Sticker Love Quotes

I love children, but I don't think I can eat a whole one.- Bumper sticker

How I treat a brother or sister from day to day, how I react to the sin-scarred wino on the street, how I respond to interruptions from people I dislike, how I deal with normal people in their normal confusion on a normal day may be a better indication of my reverence for life than the antiabortion sticker on the bumper of my car.

Falling in love with Nathan Hawkins was not something I could have planned. No planner, iPad, or freaking sticker chart could have prepared me for my future. My imagination isn’t capable of dreaming up this level of happiness.

You can have everything in the world, but if you don't have love, none of it means crap," he said promptly. "Love is patient. Love is kind. Love always forgives, trusts, supports, and endures. Love never fails. When every star in the heavens grows cold, and when silence lies once more on the face of the deep, three things will endure: faith, hope, and love." And the greatest of these is love," I finished. "That's from the Bible." First Corinthians, chapter thirteen," Thomas confirmed. "I paraphrased. Father makes all of us memorize that passage. Like when parents put those green yucky-face stickers on the poisonous cleaning products under the kitchen sink.

I kiss him and I call him beautiful and I tell him I love him and we go on past that finish line. We laugh and catch our breaths and we peel stickers off each other. No do-over needed.

I mean, without the antagonist, there would be no story! It’d be like: ‘Once upon a time there was a girl who wanted to be loved, so she met a prince and got married and lived Happily Ever After, The End’? That’s not a story; that’s a bumper sticker.

When did they stop putting toys in cereal boxes? When I was little, I remember wandering the cereal aisle (which surely is as American a phenomenon as fireworks on the Fourth of July) and picking my breakfast food based on what the reward was: a Frisbee with the Trix rabbit's face emblazoned on the front. Holographic stickers with the Lucky Charms leprechaun. A mystery decoder wheel. I could suffer through raisin bran for a month if it meant I got a magic ring at the end. I cannot admit this out loud. In the first place, we are expected to be supermoms these days, instead of admitting that we have flaws. It is tempting to believe that all mothers wake up feeling fresh every morning, never raise their voices, only cook with organic food, and are equally at ease with the CEO and the PTA. Here's a secret: those mothers don't exist. Most of us-even if we'd never confess-are suffering through the raisin bran in the hopes of a glimpse of that magic ring. I look very good on paper. I have a family, and I write a newspaper column. In real life, I have to pick superglue out of the carpet, rarely remember to defrost for dinner, and plan to have BECAUSE I SAID SO engraved on my tombstone. Real mothers wonder why experts who write for Parents and Good Housekeeping-and, dare I say it, the Burlington Free Press-seem to have their acts together all the time when they themselves can barely keep their heads above the stormy seas of parenthood. Real mothers don't just listen with humble embarrassment to the elderly lady who offers unsolicited advice in the checkout line when a child is throwing a tantrum. We take the child, dump him in the lady's car, and say, "Great. Maybe YOU can do a better job." Real mothers know that it's okay to eat cold pizza for breakfast. Real mothers admit it is easier to fail at this job than to succeed. If parenting is the box of raisin bran, then real mothers know the ratio of flakes to fun is severely imbalanced. For every moment that your child confides in you, or tells you he loves you, or does something unprompted to protect his brother that you happen to witness, there are many more moments of chaos, error, and self-doubt. Real mothers may not speak the heresy, but they sometimes secretly wish they'd chosen something for breakfast other than this endless cereal. Real mothers worry that other mothers will find that magic ring, whereas they'll be looking and looking for ages. Rest easy, real mothers. The very fact that you worry about being a good mom means that you already are one.

All those moments throughout the days, weeks, months that don't get marked on calendars with hand-drawn stars or little stickers. Those are the moments that make a life. Not grand gestures, but mundane details that, over time, accumulate until you have a home, instead of a house. The things that matter. The things I can't stop longing for.

Jesus did not simply die to save us from our sins; Jesus lived to save us from our sins. His life and teachings show us the way to liberation. But you can't fit all that on a bumper sticker. So we try to boil it down to a formula. Four steps. The "Romans Road." John 3:16. And yet the gospel itself, in its eternal scope and scandalous particularity, defies reduction.

