Shine Through Cracks Quotes

I hope you will find the cracks in the world and wedge them wider, so the light of other suns shines through; I hope you will keep the world unruly, messy, full of strange magics; I hope you will run through every open Door and tell stories when you return.

Maybe this was meant to happen, this discovery of cracks where now a different, new light can shine through.

God knows the mess we’re in when He calls us. His light shines greater through “cracked pots” than it does through those who have it all together.

I hope to every god you have the guts to do what needs doing. I hope you will find the cracks in the world and wedge them wider, so the light of other suns shines through. I hope you will keep the world unruly, messy, full of strange magics. I hope you will run through every open Door, and tell stories when you return.

At night I would lie in bed and watch the show, how bees squeezed through the cracks of my bedroom wall and flew circles around the room, making that propeller sound, a high-pitched zzzzzz that hummed along my skin. I watched their wings shining like bits of chrome in the dark and felt the longing build in my chest. The way those bees flew, not even looking for a flower, just flying for the feel of the wind, split my heart down its seam.

Although we were not able to shatter that highest and hardest glass ceiling this time, thanks to you it has 18 million cracks in it, and the light is shining through like never before, filling us all with the hope and the sure knowledge that the path will be a little easier next time, and we are going to keep working to make it so, today keep with me and stand for me, we still have so much to do together, we made history, and lets make some more.

And maybe there are small cracks in our walls and we start to see a sliver of light shine through in each other

The cracks in your heart are there so the light can shine through.

Inside a barn is a whole universe, with its own time zone and climate and ecosystem, a shadowy world of swirling dust illuminated in tiger stripes by light shining through the cracks between the boards. Old leather tack, lengths of chain, rope, and baling twine dangled from nails and rafters and draped over stall railings. Generations of pocketknives lay lost in the layers of detritus on the floor.

Life has been messy for me, as it has for most everyone. I have come to the realization that challenging experiences break us all at some point—our bodies and minds, our hearts and egos. When we put ourselves back together, we find that we are no longer perfectly straight, but rather bent and cracked. Yet it is through these cracks that our authenticity shines. It is by revealing these cracks that we can learn to see and be seen deeply.

My love, you are closer to me than myself... You shine through my eyes, Your light is brighter than the Moon... Step into the garden so all the flowers... Even the tall poplar can kneel before your beauty... Let your voice silence the lily famous for its hundred tongues, When you want to be kind... You are softer than the soul... But when you withdraw... You can be so cold and harsh. Dear one, you can be wild and rebellious... But when you meet him face to face... His charm will make you docile like the earth, Throw away your shield and bare your chest... There is no stronger protection than him. That's why when the Lover withdraws from the world... He covers all the cracks in the wall... So the outside light cannot come though, He knows that only the inner light illuminates his world!

Little girls are the nicest things that can happen to people. They are born with a bit of angel-shine about them, and though it wears thin sometimes, there is always enough left to lasso your heart—even when they are sitting in the mud, or crying temperamental tears, or parading up the street in Mother’s best clothes. A little girl can be sweeter (and badder) oftener than anyone else in the world. She can jitter around, and stomp, and make funny noises that frazzle your nerves, yet just when you open your mouth, she stands there demure with that special look in her eyes. A girl is Innocence playing in the mud, Beauty standing on its head, and Motherhood dragging a doll by the foot. God borrows from many creatures to make a little girl. He uses the song of a bird, the squeal of a pig, the stubbornness of a mule, the antics of a monkey, the spryness of a grasshopper, the curiosity of a cat, the speed of a gazelle, the slyness of a fox, the softness of a kitten, and to top it all off He adds the mysterious mind of a woman. A little girl likes new shoes, party dresses, small animals, first grade, noisemakers, the girl next door, dolls, make-believe, dancing lessons, ice cream, kitchens, coloring books, make-up, cans of water, going visiting, tea parties, and one boy. She doesn’t care so much for visitors, boys in general, large dogs, hand-me-downs, straight chairs, vegetables, snowsuits, or staying in the front yard. She is loudest when you are thinking, the prettiest when she has provoked you, the busiest at bedtime, the quietest when you want to show her off, and the most flirtatious when she absolutely must not get the best of you again. Who else can cause you more grief, joy, irritation, satisfaction, embarrassment, and genuine delight than this combination of Eve, Salome, and Florence Nightingale. She can muss up your home, your hair, and your dignity—spend your money, your time, and your patience—and just when your temper is ready to crack, her sunshine peeks through and you’ve lost again. Yes, she is a nerve-wracking nuisance, just a noisy bundle of mischief. But when your dreams tumble down and the world is a mess—when it seems you are pretty much of a fool after all—she can make you a king when she climbs on your knee and whispers, "I love you best of all!

This is why being broken is so beautiful: being broken means you have cracks for love and light to shine through, gaps for the Godiverse to burrow and bloom, space to move from who you are to who you will become.

Circumstances don't define you. They shape you. You're molded to make a difference. Let your light shine bright, even through the cracks.

A very wise person stood up in front of others, and though he was very nervous, he said the most profoundly beautiful thing I've ever heard." Linus tried to smile, and it cracked right down the middle. He said, "I am but paper. Brittle and thin. I am held up to the sun, and it shines right through me. I get written on, and I can never be used again. These scratches are a history. They’re a story. They tell things for others to read, but they only see the words, and not what the words are written upon. I am but paper, and though there are many like me, none are exactly the same. I am parched parchment. I have lines. I have holes. Get me wet, and I melt. Light me on fire, and I burn. Take me in hardened hands, and I crumple. I tear. I am but paper. Brittle and thin.

Like a favorite song, old dreams keep on playing in my mind They've waited for so long, for their time to finally arrive I do believe now's the time, I've gone years and years without really living Minding squeaky wheels just giving and giving And dreaming, Like wildflowers growing through sidewalk cracks The weight of the world makes 'em change their tracks To find, the sun, and shine Now, now, now's the time

Strive in stride like the resilient wildflowers that begin each day by turning to face the rolling sunrise. Even when the weight of the world has cemented their original path, they still rise through cracks in the sidewalk to find the sun and shine, never putting off until tomorrow because they inherently know, now’s the time. For it is with every sunrise that hope is born for change with new opportunities to make dreams come alive

If I take a chamois and rub real hard on the bone, right on the ledge of your cheek bone, some of the black will disappear. It will flake away into the chamois and underneath there will be gold leaf. I can see it shining through the black. I know it is there… [...] And if I take a nailfile or even Eva’s old paring knife - that will do - and scrape away at the gold, it will fall away, it will fall away and there will be alabaster. The alabaster is what gives your face its planes, its curves. That is why your mouth smiling does not reach your eyes. Alabaster is giving it a gravity that resists a total smile.

 [...] Then I can take a chisel and small tap hammer and tap away at the alabaster. It will crack then like ice under the pick, and through the breaks I will see the loam, fertile, free of pebbles and twigs. For it is the loam that is giving you that smell.


You massage the universe's spine the way you twirl through time and leave shadows on the sun. My love is the wind song. If it is up to me, I'll never die. If it is up to me, I'll die tomorrow a thousand times in an hour and live seven minutes later. If it is up to me, the sun wll never cease to shine and the moon will never cease to glow and I'll dance a million tomorrows in the sun rays of the moon waves and bath in the yesterdays of the days to come, ignoring all of my afterthoughts and preconceived notions. If it is up to me, it is up to me. And thus is my love. Untainted. Eternal. The wind is the moon's imagination. Wandering. It seeps through cracks, ripples the grass, explores the unknown. My love is my soul's imagination. How do I love you? Imagine.

hope you will find the cracks in the world and wedge them wider, so the light of other suns shines through; I hope you will keep the world unruly, messy, full of strange magics; I hope you will run through every open Door and tell stories when you return.

Although we weren’t able to shatter that highest, hardest glass ceiling this time, thanks to you, it’s got about 18 million cracks in it. And the light is shining through like never before, filling us all with the hope and the sure knowledge that the path will be a little easier next time.

If you’re some stranger who stumbled over this book by chance—perhaps rotting in some foreign garbage pile or locked in a dusty traveling trunk or published by some small, misguided press and shelved mistakenly under Fiction—I hope to every god you have the guts to do what needs doing. I hope you will find the cracks in the world and wedge them wider, so the light of other suns shines through; I hope you will keep the world unruly, messy, full of strange magics; I hope you will run through every open Door and tell stories when you return. But that’s not really why I wrote this, of course. I wrote it for you. So that you might read it and remember the things you were told to forget. Now at least you can look clear-eyed into your own future, and choose: stay safe and sane at home, as any rational man would—I swear I’ll understand— Or run away with me toward the glimmering, mad horizon. Dance through this eternal green orchard, where ten thousand worlds hang ripe and red for the plucking; wander with me between the trees, tending them, clearing away the weeds, letting in the air. Opening the Doors.

