink-faced one and plumped for an older man with a gray mustache. The older one, of course, was experienced and could find the blade easily if he wanted to, but because of his age he would be fed up with the job. It must stink in his nose now like burning sulfur. Meanwhile Shukhov had removed both mittens, the empty one and the one with the hacksaw, and held them in one hand (the empty one in front) together with the untied rope belt. He fully unbuttoned his jacket, lifted high the edges of his coat and jacket (never had he been so servile at the search but now he wanted to show he was innocent--Come on, frisk me!), and at the word of command stepped forward. The guard slapped Shukhov's sides and back, and the outside of his pants pocket. Nothing there. He kneaded the edges of coat and jacket. Nothing there either. He was about to pass him through when, for safety's sake, he crushed the mitten that Shukhov held out to him--the empty one. The guard crushed it in his band, and Shukhov felt as though pincers of iron were crushing everything inside him. One such squeeze on the other mitten and he'd be sunk--the cells on nine ounces of bread a day and hot stew one day in three. He imagined how weak he'd grow, how difficult he'd find it to get back to his present condition, neither fed nor starving. And an urgent prayer rose in his heart: "Oh Lord, save me! Don't let them send me to the cells." And while all this raced through his mind, the guard, after finishing with the right-hand mitten, stretched a hand out to deal with the other (he would have squeezed them at the same moment if Shukhov had held them in separate hands). Just then the guard heard his chief, who was in a hurry to get on, shout to the escort: "Come on, bring up the machine-works column." And instead of examining the other mitten the old guard waved Shukhov on. He was through. He ran off to catch up with the others. They had already formed fives in a sort of corridor between long beams, like horse stalls in a market, a sort of paddock for prisoners. He ran lightly; hardly feeling the ground. He didn't say a prayer of thanksgiving because he hadn't time, and anyway it would have been out of place. The escort now drew aside.

Taking quick looks behind him on the trail, Lew Basnight was apt to see things that weren’t necessarily there. Mounted figure in a black duster and hat, always still, turned sidewise in the hard, sunlit distance, horse bent to the barren ground. No real beam of attention, if anything a withdrawal into its own lopsided star-shaped silhouette, as if that were all it had ever aspired to. It did not take long to convince himself that the presence behind him now, always just out of eyeball range, belonged to one and the same subject, the notorious dynamiter of the San Juans known as the Kieselguhr Kid. The Kid happened to be of prime interest to White City Investigations. Just around the time Lew was stepping off the train at the Union Station in Denver, and the troubles up in the Coeur d’Alene were starting to bleed over everywhere in the mining country, where already hardly a day passed without an unscheduled dynamite blast in it someplace, the philosophy among larger, city-based detective agencies like Pinkerton’s and Thiel’s began to change, being as they now found themselves with far too much work on their hands. On the theory that they could look at their unsolved cases the way a banker might at instruments of debt, they began selling off to less-established and accordingly hungrier outfits like White City their higher-risk tickets, including that of the long-sought Kieselguhr Kid. It was the only name anybody seemed to know him by, “Kieselguhr” being a kind of fine clay, used to soak up nitroglycerine and stabilize it into dynamite. The Kid’s family had supposedly come over as refugees from Germany shortly after the reaction of 1849, settling at first near San Antonio, which the Kid-to-be, having developed a restlessness for higher ground, soon left, and then after a spell in the Sangre de Cristos, so it went, heading west again, the San Juans his dream, though not for the silver-mine money, nor the trouble he could get into, both of those, he was old enough by then to appreciate, easy enough to come by. No, it was for something else. Different tellers of the tale had different thoughts on what. “Don’t carry pistols, don’t own a shotgun nor a rifle—no, his trade-mark, what you’ll find him packing in those tooled holsters, is always these twin sticks of dynamite, with a dozen more—” “Couple dozen, in big bandoliers across his chest.” “Easy fellow to recognize, then.” “You’d think so, but no two eyewitnesses have ever agreed. It’s like all that blasting rattles it loose from everybody’s memory.” “But say, couldn’t even a slow hand just gun him before he could get a fuse lit?” “Wouldn’t bet on it. Got this clever wind-proof kind of striker rig on to each holster, like a safety match, so all’s he has to do’s draw, and the ‘sucker’s all lit and ready to throw.” “Fast fuses, too. Some boys down the Uncompahgre found out about that just last August, nothin left to bury but spurs and belt buckles. Even old Butch Cassidy and them’ll begin to coo like a barn full of pigeons whenever the Kid’s in the county.” Of course, nobody ever’d been sure about who was in Butch Cassidy’s gang either. No shortage of legendary deeds up here, but eyewitnesses could never swear beyond a doubt who in each case, exactly, had done which, and, more than fear of retaliation—it was as if physical appearance actually shifted, causing not only aliases to be inconsistently assigned but identity itself to change. Did something, something essential, happen to human personality above a certain removal from sea level? Many quoted Dr. Lombroso’s observation about how lowland folks tended to be placid and law-abiding while mountain country bred revolutionaries and outlaws. That was over in Italy, of course. Theorizers about the recently discovered subconscious mind, reluctant to leave out any variable that might seem helpful, couldn’t avoid the altitude, and the barometric pressure that went with it. This was spirit, after all.