I saw a banner hanging next to city hall in downtown Philadelphia that read, "Kill them all, and let God sort them out." A bumper sticker read, "God will judge evildoers; we just have to get them to him." I saw a T-shirt on a soldier that said, "US Air Force... we don't die; we just go to hell to regroup." Others were less dramatic- red, white, and blue billboards saying, "God bless our troops." "God Bless America" became a marketing strategy. One store hung an ad in their window that said, "God bless America--$1 burgers." Patriotism was everywhere, including in our altars and church buildings. In the aftermath of September 11th, most Christian bookstores had a section with books on the event, calendars, devotionals, buttons, all decorated in the colors of America, draped in stars and stripes, and sprinkled with golden eagles. This burst of nationalism reveals the deep longing we all have for community, a natural thirst for intimacy... September 11th shattered the self-sufficient, autonomous individual, and we saw a country of broken fragile people who longed for community- for people to cry with, be angry with, to suffer with. People did not want to be alone in their sorrow, rage, and fear. But what happened after September 11th broke my heart. Conservative Christians rallies around the drums of war. Liberal Christian took to the streets. The cross was smothered by the flag and trampled under the feet of angry protesters. The church community was lost, so the many hungry seekers found community in the civic religion of American patriotism. People were hurting and crying out for healing, for salvation in the best sense of the word, as in the salve with which you dress a wound. A people longing for a savior placed their faith in the fragile hands of human logic and military strength, which have always let us down. They have always fallen short of the glory of God. ...The tragedy of the church's reaction to September 11th is not that we rallied around the families in New York and D.C. but that our love simply reflected the borders and allegiances of the world. We mourned the deaths of each soldier, as we should, but we did not feel the same anger and pain for each Iraqi death, or for the folks abused in the Abu Ghraib prison incident. We got farther and farther from Jesus' vision, which extends beyond our rational love and the boundaries we have established. There is no doubt that we must mourn those lives on September 11th. We must mourn the lives of the soldiers. But with the same passion and outrage, we must mourn the lives of every Iraqi who is lost. They are just as precious, no more, no less. In our rebirth, every life lost in Iraq is just as tragic as a life lost in New York or D.C. And the lives of the thirty thousand children who die of starvation each day is like six September 11ths every single day, a silent tsunami that happens every week.

A great principle of moral advancement, on par with "Love thy neighbor" and "All men are created equal," is the one on the bumper sticker: "Shit happens.

My heart races and I look away. “Well I care. So, write it down. For nine weekends and eight thousand dollars, what's yours is mine including your friends.” I throw in a little sarcastic eye flutter. “We're going to be so head-over-heels-in-love. I can't wait to see how romantic you are!” “Oh no. I refuse to be your kind of bumper-sticker-romantic. Don't mistake me for Mr. Darcy.” I gasp. “You don't know Hunger Games or Forks, Washington, but you know Mr. Darcy? Start talking.” “Crap! My grandmother's a fan. She's tortured me since birth with Mr. Darcy. Thanks to her DVD collection, I can quote Jane Austen faster than the Elmo song.” I laugh, surprised again. “Prove it.” “Elizabeth, daaarling!” He's launched into a breathless English accent. “I love, love, love you, and I never want to be parted from you from this day forward. Pardon me, whilst I puke…” “No way!” I beam. “Let the contract state that I want the Mr. Darcy accent once a week!” I can't help but laugh again because he's shaking his head and laughing back.

It's the in thing to paste the print club stickers all over your cell phone. I arranged them chaotically to symbolize our love!

Are you going to leave that sticker on your face?”  Rowan scoffs. “Of course. Makes me prettier.

My identity as Abba’s child is not an abstraction or a tap dance into religiosity. It is the core truth of my existence. Living in the wisdom of accepted tenderness profoundly affects my perception of reality, the way I respond to people and their life situations. How I treat my brothers and sisters from day to day, whether they be Caucasian, African, Asian, or Hispanic; how I react to the sin-scarred wino on the street; how I respond to interruptions from people I dislike; how I deal with ordinary people in their ordinary unbelief on an ordinary day will speak the truth of who I am more poignantly than the pro-life sticker on the bumper of my car. We are not for life simply because we are warding off death. We are sons and daughters of the Most High and maturing in tenderness to the extent that we are for others—all others—to the extent that no human flesh is strange to us, to the extent that we can touch the hand of another in love, to the extent that for us there are no “others.

If you are on the honor roll and your parents don't put a sticker on their car saying so, they are not proud of you and do not love you.

With the rise of classical Greece, the soul debate evolved into the more familiar heart-versus-brain, the liver having been demoted to an accessory role. We are fortunate that this is so, for we would otherwise have been faced with Celine Dion singing "My Liver Belongs to You" and movie houses playing The Liver Is a Lonely Hunter. Every Spanish love song that contains the word corazon, which is all of them, would contain the somewhat less lilting higado, and bumper stickers would proclaim, "I [liver symbol] my Pekingese.