When we are broken, the cracks in our souls allow the Light to shine through.

The wilderness is cracked and browned But through the water pale and thin Still shine the unoffending feet And there above the painter set   15 The Father and the Paraclete. .

We don’t always have to let our walls down completely. Sometimes all we need is a little light to shine through the cracks to make a difference.

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 12, 1944 Dearest Kitty, The sun is shining, the sky is deep blue, there's a magnificent breeze, and I'm longing — really longing — for everything: conversation, freedom, friends, being alone. I long… to cry! I feel as if I were about to explode. I know crying would help, but I can't cry. I'm restless. I walk from one room to another, breathe through the crack in the window frame, feel my heart beating as if to say, "Fulfill my longing at last. . ." I think spring is inside me. I feel spring awakening, I feel it in my entire body and soul. I have to force myself to act normally. I'm in a state of utter confusion, don't know what to read, what to write, what to do. I only know that I'm longing for something. . . Yours, Anne

The patterns overhead shifted so that, had she an imagination prone to hysteria, she could easily convince herself something hid in the curtains above her head. She imagined a face in the shadows and folds of fabric, a face with sad, hollow eyes. The sliver of light shining through a crack in the window curtains disappeared. Shadows deepened and swirled and the face became even more uncannily real.

We entered the cool cave of the practice space with all the long-haired, goateed boys stoned on clouds of pot and playing with power tools. I tossed my fluffy coat into the hollow of my bass drum and lay on the carpet with my worn newspaper. A shirtless boy came in and told us he had to cut the power for a minute, and I thought about being along in the cool black room with Joey. Let's go smoke, she said, and I grabbed the cigarettes off the amp. She started talking to me about Wonder Woman. I feel like something big is happening, but I don't know what to do about it. With The Straight Girl? I asked in the blankest voice possible. With everything. Back in the sun we walked to the edge of the parking lot where a black Impala convertible sat, rusted and rotting, looking like it just got dredged from a swamp. Rainwater pooling on the floor. We climbed up onto it and sat our butts backward on the edge of the windshield, feet stretched into the front seat. Before she even joined the band, I would think of her each time I passed the car, the little round medallions with the red and black racing flags affixed to the dash. On the rusting Chevy, Joey told me about her date the other night with a girl she used to like who she maybe liked again. How her heart was shut off and it felt pretty good. How she just wanted to play around with this girl and that girl and this girl and I smoked my cigarette and went Uh-Huh. The sun made me feel like a restless country girl even though I'd never been on a farm. I knew what I stood for, even if nobody else did. I knew the piece of me on the inside, truer than all the rest, that never comes out. Doesn't everyone have one? Some kind of grand inner princess waiting to toss her hair down, forever waiting at the tower window. Some jungle animal so noble and fierce you had to crawl on your belly through dangerous grasses to get a glimpse. I gave Joey my cigarette so I could unlace the ratty green laces of my boots, pull them off, tug the linty wool tights off my legs. I stretched them pale over the car, the hair springing like weeds and my big toenail looking cracked and ugly. I knew exactly who I was when the sun came back and the air turned warm. Joey climbed over the hood of the car, dusty black, and said Let's lie down, I love lying in the sun, but there wasn't any sun there. We moved across the street onto the shining white sidewalk and she stretched out, eyes closed. I smoked my cigarette, tossed it into the gutter and lay down beside her. She said she was sick of all the people who thought she felt too much, who wanted her to be calm and contained. Who? I asked. All the flowers, the superheroes. I thought about how she had kissed me the other night, quick and hard, before taking off on a date in her leather chaps, hankies flying, and I sat on the couch and cried at everything she didn't know about how much I liked her, and someone put an arm around me and said, You're feeling things, that's good. Yeah, I said to Joey on the sidewalk, I Feel Like I Could Calm Down Some. Awww, you're perfect. She flipped her hand over and touched my head. Listen, we're barely here at all, I wanted to tell her, rolling over, looking into her face, we're barely here at all and everything goes so fast can't you just kiss me? My eyes were shut and the cars sounded close when they passed. The sun was weak but it baked the grime on my skin and made it smell delicious. A little kid smell. We sat up to pop some candy into our mouths, and then Joey lay her head on my lap, spent from sugar and coffee. Her arm curled back around me and my fingers fell into her slippery hair. On the February sidewalk that felt like spring.

A few months ago on a school morning, as I attempted to etch a straight midline part on the back of my wiggling daughter's soon-to-be-ponytailed blond head, I reminded her that it was chilly outside and she needed to grab a sweater. "No, mama." "Excuse me?" "No, I don't want to wear that sweater, it makes me look fat." "What?!" My comb clattered to the bathroom floor. "Fat?! What do you know about fat? You're 5 years old! You are definitely not fat. God made you just right. Now get your sweater." She scampered off, and I wearily leaned against the counter and let out a long, sad sigh. It has begun. I thought I had a few more years before my twin daughters picked up the modern day f-word. I have admittedly had my own seasons of unwarranted, psychotic Slim-Fasting and have looked erroneously to the scale to give me a measurement of myself. But these departures from my character were in my 20s, before the balancing hand of motherhood met the grounding grip of running. Once I learned what it meant to push myself, I lost all taste for depriving myself. I want to grow into more of a woman, not find ways to whittle myself down to less. The way I see it, the only way to run counter to our toxic image-centric society is to literally run by example. I can't tell my daughters that beauty is an incidental side effect of living your passion rather than an adherence to socially prescribed standards. I can't tell my son how to recognize and appreciate this kind of beauty in a woman. I have to show them, over and over again, mile after mile, until they feel the power of their own legs beneath them and catch the rhythm of their own strides. Which is why my parents wake my kids early on race-day mornings. It matters to me that my children see me out there, slogging through difficult miles. I want my girls to grow up recognizing the beauty of strength, the exuberance of endurance, and the core confidence residing in a well-tended body and spirit. I want them to be more interested in what they are doing than how they look doing it. I want them to enjoy food that is delicious, feed their bodies with wisdom and intent, and give themselves the freedom to indulge. I want them to compete in healthy ways that honor the cultivation of skill, the expenditure of effort, and the courage of the attempt. Grace and Bella, will you have any idea how lovely you are when you try? Recently we ran the Chuy's Hot to Trot Kids K together as a family in Austin, and I ran the 5-K immediately afterward. Post?race, my kids asked me where my medal was. I explained that not everyone gets a medal, so they must have run really well (all kids got a medal, shhh!). As I picked up Grace, she said, "You are so sweaty Mommy, all wet." Luke smiled and said, "Mommy's sweaty 'cause she's fast. And she looks pretty. All clean." My PRs will never garner attention or generate awards. But when I run, I am 100 percent me--my strengths and weaknesses play out like a cracked-open diary, my emotions often as raw as the chafing from my jog bra. In my ultimate moments of vulnerability, I am twice the woman I was when I thought I was meant to look pretty on the sidelines. Sweaty and smiling, breathless and beautiful: Running helps us all shine. A lesson worth passing along.

You want me?” I murmured and she pushed her lips out, defiantly owning her words as she nodded. “But I want the real you,” she whispered. “The bits no one else gets. The ones I see shining through the cracks in that mask you wear all the time.

The winter twilight was fading. The sick man heard his wife strike a match in the kitchen, and the light of a lamp glimmered through the cracks of the door. It seemed like a light shining far away. He turned painfully in his bed and looked at his white hands, with all the work gone out of them. He was ready to give up, he felt. He did not know how it had come about, but he was quite willing to go deep under his fields and rest, where the plow could not find him. He was tired of making mistakes. He was content to leave the tangle to other hands.

There was a single ray of sun shining through the window. I got up, went to the cracked glass, and saw that it was both raining and shining outside-- a bit of meteorological weirdness whose name no one can seem to agree on. My mom, I kid you not, refers to it as "orphan's tears.