Since the days after car seats and booster seats I have harped and drilled and grilled my son about always wearing his seatbelt because that was the law. One day he caught ME forgetting to fasten my safety belt. My eight year old looked over at me and said “Why for the love of God, aren’t you wearing your seat belt?” I was a bit embarrassed at my oversight, and flippantly answered “you have yours on, so why are you so worried about me?” His response, “Because, Mom, if the police stop you and take you to jail I don’t want to have to drive home without a license!” Such a wise boy, I promised right there I will always wear a seatbelt.

The country was cut up by Nature into small compartments in which the natives lived isolated self-contained lives, the world forgetting and by the world forgot. This was true in a special degree of the belt lying immediately east of the Ghats. The empires of the central and more level portion of the table-land, both in Hindu times and Muslim, had sent forth their conquering hosts westwards, but the flood of invasion had been broken down at the foot of the hills or their numerous spurs, or, where a thin stream of it had poured through the passes, it had retired after a short and unprofitable stay. In their rugged and inhospitable nooks the natives had found safety and peace, while the richer plains had been the scenes of revolution and rapine.

Whenever somebody turned his head, he shouted, "Stop looking behind you!: There was a strict rule against head turns. When reversing, you were supposed to rely on mirrors only; the blind spot didn't exist, at least not in Coach Tang's eyes. Nobody ever wore a seat belt. I never saw a turn signal flash on the parking range at the Public Safety Driving School.

after an indeterminate amount of time having only bed baths? I'm fine with the safety belt - hell, do I want to fall on the hard floor? No, please, God, no.

Mobile security is treated like safety in the early days of the car,” he says. “Nobody thought about seat belts or air bags as long as every generation of cars was faster and cooler than the last one.

And oh the darkness that was a constant in Bergen! Not linked to night in any way, nor to shadow, nevertheless it was almost always here, this muted darkness suffused with falling rain. Objects and events became so concentrated when it was like this because the sun opened up airspace, and everything that was in it: a father putting shopping bags in a car boot outside Støletorget while the mother bundled their children onto the back seat, got in at the front, drew the safety belt across her chest and buckled it into place, watching this when the sun was shining and the sky was light and open was one thing, then all their movements seemed to flutter past and vanish the moment they were carried out; however, it was a very different matter watching the same family if it was raining, enveloped by the muted darkness, for then there was a leadenness about their movements, it was as if they were statues, these people, transfixed in this moment — which, the very next, they had left anyway. The dustbins outside the stairs, seeing them in strong sunlight was one thing, they were hardly there, as almost nothing was, but it was quite a different matter in rain-darkened daylight, then they stood like shining pillars of silver, some of them magnificent, others sadder and more wretched, but all there, just then, at that moment. Yes, Bergen. The incredible power that lay in all the various house fronts squeezed together everywhere. The head rush you had as you slogged your way uphill and saw this, at your feet, could be wonderful.

Stars, Sam. We mucked it. I mean, I mucked it. And not just for us. Yet I recall pure joy: your bike hot between my legs, your arms locked ’round my waist. I recall poor Second’s chiding before I blinked it off. I recall laughter and all of those soldiers from someone else’s war standing on that terrace singing yet another Terran victory rag. You told me later that you didn’t know I’d make a run at the canyon wall ’til I torqued it, thumbing your bike’s twin throttles hard enough to singe our legs as the acceleration turned into an increasing roar. By the time we hit fifty, I couldn’t even hear you yelling at me to stop over the wind. I didn’t think you were serious. We’d climbed that mesa in daylight when we were younger, smaller, bendier. We’d done it with safety rails and belts, with hoverbikes that floated back down like carnival balloons when we failed; we’d done it with our parents cheering and a Grass Priest standing watch in case we needed healing. That run should’ve been a lark, Sam. But the night was dark as space, and our planet has no moon. You grabbed hard as I pulled the yoke. The engines screamed. I meant to pull up, climb that mesa vertically—see if we could rocket to the top before I gunned again like we’d done a hundred times as kids. But I timed it too late. I saw the mesa wall in our headlamps, and then everything went black. The next thing I recall is waking up on the Unity ship Ascendant with Ken’ri Mureen of Glos smiling down at me. Those big round eyes in her lovely, lying face. I thought I’d surely killed you, Sam, but Mureen swore you were fine. Mureen swore removing my Second was only temporary—swore surgery would fix the soup the crash had made of my brain. She made me sign forms, and then Ma came in with pastries. I still didn’t believe you’d made it out, but Ma swore it too. You know the gist after that—mostly—but there’s a lot I never told—