And Olive thought about this: the way people can love those they barely know, and how abiding that love can be, and also how deep that love can be, even when—as in her own case—it was temporary. She thought of Betty and her stupid bumper sticker, and the child who had been so frightened that Halima Butterfly had told her about, and yet to tell any of this right now to Betty, who was genuinely suffering—as Olive had suffered—seemed cruel, and she kept silent.

The proper response to religious opposition to choice or love or death can be reduced to a series of bumper stickers: Don't approve of abortion? Don't have one. Don't approve of gay marriage? Don't have one. Don't approve of physician-assisted suicide? For Christ's sake, don't have one. But don't tell me I can't have one - each and every one - because it offends your God.

Scripture breathes wisdom like we breathe oxygen. It can't not. Through Scripture, God reveals himself. This wisdom cannot be captured, let alone contained, on a neon bumper sticker or rubber bracelet. Wisdom itself invites us to go deeper- right into a relationship with God himself. Through wisdom, we learn to love God and love what he loves. We find rich counsel on the life we were meant for- in our families, communities, and world. We discover our personal responsibilities to others. And we unearth how to put love into action." -Organic God

If I had a suitcase, I would love it. I would shrink-wrap it when I traveled. I would put stickers from every place I'd ever been on it. And when I saw it on the carousel I would grab it with both hands and I'd be so happy to have it because then my adventures would really begin.

Nothing changes if we just feel shitty about being White. And nothing changes if we refuse to talk about it. The opposite of white pride does not have to be white shame. We can’t push it away and pretend it’s not us. We are not color-blind, we are not post-race, we do not get to reject our whiteness because it makes us feel bad…This does not get solved with a Celebration of Diversity Day and a coexist bumper sticker. (Kate Schatz)

God is love, but Satan does that thing you like with his tongue. --BUMPER STICKER

But she sounds like a goddamn Happy Planner sticker today.

Remember how we put stickers with your name on your pocessions that could be stolen.We didn't put a sticker on your innocence so don't lose it!

A great principle of moral advancement, on a par with “Love thy neighbor” and “All men are created equal,” is the one on the bumper sticker: “Shit happens.

-i was "far and away"-riding my motorcycle along an american back road, skiing through the snowy Quebec woods, or lying awake in a backwater motel. the theme i was grappling with was nothing less than the Meaning of Life, and i was pretty sure i had defined it: love and respect. love and respect, love and respect-i have been carrying those words around with me for two years, daring to consider that perhaps they convey the real meaning of life. beyond basic survival needs, everybody wants to be loved and respected. and neither is any good without the other. love without respect can be as cold as pity; respect without love can be as grim as fear. love and respect are the values in life that most contribute to "the pursuit of happiness"-and after, they are the greatest legacy we can leave behind. it's an elegy you'd like to hear with your own ears: "you were loved and respected." if even one person can say that about you, it's a worthy achievement, and if you can multiply that many times-well, that is true success. among materialists, a certain bumper sticker is emblematic: "he who dies with the most toys wins!" well, no-he or she who dies with the most love and respect wins... then there's love and respect for oneself-equally hard to achieve and maintain. most of us, deep down, are not as proud of ourselves as we might pretend, and the goal of bettering ourselves-at least partly by earning the love and respect of others-is a lifelong struggle. Philo of Alexandria gave us that generous principle that we have somehow succeeded in mostly ignoring for 2,000 years: "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.

There’s a bumper sticker that says, “If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention.” Anyone who never gets angry when he sees their friends and loved ones doing things that are harmful to themselves or others has to be pretty numb to the deep sadness of suffering. Anyone who just walks on by when she sees humans being treated like objects needs to take a second look. And a third one.

Love rarely comes up; why would it? But it comes up here, in this for-profit exhibition. Here it is the ultimate message, the final solution. That the Holocaust drives home the importance of love is an idea, like the idea that Holocaust education prevents antisemitism, that seems entirely unobjectionable. It is entirely objectionable. The Holocaust didn’t happen because of a lack of love. It happened because entire societies abdicated responsibility for their own problems, and instead blamed them on the people who represented—have always represented, since they first introduced the idea of commandedness to the world—the thing they were most afraid of: responsibility. Then as now, Jews were cast in the role of civilization’s nagging mothers, loathed in life, and loved only once they are safely dead. In the years since I walked through Auschwitz at fifteen, I have become a nagging mother. And I find myself furious, being lectured by this exhibition about love—as if the murder of millions of people was actually a morality play, a bumper sticker, a metaphor. I do not want my children to be someone else’s metaphor. (Of course, they already are.) My husband’s grandfather once owned a bus company in Poland. Like my husband

Twenty-four. I can’t imagine making a decision like that at that age but all my brothers got married young, and Tham’s great. My dad’s even on board. He got a bumper sticker that says I’M A PROUD CHRIST FOLLOWER WHO LOVES MY GAY SON.