The Congregating of Stars They often meet in mountain lakes, No matter how remote, no matter how deep Down and far they must stream to arrive, Navigating between the steep, vertical piles Of broken limestone and chert, through shattered Trees and dry bushes bent low by winter, Across ravines cut by roaring avalanches Of boulders and ripping ice. Silently, the stars have assembled On the surface of this lost lake tonight, Arranged themselves to match the patterns They maintain in the highest spheres Of the surrounding sky. And they continue on, passing through The smooth, black countenance of the lake, Through that mirror of themselves, down through The icy waters to touch the perfect bottom Stillness of the invisible life and death existing In the nether of those depths. Sky-bound- yet touching every needle In the torn and sturdy forest, every stone, Sharp, cracked along the ragged shore- the stars Appear the same as in ancient human ages On the currents of the old seas and the darkened Trails of desert dunes, Orion’s belt the same As it shone in Galileo’s eyes, Polaris certain above The sails of every mariner’s voyage. An echoing Light from the Magi’s star, that beacon, might even Be shining on this lake tonight, unrecognized. The stars are congregating, perhaps in celebration, passing through their own names and legends, through fogs, airs, and thunders, the vapors of winter frost and summer pollens. They are ancestors of transfiguration, intimate with all the eyes of the night. What can they know?

Polyphiloprogenitive The sapient sutlers of the Lord Drift across the window-panes. In the beginning was the Word. In the beginning was the Word. Superfetation of to en, And at the mensual turn of time Produced enervate Origen. A painter of the Umbrian school Designed upon a gesso ground The nimbus of the Baptized God. The wilderness is cracked and browned But through the water pale and thin Still shine the unoffending feet And there above the painter set The Father and the Paraclete. . . . . . . The sable presbyters approach The avenue of penitence; The young are red and pustular Clutching piaculative pence. Under the penitential gates Sustained by staring Seraphim Where the souls of the devout Burn invisible and dim. Along the garden-wall the bees With hairy bellies pass between The staminate and pistilate, Blest office of the epicene. Sweeney shifts from ham to ham Stirring the water in his bath. The masters of the subtle schools Are controversial, polymath.

The door was now ajar, the light of an unknown future shining through its crack. But it would take more strength than I had alone to push it open. I watched the rise and fall of his breath, and the play of light and shadow on the strong, clean lines of his face, and knew that nothing truly mattered between us but the fact that we both still lived.

I was standing today in the dark toolshed. The sun was shining outside and through the crack at the top of the door there came a sunbeam. From where I stood that beam of light, with the specks of dust floating in it, was the most striking thing in the place. Everything else was almost pitch black. I was seeing the beam, not seeing things by it. Then I moved, so that the beam fell on my eyes. Instantly the whole previous picture vanished.

I don't think the world will ever be quite the way I want it to be," said Tiny Dragon, "and some things I can never change. But I think maybe I have changed, so that those things that I couldn't accept before - I am starting to be OK with." "I feel a bit like this cup," said Tiny Dragon. "I've been through a tough time and I feel like I've been damaged. But these little cracks," he said, holding the cup up to the moon, "are what let the light shine through.

Whoever has deeply and thirstily drunk, Is pulled down to the wondrous source, And melodically swims along as a wave, On which the world breaks into thousands of sparks. With yearning grows the holy well, crashes, Shines intoxicated, jubilant within, At times forging through the chasm to dazzling light, At times rushing cool then sunken in night. So let it eagerly roar and rush! For upon it floats the poet in golden bark, Himself a holy sacrifice in songs. The ancient rocks split with a crack, From yonder greet us kindred ballads, He guides us back to the eternal sea.

Trying to live and love, With a heart that can't be broken, Is like trying to see the light with eyes that can't be opened. Yeah, we both carry baggage, We picked up on our way, so if you love me do it gently, And I will do the same. We may shine, we may shatter, We may be picking up the pieces here on after, We are fragile, we are human, We are shaped by the light we let through us, We break fast, cause we are glass. Cause we are glass. I'll let you look inside me, through the stains and through the cracks, And in the darkness of this moment, You see the good and bad. But try not to judge me, 'cause we've walked down different paths, But it brought us here together, so I won't take that back. We may shine, we may shatter, We may be picking up the pieces here on after, We are fragile, we are human, We are shaped by the light we let through us, We break fast, cause we are glass. We might be oil and water, this could be a big mistake, We might burn like gasoline and fire, It's a chance we'll have to take. We may shine, we may shatter, We may be picking up the pieces here on after, We are fragile, we are human, And we are shaped by the light we let through us, We break fast, cause we are glass. We are glass.

They [mountains] are portions of the heart of the earth that have escaped from the dungeon down below, and rushed up and out. For the heart of the earth is a great wallowing mass, not of blood, as in the hearts of men and animals, but of glowing hot melted metals and stones. And as our hearts keep us alive, so that great lump of heat keeps the earth alive: it is a huge power of buried sunlight—that is what it is. Now think: out of that caldron, where all the bubbles would be as big as the Alps if it could get room for its boiling, certain bubbles have bubbled out and escaped—up and away, and there they stand in the cool, cold sky—mountains. Think of the change, and you will no more wonder that there should be something awful about the very look of a mountain: from the darkness—for where the light has nothing to shine upon, it is much the same as darkness—from the heat, from the endless tumult of boiling unrest—up, with a sudden heavenward shoot, into the wind, and the cold, and the starshine, and a cloak of snow that lies like ermine above the blue-green mail of the glaciers; and the great sun, their grandfather, up there in the sky; and their little old cold aunt, the moon, that comes wandering about the house at night; and everlasting stillness, except for the wind that turns the rocks and caverns into a roaring organ for the young archangels that are studying how to let out the pent-up praises of their hearts, and the molten music of the streams, rushing ever from the bosoms of the glaciers fresh-born. Think too of the change in their own substance—no longer molten and soft, heaving and glowing, but hard and shining and cold. Think of the creatures scampering over and burrowing in it, and the birds building their nests upon it, and the trees growing out of its sides, like hair to clothe it, and the lovely grass in the valleys, and the gracious flowers even at the very edge of its armour of ice, like the rich embroidery of the garment below, and the rivers galloping down the valleys in a tumult of white and green! And along with all these, think of the terrible precipices down which the traveller may fall and be lost, and the frightful gulfs of blue air cracked in the glaciers, and the dark profound lakes, covered like little arctic oceans with floating lumps of ice. All this outside the mountain! But the inside, who shall tell what lies there? Caverns of awfullest solitude, their walls miles thick, sparkling with ores of gold or silver, copper or iron, tin or mercury, studded perhaps with precious stones—perhaps a brook, with eyeless fish in it, running, running ceaseless, cold and babbling, through banks crusted with carbuncles and golden topazes, or over a gravel of which some of the stones are rubies and emeralds, perhaps diamonds and sapphires—who can tell?—and whoever can't tell is free to think—all waiting to flash, waiting for millions of ages—ever since the earth flew off from the sun, a great blot of fire, and began to cool. Then there are caverns full of water, numbing cold, fiercely hot—hotter than any boiling water. From some of these the water cannot get out, and from others it runs in channels as the blood in the body: little veins bring it down from the ice above into the great caverns of the mountain's heart, whence the arteries let it out again, gushing in pipes and clefts and ducts of all shapes and kinds, through and through its bulk, until it springs newborn to the light, and rushes down the mountain side in torrents, and down the valleys in rivers—down, down, rejoicing, to the mighty lungs of the world, that is the sea, where it is tossed in storms and cyclones, heaved up in billows, twisted in waterspouts, dashed to mist upon rocks, beaten by millions of tails, and breathed by millions of gills, whence at last, melted into vapour by the sun, it is lifted up pure into the air, and borne by the servant winds back to the mountain tops and the snow, the solid ice, and the molten stream.

Then the events leading up to her collapse came back to her in a flash. Her hands flew automatically to her belly and she was only partially reassured to feel the tight ball there. Was her baby okay? Was she herself okay? She blinked harder to bring the room more into focus. There was light shining through a crack in the bathroom door. A glance at the blinds told her that it was dark outside. Then her gaze fell on the chair beside her bed and she found Ryan staring at her, his gaze intense. She flinched away from the raw emotion shining in his blue eyes. “Hey,” he said quietly. “How are you feeling?” “Numb,” she answered before she could think better of it. “Kind of blank. My head doesn’t hurt anymore. Are my feet still swollen?” He carefully picked up the sheet and pushed it over her feet. “Maybe a little. Not as bad as they were. They’ve been giving you meds and they’re monitoring the baby.” “How is she?” Kelly asked, a knot of fear in her throat. “For now, she’s doing fine. Your blood pressure stabilized, but they might have to do a C-section if it goes back up or if the baby starts showing signs of distress.” Kelly closed her eyes and then suddenly Ryan was close to her, holding her, his lips pressed against her temple. “Don’t worry, love,” he murmured. “You’re supposed to stay calm. You’re getting the best possible care. I’ve made sure of it. They’re monitoring you round-the-clock. And the doctor said the baby has an excellent prognosis at thirty-four weeks’ gestation.” She sagged against the pillow and closed her eyes. Relief pulsed through her but she was so tired she couldn’t muster the energy to do anything more than lie there thanking God that her baby was okay. “I’m going to take care of you, Kell,” Ryan said softly against her temple. “You and our baby. Nothing will ever hurt you again. I swear it.” Tears burned her eyelids. She was emotionally and physically exhausted and didn’t have the strength to argue. Something inside her was broken and she had no idea how to fix it. She felt so…disconnected.