legal property of their inhabitants. We pledge our lives to protect those people, citizens of the greater humanity, against the historical and established crimes of economy and violence they have suffered at the gun barrels of Earth and Mars. “I am Marco Inaros. I am commander of the Free Navy. And I call upon all free men and women of the Belt to rise up now in joy and glorious resolve. The Free Navy pledges you all the safety of our protection. This day is ours. Tomorrow is ours. The future of humanity is ours. Today, and forevermore, we are free.

Each forbidden cigarette, each safety belt fastened, each crash helmet worn, each blasphemy law enacted, is a landmark on the road to Dystopia.

Many cases of mistreatment of people in the lowest caste occur at the hands of those of their same caste, as in the case of Freddie Gray, who died of spinal injuries at the hands of police officers in Baltimore. Gray was handcuffed in the back of a police van but not secured with safety belts, according to court testimony. The van swerved and curved, knocking Gray around the cargo area, handcuffed and unable to keep himself from crashing into the interior walls of the van. Three of the officers involved were black, including the driver of the van. This combination of factors allowed society to explain away Gray’s death as surely having nothing to do with race, when in fact it was likely caste at work. All of these officers were either acquitted or had their charges dropped

That shit you just pulled? That was dangerous as hell. Safety first, baby. You should always use your seat belt.

It’s mayhem, it’s chaos, and then the hose is unleashed. An icy torrent of water knocks me to the ground and separates me from Seth. Water fills my nose, and I choke on it, coughing hard and desperately trying to shield my eyes from the worst of it so I can see. The spray moves away from me long enough that I can stand on shaky legs. It’s a fight to regain my bearings, my vision still blurred, and stray limbs and bodies tangle across the ground, tripping me with every step. The gate is at my back, and everywhere I look is a mess of water, people, and mud. It’s so loud; even when I blink away the last of the water, I still feel too disoriented, like I’m disconnected from my body. I slip. My shoulder slams into concrete, and I breathe through the pain as I force myself to my feet again. Someone shouts my name, but then there’s a guard in front of me, his helmet visor pulled up so I can see the wicked gleam in his eyes when he pulls out a small black object from his belt. I spot the metal prongs and realize what’s about to happen. Terror lances up my spine, thick and suffocating in my throat. I can’t move. Behind me, Ajei screams. A large hand wrenches me back by the arm, and I lose my balance. Electricity crackles from the end of the taser, missing my drenched side by a centimeter as I crash to the ground hard. “We saw you!” Someone screams. “We have a video! Murderer! You tried to kill him!” Without warning, hands are everywhere, grabbing me and pulling me back to safety. “No, wait!” I shout, struggling to free myself from their grasp. I can’t leave now, not like this. I need to be up at the front, strong in the face of danger, just like our ancestors. I need to make my family proud; need to protect them and the land we were blessed with the way I promised I would. There’s a cry of pain, and I catch a glimpse of Seth yanking my attacker’s arm behind his back until he’s forced to drop the taser, which Seth kicks away. His eyes are ablaze, and he’s utterly ruthless, but despite everything, I can only think of how beautiful he looks. Then, he swings out a leg and takes out another guard who is going after a fleeing Ajei, her phone in her hand from where she had been recording everything. He spies me on the ground amidst the throngs of protestors, something like fear on his face, and roars, “Get him out of here!

I have probably seen the airline belt buckle demonstration 400 times, maybe more. They won’t even start the airplane safety demonstration until everyone has their seat buckle on. That's weird. Here’s my suggestion. We are all savvy, digital travelers, tracked by the FAA by our drivers licenses (used for operating automobiles, where we also have seatbelts). We shouldn’t be penalized (or paralyzed) by watching the darn seatbelt buckle demo after we’re already buckled in. Create boarding group “R” for Rookie. Before boarding, everyone who hasn’t flown 5 times within the last 10 years has to get in a room in the departure lounge to have the mandatory seatbelt buckle demo privately, including the “helpful” tips about the direction of roller board wheels (pointing out), and how to pull the strap and inflate the life vest.