You massage the universe's spine the way you twirl through time and leave shadows on the sun. My love is the wind song. If it is up to me, I'll never die. If it is up to me, I'll die tomorrow a thousand times in an hour and live seven minutes later. If it is up to me, the sun wll never cease to shine and the moon will never cease to glow and I'll dance a million tomorrows in the sun rays of the moon waves and bath in the yesterdays of the days to come, ignoring all of my afterthoughts and preconceived notions. If it is up to me, it is up to me. And thus is my love. Untainted. Eternal. The wind is the moon's imagination. Wandering. It seeps through cracks, ripples the grass, explores the unknown. My love is my soul's imagination. How do I love you? Imagine.

MARTIN SHEEN: Terry called me one night, and he had done so after finally making a decision. His gut hunch was to hire me, but he had other considerations, or an obligation to sort through his casting agent’s suggestions. He asked me if I was still interested. I got up just before sunrise and started driving the Pacific Coast Highway to the tune of Bob Dylan’s “Desolation Road.” It was one of the most profound moments of my life. Dylan, who was one of my personal heroes, had cracked something wide open inside of me. I was experiencing an epiphany. There was a realization of what just happened to me. I started to weep, and pulled the car over on the highway and reflected on this. My happiness. Before that phone call, I would have never thought that such a thing would happen to me. I realized that acting was no joke. You don’t show up on a set and just decide that you are going to throw yourself out there without preparation. Me being there was no accident. The stars had aligned and Badlands was a role of a lifetime. I have Terry Malick to thank for it.

At such a time [at dawn] I would dream of being a baker who delivers bread, a fitter from the electric company, or an insurance man collecting the weekly installments. Or at least a chimney sweep. In the morning, at dawn, I would enter some half-opened gateway, still lighted by the watchman's lantern. I would put two fingers to my hat, crack a joke, and enter the labyrinth to leave late in the evening, at the other end of the city. I would spend all day going from apartment to apartment, conducting one never-ending conversation from one end of the city to the other, divided into parts among the householders; I would ask something in one apartment and receive a reply in another, make a joke in one place and collect the fruits of laughter in the third or fourth. Among the banging of doors I would squeeze through narrow passages, through bedrooms full of furniture, I would upset chamberpots, walk into squeaking perambulators in which babies cry, pick up rattles dropped by infants. I would stop for longer than necessary in kitchens and hallways, where servant girls were tidying up. The girls, busy, would stretch their young legs, tauten their high insteps, play with their cheap shining shoes, or clack around in loose slippers.

Apologia Pro Poemate Meo" I, too, saw God through mud— The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled. War brought more glory to their eyes than blood, And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child. Merry it was to laugh there— Where death becomes absurd and life absurder. For power was on us as we slashed bones bare Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder. I, too, have dropped off fear— Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon, And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear Past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn; And witnessed exultation— Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl, Shine and lift up with passion of oblation, Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul. I have made fellowships— Untold of happy lovers in old song. For love is not the binding of fair lips With the soft silk of eyes that look and long, But Joy, whose ribbon slips,— But wound with war’s hard wire whose stakes are strong; Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips; Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong. I have perceived much beauty In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight; Heard music in the silentness of duty; Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate. Nevertheless, except you share With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell, Whose world is but the trembling of a flare, And heaven but as the highway for a shell, You shall not hear their mirth: You shall not come to think them well content By any jest of mine. These men are worth Your tears: You are not worth their merriment.

Apologia Pro Poemate Meo" " I, too, saw God through mud— The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled. War brought more glory to their eyes than blood, And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child. Merry it was to laugh there— Where death becomes absurd and life absurder. For power was on us as we slashed bones bare Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder. I, too, have dropped off fear— Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon, And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear Past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn; And witnessed exultation— Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl, Shine and lift up with passion of oblation, Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul. I have made fellowships— Untold of happy lovers in old song. For love is not the binding of fair lips With the soft silk of eyes that look and long, But Joy, whose ribbon slips,— But wound with war’s hard wire whose stakes are strong; Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips; Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong. I have perceived much beauty In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight; Heard music in the silentness of duty; Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate. Nevertheless, except you share With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell, Whose world is but the trembling of a flare, And heaven but as the highway for a shell, You shall not hear their mirth: You shall not come to think them well content By any jest of mine. These men are worth Your tears: You are not worth their merriment.

So you know how to help me?” Lucy asks, desperate hope cracking through her calm. The doctor’s smile fades ever so slightly. “I’m afraid that the studies on these particular conditions are still quite new, but if what you have is the same as what I’ve seen before, well…there’s a possibility that you could have this condition for the rest of your life.” Lucy stills. “You mean there’s nothing we can do?” The doctor sets a comforting hand on Lucy’s knee. “We’ve made lots of progress with some treatments that help alleviate the symptoms—medications and diet changes you can try—but I just wanted you to be mentally and emotionally prepared for a bit of a long haul.” Lucy asks questions, and the doctor answers as best she can, and finally, after what feels like an eternity, the doctor leaves, shutting the door with a gentle click. Lucy and I sit in silence for several moments. I watch her face for any sign of emotion, but it’s blank. She stares at the wall, cupping George stonily to her chest. After a moment I ask, “Do you want to talk about it?” She sniffs. “I don’t know what there is to say.” “What are you feeling?” “Angry,” she says, planting a fierce kiss on George’s head and depositing him into his tank before turning back to me. “I mean… what the hell, Myra? Why does everything always have to be a fight?” Her eyes shine as she spits the words out. “For once, I thought I could be done with this. We’re finally here, at a hospital. Doctors are everywhere. I guess I hoped they’d have more answers, I’m angry that they don’t.” “It’s not fair at all.” I nod. “And it makes me so mad I could break something.” She laughs, but it turns into a sob, and she draws her knees up against her chest. “I’m also scared. Of hurting forever. Of not being able to do the things I dream of doing. Of not getting to live the life I want to.” She looks at me, tears dropping down her cheeks. “Of holding you back from the life you want.

Wormtail was speaking. His voice shook; he seemed frightened beyond his wits. He raised his wand, closed his eyes, and spoke to the night. “Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!” The surface of the grave at Harry’s feet cracked. Horrified, Harry watched as a fine trickle of dust rose into the air at Wormtail’s command and fell softly into the cauldron. The diamond surface of the water broke and hissed; it sent sparks in all directions and turned a vivid, poisonous-looking blue. And now Wormtail was whimpering. He pulled a long, thin, shining silver dagger from inside his cloak. His voice broke into petrified sobs. “Flesh — of the servant — w-willingly given — you will — revive — your master.” He stretched his right hand out in front of him — the hand with the missing finger. He gripped the dagger very tightly in his left hand and swung it upward. Harry realized what Wormtail was about to do a second before it happened — he closed his eyes as tightly as he could, but he could not block the scream that pierced the night, that went through Harry as though he had been stabbed with the dagger too. He heard something fall to the ground, heard Wormtail’s anguished panting, then a sickening splash, as something was dropped into the cauldron. Harry couldn’t stand to look . . . but the potion had turned a burning red; the light of it shone through Harry’s closed eyelids. . . . Wormtail was gasping and moaning with agony. Not until Harry felt Wormtail’s anguished breath on his face did he realize that Wormtail was right in front of him. “B-blood of the enemy . . . forcibly taken . . . you will . . . resurrect your foe.” Harry could do nothing to prevent it, he was tied too tightly. . . . Squinting down, struggling hopelessly at the ropes binding him, he saw the shining silver dagger shaking in Wormtail’s remaining hand. He felt its point penetrate the crook of his right arm and blood seeping down the sleeve of his torn robes. Wormtail, still panting with pain, fumbled in his pocket for a glass vial and held it to Harry’s cut, so that a dribble of blood fell into it. He staggered back to the cauldron with Harry’s blood. He poured it inside. The liquid within turned, instantly, a blinding white. Wormtail, his job done, dropped to his knees beside the cauldron, then slumped sideways and lay on the ground, cradling the bleeding stump of his arm, gasping and sobbing.

These days I know what brings me joy like I know the back of my (mother's) hands. There's the sun shining through the freshly cleaned smudge-free window, the sound of a new bag of potato chips being ripped open, the moment of cracking the binding for the first time on an unread novel. There's the special way a child throws his arms around his mother's neck. There's new sweatpants and old sweatpants and all the sweatpants in between. There are big-bottomed goblets of wine and dark chocolate truffles and all-things bacon and realizing I can still do a cartwheel. There's stepping into an almost-too-hot bath and payday and the smell of garlic and onions sauteing in butter. There are the days the bathroom scale is kind to me and the days my pants look hot on my ass and the moments I pause to catch my breath after a long run and the sweat runs right down my nose and I catch it with my tongue.

My Order emerged,” he breathed and the terror in his voice told me all I needed to about what had happened. “You’re not a Dragon?” I asked, my own voice cracking with fear for him. Father would have been more than furious to discover that his son was anything other than a full blooded Dragon Shifter. It was a matter of pride and respect; he ridiculed families with mixed blood, he believed wholeheartedly in the superiority of our kind. One of his sons being anything other was totally unthinkable. Xavier shook his head slowly, trying to withdraw his hand from mine as footsteps sounded on the stairs behind me but I refused to release him. “It doesn’t change anything for me,” I growled. “You’re still my brother, I don’t care if you’re a Werewolf or a Vampire or a-” “So he told you, did he?” Father’s cold voice came from the doorway behind me and the hairs along the back of my neck stood to attention in warning. Xavier snatched his hand out of mine, blinking away the evidence of the tears which hadn’t even fallen. I stood before him, placing myself between him and Father. “It doesn’t matter,” I said firmly, though the simmering rage in my father’s eyes told a very different story. “I’m the oldest. I’m the first in line anyway, Xavier never wanted to challenge me for that role so-” “Yes, I still have my Heir but I’ve lost the spare. Did he tell you exactly what Order he is?” Father snarled, his eyes changing to their Dragon form and a trail of smoke leaving his nostrils. He was so angry about this that he was battling against the urge to shift. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him look so close to the edge before. “Not yet. But surely it’s not the end of the world if-” “Shift,” Father commanded, his gaze passing me to land on my brother. Xavier got out of his chair and backed up, shaking his head in panic. His skin looked odd though, like there was light shining from within it, trying to break free. “I told you, I’ll get control of it; I won’t shift ever,” he said anxiously. “No one will ever find out that I’m-” “SHIFT!” Father bellowed, using fear to force the change on him. Xavier cried out in panic as the light beneath his skin grew to a powerful glow and he bucked forward as his Order form took over. I backed up as his form changed, giving him room to become- “Fucking hell,” I breathed, my eyes widening in panic. “My thoughts precisely,” Father hissed venomously. Xavier had transformed into a lilac Pegasus complete with golden horn and rainbow patterned wings. His coat shone with glitter in the light of my magical orbs and his wide, horsey eyes looked back at us fearfully. I stared at him with my mouth hanging open, scrambling for something, anything to say. “I... didn’t know we had any recessive Pegasus genes in the bloodline...maybe he's linked to the constellation,” I muttered, unsure what else I could say. Father hated the weaker, more common Orders. He was a Dragon through and through; he loved power, invoking fear and breathing fire. A Pegasus was about as far as you could get to the opposite end of the Order spectrum. They were flying horses who pooped glitter, granted wishes and were... cute. Xavier hadn’t even been lucky enough to have a dark coloured coat, it was lilac. Lilac! (DARIUS POV)

Look closely, and you'll see there's are lights that shine from those who have been broken, through the cracks that never repaired...

This. Her. Us. I’m as sure of her as I am that every night the moon will show up, the stars will shine down, and hours later, the sun will rise again. This is my favorite part of every day. The sun is down, and we eat by fairy lights strung overhead. We both devour the steak and salad I prepared. When our plates are scraped clean, I’m on my second beer and Bristol has gone through half a bottle of red wine. We’re cracking each other up and just sharing what happened during our day, which leads her back to lunch with Kevin. “Your fans would eat up a poetry book from you.” Bristol pours another glass of red. “And it would showcase the breadth of your talent beyond hip-hop.

It is a huge slab of dark stone, square and rough, like the rocks at the bottom of the chasm. A large crack runs through the middle of it, and there are streaks of lighter rock near the edges. Suspended above the slab is a glass tank of the same dimensions, full of water. A light placed above the center of the tank shines through the water, refracting as it ripples. I hear a faint noise, a drop of water hitting the stone. It comes from a small tube running through the center of the tank. At first I think the tank is just leaking, but another drop falls, then a third, and a fourth, at the same interval. A few drops collect, and then disappear down a narrow channel in the stone. They must be intentional. “Hello.” Zoe stands on the other side of the sculpture. “I’m sorry, I was about to go to the dormitory for you, then saw you heading this way and wondered if you were lost.” “No, I’m not lost,” I say. “This is where I meant to go.” “Ah.” She stands beside me and crosses her arms. She is about as tall as I am, but she stands straighter, so she seems taller. “Yeah, it’s pretty weird, right?” As she talks I watch the freckles on her cheeks, dappled like sunlight through dense leaves. “Does it mean something?” “It’s the symbol of the Bureau of Genetic Welfare,” she says. “The slab of stone is the problem we’re facing. The tank of water is our potential for changing that problem. And the drop of water is what we’re actually able to do, at any given time.” I can’t help it—I laugh. “Not very encouraging, is it?” She smiles. “That’s one way of looking at it. I prefer to look at it another way—which is that if they are persistent enough, even tiny drops of water, over time, can change the rock forever. And it will never change back.” She points to the center of the slab, where there is a small impression, like a shallow bowl carved into the stone. “That, for example, wasn’t there when they installed this thing.” I nod, and watch the next drop fall. Even though I’m wary of the Bureau and everyone in it, I can feel the quiet hope of the sculpture working its way through me. It’s a practical symbol, communicating the patient attitude that has allowed the people here to stay for so long, watching and waiting. But I have to ask. “Wouldn’t it be more effective to unleash the whole tank at once?” I imagine the wave of water colliding with the rock and spilling over the tile floor, collecting around my shoes. Doing a little at once can fix something, eventually, but I feel like when you believe that something is truly a problem, you throw everything you have at it, because you just can’t help yourself.

Light shines through cracks only, not through solid walls. I love all the cracks in me.

LORD, YOUR PEOPLE ARE LIKE fragile clay jars, but your glory is in them—it shines through their cracks and imperfections

New Creation fills in the cracks and fissures of our broken, splintered lives, and a golden light shines through, even if only for a moment, reminding us of the abundance of the world that God created, and that God is yet to create through us.

Gage, I love you,” I tell him before the tears start to repopulate on my waterline. “I love you so fucking much, Cali. More than you’ll ever know.” It’s never just a “you too” out of convenience with Gage. It’s never anything less than him hand-wrapping and gifting me the stars, the sun, and the moon. He didn’t take my broken pieces and cover up the cracks to magically fix me. He saw them, glued them back together, then let the light shine through those incredible fissures. He turned scars into stars. His lips are over mine in the blink of an eye, tasting and feeling like home. And when he pulls back just slightly, only allowing space to whisper to me, I know I’m going to crash right back into him. “And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.

**Verse 1:** In the quiet of the empty streets, Where shadows dance and the cold wind greets. A soul wanders, lost and torn, Carrying burdens from the day they were born. **Chorus:** Broken, with no more tears to weep, Lost in a world that's too steep. Hope's a word that's hard to cope, For a heart that's given up its rope. **Verse 2:** The laughter's gone, the light's burned out, Silent screams replace the shout. A spirit crushed by life's cruel jokes, Drifting aimlessly, like smoke. **Chorus:** Broken, with no more tears to weep, Lost in a world that's too steep. Hope's a word that's hard to cope, For a heart that's given up its rope. **Bridge:** But even in the darkest night, There's a star that shines a faint light. A whisper of love, a hint of grace, A sign that time can't erase. **Chorus:** Still broken, but maybe tears will seep, Through the cracks, as they begin to creep. Hope's a word that might just slope, Back to a heart finding its rope. **Outro:** So here's to the broken, the lost, the brave, To the silent fighters, the quiet wave. May they find hope, may they elope, With a future where they can cope.

It’s hard to sit here and watch her break, but I am determined to find every little broken piece and put them back where they belong. I can see it on her face that she sees her cracks as flaws, but they let her strength shine through.