leaned over and whispered to Aiden, “How long do you think he’s been in there?” Aiden answered without giving it much thought. “It’s difficult to tell.  Based on the rot and decomposition along the jaw line, I’d say maybe a few months.  But don’t quote me on that.” I looked hard at the torn skin and exposed bone.  There was no way Aiden was right.  This one had been in there much longer than a couple of months.  In fact, it wouldn’t have surprised me if our tour guide let us know that this particular zombie was the first zombie to ever be held in captivity and put on display. Looking along the edge of the guard rail that separated us from the ‘State of the Art’ Zombie display at the zoo, I couldn’t help but think that there wasn’t a whole lot separating us from the flesh eating lot.  And that if they somehow managed to get out of the ten foot deep pit they were in, it would be utter terror and devastation for the rest of us.   The part that was most frightening was that the pit was completely open on the top. No barrier at all. None. I raised my hand and asked the tour guide, “How do you know we’re safe?” He took a second, startled that anybody would even dare ask such a question.  He hoisted his belt buckle above his overly extended belly and gave the lapels of his coat a quick jerk before answering.   “Son, this here display was designed completely with safety in mind.  The pit has been measured precisely and this guard rail is completely reinforced with the strongest steel mesh imaginable.  Not to mention the concrete barrier has been poured to triple the required thickness.” He gave a quick snort and nervously touched his hand to his name tag, giving it a quick downward tug before finishing his response.  “So you see, it’s quite safe.” Everyone nodded, showing their approval at the guide’s explanation.   But not me.   I looked over the edge of the enclosure, staring at the collection of zombies that were gathered below.  They looked up at me, making eye contact with their cold, blue eyes.   There must’ve been ten or fifteen of them.  One of them jumped up, attempting to climb out of the pit, its finger tips just missing the top of the super thick concrete wall. I felt a chill go up my spine.  The thought of one of them managing to get loose gave me a quick shudder as we moved on with the tour, in the direction of the lions.   “Are you okay?” Aiden asked, sunflower seeds sticking to his lips as he attempted to spit them out on the ground.  He spat and sputtered for a few seconds before he realized I was looking at him.  “What?”  He asked. “I’m fine.” “You are a lot of things Darren.  But fine is not one of them.” He was right.  I hated it when he was right. “Alright, you got me.  I’m a little nervous, that’s all.

Having said that, not everything needs to be regulated. As argued by Lisa Quest and Anthony Charrie in MIT Sloan Management Review,1 regulation should focus on three overarching objectives and be proportionate to the level of risk: Safety: protecting individuals and societies, such as governments mandating air bags, or the use of the seat belts, but not the size or form of cars Competition: ensuring that there is healthy competition and a real chance for innovation to flourish, principles that are at the core of the capitalist model upon which today's Western world is based Privacy: establishing understandable and consistent parameters for data privacy and monetization

In 1975, the University of Chicago economist Sam Peltzman observed that improving car safety caused more accidents because people took more risks when driving. With power steering, antilock brakes, widespread use of seat belts, and driver-assist alerts if we are too close to another vehicle or pedestrian, cars are safer than ever, but we also drive faster. Taking a bigger risk because technology imparts a feeling of safety is known as the Peltzman effect.

When God is driving, there's no need for a safety belt.

Lord, by faith here’s what I’m doing right now to prepare myself for the coming day. I’m putting on the belt of truth. I ask You to make it very clear to me what I am to accept into my life and what I am to reject. Help me to see clearly the motives of others as they deal with me and converse with me. Let me walk in Your truth, making decisions and choices according to Your plans and purposes for my life. I am putting on the breastplate of righteousness. Guard my emotions today. Protect my heart. Help me to take into my life only the things that are pure, and nothing that is poison or polluting. Help me to live in integrity and to have a reputation based upon doing, saying, believing, thinking, and feeling the right things. Help me to live in right relationship with You every moment of this coming day. I am putting on my spiritual boots. Help me to stand and walk in Your peace and to move forward in ways that bring Your peace and love to others. Help me to have the full confidence and assurance that come from knowing that I am filled with the peace that only You can give to those who are Your children. Help me to be a peacemaker. Show me where to walk and how to walk as You would walk. I am picking up the shield of faith. Help me to trust You to be my Victor in every area of life today. Help me to trust You to defend me, provide for me, and keep me in safety every hour of this day. I am putting on my helmet of salvation. Guard my mind today. Bring to my remembrance all that You have done for me as my Savior. Let me live in the hope and confidence that You are saving me—rescuing me and delivering me—from evil. I am picking up my sword of the Spirit, the Word of God. Bring to my remembrance today the verses of the Bible that I have read and memorized, and help me to apply them to the situations and circumstances I will face. Let me use Your Word to bring Your light into the darkness of this world and to defeat the devil when he comes to tempt me. Father, I want to be fully clothed with the identity of Jesus Christ today. I am in Christ. He is in me. Help me to fully realize and accept that He is my Truth, my Righteousness, my Peace, my Savior, the source of my faith, and the ever-present Lord of my life. I want to bring glory to Your name today. I ask all of this in the name of Jesus. Amen.