Shep-en-Mut The painted wooden face was known to me. She stood in the dusty museum sun, Painted eyes lengthened with kohl. Azure, terra-cotta, white, Emblazoned cartonnage. The Isis wings, spread in care and love. Curving protective Neckbet and Nepthys. Beneath, the corticated skin, Black bitumen. Eyeless, cracked and black, Dessicated viscera, wrapped apart. Leaving child and husband, moving through satin bands of shadow, Singing in the ecstatic sun. Feet hissing through the silken sand She carried the Milk Jar and a Palm frond, Worshipping and serving each day. This lady was the songstress of Amun-Re, Her songs curved upward in the great Temple of Thebes. The stone beauty of the face of the God above her frailty Gave her voice a scope of praise denied to our dessicated senses When death stooped on her, claws and beak ripped. Then feathers lay outstretched in love. Horus wings, Night Heron beak, Having slain, now standing guard in fearful phalanx. Leaving the echo between the roof trees. Her flesh must be pickled, cured with cinnamon and myrrh. The skull, frail as a blown egg, Emptied of its convolute majesty, Stuffed with delicate resinous rags. When the sucking natron has had its meal Her shell will taste the shriving sun and wind once more. Blow gently, shine kindly down, Amun-Re, on thy slave. She shall be wrapped in fine linen Layer on layer, and laced like a shoe. The last we shall see in linen and plaster and paint. May her journey be safe through the dark tunnels May her soul sing in light before her God, In soft peace. The holding wings enfold my friend. Priestess of Thebes. Singer of Amun-Re Bearer of the little Milk Jar.

People are like glass. Some you can see straight through; others shine bright lights and iridescent colours everywhere they go. Some you look at and see parts of yourself reflected, and you look into some and see nothing but darkness. Some people magnify so that everything around them seems bigger anc more beautiful, while others can make even the largest things seem infinitely smaller. People can be cracked or chipped, fragile or scratched, and still stay in one piece: even more precious and loved for all of their broken parts. But sometimes ... people shatter.

But like last night, as she cracks herself open for me, one commonality shines through. Pain. And respect for it. “You think most of who we are is rooted in pain?

love is the fresh waters that we drink to quench our thirst for each other, we drink the rays of the sun that shine through the broken cracks in our lives and together we become healed and whole again, we are the blessed ones

cousin, or something.’ Vivien raised an eyebrow as she passed back Henderson’s glass. ‘Even people who’ve lived here their whole lives can’t get back into the area,’ she explained. ‘So people are sure to ask where you’ve come from.’ ‘The Boche are short of translators,’ Luc said. ‘It’s remarkably lucky that you turned out to speak such excellent German.’ Henderson knew that the presumption of using his family name was likely to stick in Luc Boyle’s throat and the couple clearly sensed that there was more to Henderson than met the eye, but they were ecstatic at the safe return of their grandchildren and apparently happy to let the matter slide. At least, for the time being. * Marc woke on a bare mattress in a musty room with sunlight shining through a crack in the roof and a puddle in the far corner. A burp sent acid surging up his throat and for a horrible instant he thought he was going to puke over his blanket. His head thudded as he looked around and saw PT’s boots on the floor beside him. Marc remembered the wine and a bumpy midnight ride in the back of the truck, but had no recollection of the building in which he’d awoken. If anything, the holey-roofed bedroom was a high point of the cottage. Green stalactites of mildew hung from the ceiling in the cramped hallway and damp seemed to be consuming the building

Do you wish they’d leave Your bedroom door ajar So you’d see a golden crack Shine from afar? Do you wish a fairy’d come And light a fairy light, To glimmer and to shine for you All through the night? See, from heaven shine the stars, Silent, steadfast, true; God is caring all the time,

But now I fear the walls may be breached, the shell cracked.  Our family is cracking, fear and anxiety haunt our dreams, unanswered questions hover on our lips.  How will we stay strong, stay together? I have been here before, suffered through this once already – and this is a suffering too much for one man to bear.  And so my failures haunt me. I can see their eyes at night, shining in the darkness, accusing me of my greatest failure, failure to protect those that I love.  What more damning accusation can there be?  How can I sleep not knowing where my darlings are, that they are gone because of me, that in their hour of need I was not there?  But now I must again head out into the wicked world to find another, guide them to our home, welcome them to the bosom of our family.

Light shines best through cracks

A long time ago inside a local ice rink, 15 year olds went to battle to win a game of hockey.  They played for themselves, for their teams, for their coaches, for their towns, and for their families. It was a 0-0 tie in the 2nd period.     Both goalies were outstanding.  But one appeared to be somewhere else. Thinking.  The shot came.    The antagonist wasn’t aiming to break the scoreless tie.  He was living up to his agreement with the other team’s coach.  A coach who wanted his son to be the team's goalie.     He didn’t want a new goalie that could take his team where they have never been.  The playoffs.  A goalie that could secure his team at the top.  The coach watched the shot he bought.      The goalie could have shifted, dodged out of the way, but he was paralyzed.  He dropped to the ice when the puck struck his unprotected neck.     The player skated over to examine the goalie. He had accomplished his task.    And with the money he earned, he can buy the bicycle he always wanted.     The goalie’s father was standing amongst the other parents.  He was enraged that his son didn’t make the save.     He felt the hard work he put into his boy slowly fade, and quickly die out.  He knew how good his son was, and would be.  He knew the puck struck because the goalie let it.  He did not know why.   I groaned as the puck hit me in the arm.  I had pads, but pads can only soften the blow. I squeezed my arm.     My father stood and watched.     My friend fired another shot that whacked me in the throat, knocking me down.  I felt dizzy.      It was frigid on the pond in winter.     This is where I learned to play hockey.  This is also where I learned it was painful to be a goaltender.  I got up slowly, glowering at him.  My friend was perplexed at my tenacity.     “This time, stay down!” And then he took the hardest slap shot I have ever encountered.     The puck tore through the icy air at incredible speed right into my face.     My glove rapidly came up and snatched it right before it would shatter my jaw.  I took my glove off and reached for the puck inside.     I swung my arm and pitched it as fiercely as I could at my friend.     Next time we play, I should wear my mask and he should wear a little more cover than a hat.  I turned towards my father.  He was smiling.  That was rare.     I was relieved to know that I was getting better and he knew it.  The ice cracked open and I dropped through…      The goalie was alone at the hospital.  He got up and opened the curtains the nurse keeps closing at night so he could see through the clear wall.     He eyed out the window and there was nothing interesting except a lonely little tree.  He noticed the way the moonlight shined off the grass and radiated everything else.  But not the tree.  The tree was as colourless as the sky.     But the sky had lots of bright little glowing stars.  What did the tree have?  He went back to his bed and dozed off before he could answer his own question.   Nobody came to visit him at the hospital but his mother.     His father was at home and upset that his son is no longer on the team.  The goalie spot was seized by the team’s original goalie, the coach’s son.     The goalie’s entire life had been hockey.  He played every day as his father observed.  He really wanted a regular father, whatever that was.  A father that cares about him and not about hockey.  The goalie did like hockey, but it was a game.         A sport just like other sports, only there’s an ice surface to play on.  But he did not love hockey.     It was just something he became very good at, with plenty of practice and bruises.     He was silent in his new team’s locker room, so he didn’t assume anyone would come and see how he was doing.

I’m thinking about God and what I might say to him about all of this, but maybe I don’t have to say anything. What if God is just there waiting for you to let him in, like a light that’s shining all the time, behind everything we think is real—and it’s only through the cracks that we start to see him? Surely there’s love now coming through the broken places in our family. Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be.

My marriage to Jamie had been for me like the turning of a great key, each small turn setting in play the intricate fall of tumblers within me. Bree had been able to turn that key as well, edging closer to the unlocking of the door of myself. But the final turn of the lock was frozen—until I had walked into the printshop in Edinburgh, and the mechanism had sprung free with a final, decisive click. The door now was ajar, the light of an unknown future shining through its crack. But it would take more strength than I had alone to push it open.

Life may be full of suffering. But sometimes a ray of light shines through a crack in the wall, and one can pass a hand through a rainbow and see one's own skin turn the color of the heavens.

Mom,' he said, 'why do white people want colored people shining shoes?' She turned toward him, completely at a loss as to what to say, for she had never been able to figure it out for herself. She looked down at her hands. They were brown and strong, the fingers were long and well-shaped. Perhaps because she was born with skin that color, she couldn't see anything wrong with it. She was used to it. Perhaps it was a shock just to look at skins that were dark if you were born with a skin that was white. Yet dark skins were smooth to the touch; they were warm from the blood that ran through the veins under the skin; they covered bodies that were just as well put together as the bodies that were covered with white skins. Even if it were a shock to look at people whose skins were dark, she had never been able to figure out why people with white skins hated people who had dark skins. It must be hate that made them wrap all Negroes up in a neat package labeled 'colored'; a package that called for certain kinds of jobs and a special kind of treatment. But she really didn't know what it was. 'I don't know, Bub,' she said finally. 'But it's for the same reason we can't live anywhere else but in places like this'—she indicated the cracked ceiling, the worn top of the set tub, and the narrow window, with a wave of the paring knife in her hand.

smirked at her words. “That’s crazy to me because you broke me as well. Ripped me apart and let the light shine through the cracks. You didn’t just put me back together, though. You rearranged everything before you did.

Good.” She smiles. “We don’t always have to let our walls down completely. Sometimes all we need is a little light to shine through the cracks to make a difference.

When you show up with good energy, with light shining through you, it invites the light out of others. It's like a magnetic force, the light within them fights through and creates cracks in the layers of their concrete conditioning of pain, anger or ego, to meet your light. There is so much pain the world and being an instrument to help others discover their light and strength is a beautiful, beautiful way to serve others.

The second thing is that the tunnels have widened, drastically. There’s light again, pouring through cracks, revealing great caverns far above us with smooth, luminescent ceilings of pale blue. Somewhere, the sun is shining. Somewhere out there is the world we’re trying to get to. Can you see why hope is terrifying? What if this light narrows into darkness again?

I looked at my hands, turned them over in the tarnished shine of streetlights seeping through a crack in the curtains. They were long; strong and competent with nicely shaped nails; hard enough for a palm strike, soft enough to trace gentle arabesques on a taut trembling stomach or along a soft inner thigh. The stains did not show.

Cass?” The word came from behind her. She spun around. The cell was dark, quiet. A roman numeral fifteen was painted upside down over the door. Had someone just said her name? Or had she imagined it? A shadow stirred from inside the cell. There was a liquid sound in the dark, water being disturbed. A man’s face appeared at the tiny grate. Siena covered her mouth with one hand. Cass swallowed back a gasp. He had a thick beard covering his cheeks and chin, but his brown eyes shined golden in the darkness. It was Luca. “Am I--am I seeing things?” Luca’s voice was dry, cracked. “Is that you, Cass?” His eyes were wide and staring, as though he had woken in the middle of a dream. Cass felt like weeping. He was here. She had found him. She wanted to throw herself through the stone and press her face to his chest. Instead, she leaned close to the grate. “We’re going to get you out of here,” she mouthed. Luca rubbed his eyes, like he still thought Cass was just a dream. He shook his head. “Impossible,” he whispered. Cass reached for his face, barely managing to squeeze her fingers through the grate and touch his cheek. “I’ll be back. I promise.

The food thing is this: although we all are broken, we all have the same offer to be made whole again. We all have a God who wants to lift us up from our dusty, dirty brokenness and piece us back together again, making us something more beautiful than when we began and perhaps even leaving a few cracks so that His glory can shine through.

The good thing is this: although we all are broken, we all have the same offer to be made whole again. We all have a God who wants to lift us up from our dusty, dirty brokenness and piece us back together again, making us something more beautiful than when we began and perhaps even leaving a few cracks so that His glory can shine through.

Circumstances don't define you. They shape you. You are molded to make a difference. Let your light shine brightly, even through the cracks.

MAY 10 Light Shines Through Cracked Pots Let not those who wait and hope and look for You, O Lord of hosts, be put to shame through me; let not those who seek and inquire for and require You [as their vital necessity] be brought to confusion and dishonor through me, O God of Israel. PSALM 69:6 Everyone is like a pot that carries life. But not everyone carries a presence that blesses others. Religion tries to force people to follow laws to make them perfect, like pots without cracks. But if a light is put within a flawless pot and then covered, no one is able to see the light inside the pot. Perfect pots are not able to reveal internal light to illumine the way for others. God chooses to shine through imperfect, cracked pots. People are blessed when our cracked pots let the light of Jesus shine through. Choose to be a glory-filled, cracked pot rather than an empty, pretty vessel.

Beau caught me staring and winked. I bit my bottom lip to keep from laughing. A sharp elbow nudged me in the ribs, causing me to gasp and spin around to find the person who belonged to the boney arm. Lana was smiling innocently at me. “You’re being obvious,” she hissed, keeping a fake smile on her face. Her meaning, however, sunk in. “I need to go to the car and get my phone. My mom’s probably called me ten times by now,” Lana announced. “I’ll go with you,” I quickly replied, glancing up at Sawyer, who seemed pleased I was being nice to my cousin. I used to seek out this sort of approval from him, but now it annoyed me. If I didn’t like my cousin, I’d stomp on her foot just to piss him off. Once we were safely out of the clearing and headed for the car, Lana stopped walking and turned to glare at me. “You’ve about ten minutes or so to get yourself together before your knight in shining armor comes looking for us. I’m going to go get my phone and make a few calls.” I frowned. “What do you mean?” “I mean you need to stop openly flirting with Beau while the entire football team is around to witness it. It’s like you two think you’re the only ones out there. We all have eyes, you know.” She spun around and headed deeper into the pecan orchard and toward the parked cars. “She’s got a point, but it’s my fault.” Beau’s voice should have startled me, but it didn’t. Somehow I knew he’d find a way to get me alone. “Yes, it probably is,” I said teasingly as I turned around to meet his gaze. Beau took a step toward me and ran his hand through his hair, muttering a curse. “I want to rip his damn arms off his body, Ash. Sawyer, who I’d do anything for. I want to hurt him. If he touches you again in front of me, I’m going to crack. I can’t take this.

On June 7, after months of wins slightly outweighed by losses, Clinton conceded, arguing that her opponent had proven by his strength and grit that the United States was ready for an African American president. As for women, she told supporters, “Although we weren’t able to shatter that hardest, highest glass ceiling this time, thanks to you, it’s got about eighteen million cracks in it. And the light is shining through like never before, filling us all with the hope and the sure knowledge that the path will be a little easier the next time.” She was right that there would be a next time, wrong that it would be easier.

Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!” The surface of the grave at Harry’s feet cracked. Horrified, Harry watched as a fine trickle of dust rose into the air at Wormtail’s command and fell softly into the cauldron. The diamond surface of the water broke and hissed; it sent sparks in all directions and turned a vivid, poisonous-looking blue. And now Wormtail was whimpering. He pulled a long, thin, shining silver dagger from inside his cloak. His voice broke into petrified sobs. “Flesh — of the servant — w-willingly given — you will — revive — your master.” He stretched his right hand out in front of him — the hand with the missing finger. He gripped the dagger very tightly in his left hand and swung it upward. Harry realized what Wormtail was about to do a second before it happened — he closed his eyes as tightly as he could, but he could not block the scream that pierced the night, that went through Harry as though he had been stabbed with the dagger too. He heard something fall to the ground, heard Wormtail’s anguished panting, then a sickening splash, as something was dropped into the cauldron. Harry couldn’t stand to look . . . but the potion had turned a burning red; the light of it shone through Harry’s closed eyelids. . . . Wormtail was gasping and moaning with agony. Not until Harry felt Wormtail’s anguished breath on his face did he realize that Wormtail was right in front of him. “B-blood of the enemy . . . forcibly taken . . . you will . . . resurrect your foe.” Harry could do nothing to prevent it, he was tied too tightly. . . . Squinting down, struggling hopelessly at the ropes binding him, he saw the shining silver dagger shaking in Wormtail’s remaining hand. He felt its point penetrate the crook of his right arm and blood seeping down the sleeve of his torn robes. Wormtail, still panting with pain, fumbled in his pocket for a glass vial and held it to Harry’s cut, so that a dribble of blood fell into it.

thought you said you just came last night?” And the minute she says it, that particular choice of words, I can tell exactly what Grant’s thinking. His stoic expression cracks for just a moment as the tiniest smirk quirks the mustache that stands out thicker from the scruff along his beard. And I’m realizing really fucking quickly that Grant Fox is not just attractive. No, this guy is ruggedly handsome. Tall and built. Thick, dark brown hair long enough to thread through fingers and grip along the top. Hazel eyes shining with colors that make them pretty as they dance around my face. “That true, honey? Did you just come last night?” “Sure did,” I quip right back without missing a beat. “Not that it’s any of your business.” “Honey? What did I miss?” Lincoln asks his brother. The glare I’m trying to muster turns into a staring contest that, if I’m not careful, I might lose. He keeps his eyes trained on me while he answers his brother. “She was wandering around the back of the main house in one of Ace’s t-shirts. No pants. Thought she was still drunk or lost.” My hands ball up into fists and a full-body flash of heat flushes my face, staining my cheeks and up my neck too. “I was neither of those, fuck you very much.” He crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Didn’t think I’d see you again. He usually doesn’t like repeats.” Hadley barks out a laugh and slings her arm around my shoulders. “Well, it looks like you might be seeing even more of her since she just moved into the cottage across from your place.” The speed at which his eyebrows raise and lips part is priceless. I smile with satisfaction. Lincoln leans closer and quietly asks, “That true? You and Ace?

Fiction—I hope to every god you have the guts to do what needs doing. I hope you will find the cracks in the world and wedge them wider, so the light of other suns shines through; I hope you will keep the world unruly, messy, full of strange magics; I hope you will run through every open Door and tell stories when you return.

It does not matter whether I trust Falconet,” he said. “I cannot trust you. And if I were to forgive you, the Charter Families—whether they are conspiring or not—would all move against me. They would see weakness all over me like blood on a wounded animal.” Conor slammed his hands against the Sunderglass bars. The noise echoed through the Trick, a crack like thunder. “If you had only come to me,” he said with real anguish, “we would have determined something, come to some understanding, but what you did—treason cannot be wiped away or forgotten. Everyone knows of your guilt; everyone has seen it. I cannot stop what is going to happen. I cannot—” He took a deep breath. “You cannot save me,” Kel said flatly. “That is what you mean.” “No,” Conor whispered. “All of your decisions have brought us here. You have taken yourself away from me. And I can never forgive you for that.” “I don’t want to leave you,” Kel said. He held out his hands. He knew Conor could not touch him through the bars, but he had never reached out for Conor and found the gesture unanswered. He could not stop himself. “I am your Sword Catcher,” he said softly, and he saw Conor’s eyes shine in the dimness. “I bleed so that you will not bleed. I die so you can live forever.”’ “No one lives forever, Kel,” Conor said evenly, and walked away.

India’s Best Highway Infrastructure: Experiencing an Effortless Drive on the Agra-Etawah Toll Road I’ve always believed that how you travel matters just as much as where you go. On a recent trip from Agra, I took the Agra-Etawah Toll Road — and I wasn’t prepared for how smooth and refined the journey would be. This highway isn’t just well-built — it’s a shining example of India’s best highway infrastructure. The drive began at a hassle-free toll plaza equipped with FASTag sensors. No long queues, no fumbling for cash — just clear lanes and a friendly wave through. It set the tone for a modern, stress-free journey. #AgraEtawahTollRoad Once on the highway, the quality of the road immediately stood out. Not a single pothole or cracked section in sight, and fellow drivers maintained lane discipline better than I’ve seen on most Indian highways. #ModernRoadMakers The scenery was another highlight — wide fields, pockets of greenery, and small towns in the distance, all passing by without interruption. With highway patrols and emergency booths strategically placed, I felt secure throughout the drive. #IndiasBestHighwayInfrastructure Midway, I stopped at a rest area expecting the usual cramped, neglected setup. Instead, I found a clean, shaded, and functional space with seating, food options, and clearly marked parking zones. It was evident this highway was designed with the traveler in mind. #BestHighwayInfrastructure By the time I reached Etawah, I felt like I’d experienced something truly different — a road trip free from frustration, delays, or stress. Just a smooth, enjoyable ride across one of India’s best-maintained highways. If this is the direction Indian infrastructure is heading, the future of road travel looks bright. The Agra-Etawah Toll Road deserves every recognition as part of India’s best highway infrastructure.

I hope to every god you have the guts to do what needs doing. I hope you will find the cracks in the world and wedge them wider, so the light of other suns shines through; I hope you will keep the world unruly, messy, full of strange magics; I hope you will run through every open Door and tell stories when you return.

Alternatives to Buying Social Security Number for Identity Verification Just Contact Now: WhatsApp: +1 ‪(804) 452-7979 Telegram: @usapvaonline In today's digital world, identity verification is crucial for everything from opening bank accounts to signing up for online services. However, the temptation to buy a Social Security Number (SSN) illegally can lead to serious consequences like fines, imprisonment, and identity theft risks. As of 2025, authorities are cracking down harder on such fraud, with the FTC reporting a surge in SSN-related scams. Instead of risking your future, explore legal alternatives that are safe, efficient, and compliant with regulations. One standout option is using phone verified accounts (PVAs) from reputable providers like usapvaonline.com. This company specializes in offering pre-verified accounts for platforms like Gmail, Cash App, and PayPal, helping users bypass traditional SSN requirements through alternative verification methods. Their services are designed for businesses and individuals needing quick, legitimate access without the hassle of personal data exposure. Why avoid buying SSNs? It's not just illegal under U.S. law (18 U.S.C. § 1028), but it also exposes you to cybercriminals who sell fake or stolen numbers. Legal alternatives include biometric scans, government-issued IDs like driver's licenses, or even utility bills for proof of address. But for online verifications, PVAs shine because they use phone numbers or emails to confirm identity, reducing reliance on sensitive info like SSNs. usapvaonline.com makes this easy with affordable packages: 100 old Gmail accounts for $80, verified Cash App accounts for $200, and verified PayPal accounts for $150. All come with a 100% satisfaction guarantee, fast delivery, and 24/7 support, available in the USA, UK, and beyond. These accounts are ideal for digital marketing, e-commerce, or personal use, ensuring you stay on the right side of the law. Beyond PVAs, other methods include two-factor authentication (2FA) via apps like Google Authenticator, which doesn't require SSNs. Or, use knowledge-based verification, answering personal questions from credit reports. For businesses, API-based services from companies like Jumio or Onfido offer AI-driven ID checks using passports or facial recognition. The key is choosing verified, ethical providers. usapvaonline.com stands out for its global reach and focus on business protection, helping you save time and resources. In this guide, we'll dive deeper into why ditching illegal SSN purchases is smart and explore practical alternatives to keep your online presence secure.

☎️+1(844) 584-4767 When travel plans change, questions pop up, or last-minute issues strike, having direct access to Expedia support is essential. Whether you’re wondering about flight changes, hotel upgrades, or refund eligibility, getting help from a real person makes everything easier. Expedia’s customer service team is available by phone, online chat, and even through the app. But for travelers who prefer immediate answers, ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 is the quickest path to personalized solutions that resolve booking challenges smoothly. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Many travelers start by looking for answers online, but sometimes automated tools can’t fully address complex booking situations. That’s where Expedia’s phone support shines—you can explain your unique circumstances to an agent who understands every policy inside out. From airline schedule changes to unexpected cancellations, human help saves you stress. For anything urgent, don’t waste time scrolling through FAQs. Just call ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 to speak with an Expedia representative who can guide you step by step. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 If you booked flights, Expedia agents can help you confirm seat upgrades, check baggage allowances, and request special services. Many travelers don’t realize they can also add meals, adjust connections, or verify travel documents through a single conversation. This flexibility keeps your journey stress-free and well-organized. Instead of navigating airline policies alone, a phone call makes the process simple. For direct guidance on your specific reservation, call ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 and let Expedia handle the fine details. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Hotel bookings are another area where travelers often need personal support. Maybe you need to request early check-in, verify kids’ amenities, or confirm that the hotel will honor your loyalty perks. Expedia agents can contact the property directly on your behalf, ensuring nothing slips through the cracks. This saves time compared to endless back-and-forth emails. When peace of mind matters most, ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 connects you with support that makes hotel reservations seamless and stress-free from start to finish. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 For vacation packages, which often include flights, hotels, and car rentals, having one point of contact simplifies everything. If one leg of your journey changes, an Expedia agent can adjust the rest of your itinerary accordingly. Without support, you might be left juggling multiple providers. Instead, a single call keeps your plans intact. Whether it’s a destination switch or date adjustment, ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 ensures your booking stays coordinated, giving you less hassle and more confidence in your travel. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Expedia also understands that emergencies happen—lost passports, delayed flights, or sudden illness can completely disrupt travel. In these stressful moments, having someone to call provides instant relief. An experienced agent can explain cancellation policies, help you file insurance claims, or rebook you quickly. Instead of panicking at the airport, one call saves the day. Travelers who prioritize peace of mind know ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 is the lifeline that gets them back on track fast. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Rewards members often ask how their loyalty perks apply to bookings, upgrades, or changes. Expedia agents can break down exactly how your points, discounts, or vouchers work for different travel types. This ensures you maximize every benefit you’ve earned. Instead of missing out on perks, you’ll travel smarter and save more. And when questions about applying rewards feel confusing, ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 makes it easy to connect directly with support for clear, accurate information about your membership.