I’m not sure how the ponies happened, though I have an inkling: “Can I get you anything?” I’ll say, getting up from a dinner table, “Coffee, tea, a pony?” People rarely laugh at this, especially if they’ve heard it before. “This party’s ‘sposed to be fun,” a friend will say. “Really? Will there be pony rides?” It’s a nervous tic and a cheap joke, cheapened further by the frequency with which I use it. For that same reason, it’s hard to weed it out of my speech – most of the time I don’t even realize I’m saying it. There are little elements in a person’s life, minor fibers that become unintentionally tangled with your personality. Sometimes it’s a patent phrase, sometimes it’s a perfume, sometimes it’s a wristwatch. For me, it is the constant referencing of ponies. I don’t even like ponies. If I made one of my throwaway equine requests and someone produced an actual pony, Juan-Valdez-style, I would run very fast in the other direction. During a few summers at camp, I rode a chronically dehydrated pony named Brandy who would jolt down without notice to lick the grass outside the corral and I would careen forward, my helmet tipping to cover my eyes. I do, however, like ponies on the abstract. Who doesn’t? It’s like those movies with the animated insects. Sure, the baby cockroach seems cute with CGI eyelashes, but how would you feel about fifty of her real-life counterparts living in your oven? And that’s precisely the manner in which the ponies clomped their way into my regular speech: abstractly. “I have something for you,” a guy will say on our first date. “Is it a pony?” No. It’s usually a movie ticket or his cell phone number. But on our second date, if I ask again, I’m pretty sure I’m getting a pony. And thus the Pony drawer came to be. It’s uncomfortable to admit, but almost every guy I have ever dated has unwittingly made a contribution to the stable. The retro pony from the ‘50s was from the most thoughtful guy I have ever known. The one with the glitter horseshoes was from a boy who would later turn out to be straight somehow, not gay. The one with the rainbow haunches was from a librarian, whom I broke up with because I felt the chemistry just wasn’t right, and the one with the price tag stuck on the back was given to me by a narcissist who was so impressed with his gift he forgot to remover the sticker. Each one of them marks the beginning of a new relationship. I don’t mean to hint. It’s not a hint, actually, it’s a flat out demand: I. Want. A. Pony. I think what happens is that young relationships are eager to build up a romantic repertoire of private jokes, especially in the city where there’s not always a great “how we met” story behind every great love affair. People meet at bars, through mutual friends, on dating sites, or because they work in the same industry. Just once a coworker of mine, asked me out between two stops on the N train. We were holding the same pole and he said, “I know this sounds completely insane, bean sprout, but would you like to go to a very public place with me and have a drink or something...?” I looked into his seemingly non-psycho-killing, rent-paying, Sunday Times-subscribing eyes and said, “Sure, why the hell not?” He never bought me a pony. But he didn’t have to, if you know what I mean.

The thing is, he was the best kind of guy. Protective and strong, loving and easygoing, funny and honest. He was actually the exact kind of guy we were looking for.No, not in a creepy way. I am anti-incest. It says so on my bumper sticker.

...Heracles was strangely silent. What is he thinking? / Geryon wondered. / Geryon watched prehistoric rocks move past the car and thought about thoughts. / Even when they were lovers / he had never known what Herakles was thinking. Once in a while he would say, / Penny for your thoughts! / and it always turned out to be some odd thing like a bumper sticker or a dish / he'd eaten in a Chinese restaurant years ago. / What Geryon was thinking Herakles never asked. In the space between them / developed a dangerous cloud.

She was in love with Justin Bieber, let me tell you,” Grandma says, tapping the picture of me wearing a Bieber T-shirt and a collection of Bieber stickers decorating my arms and face. “That girl was crazy about him. Of course now she acts like she's too cool for that kind of music, but you know how kids are.

He thought rightly that we Americans, by inclination at least, have been divided into two kinds: “boomers” and “stickers.” Boomers, he said, are “those who pillage and run,” who want “to make a killing and end up on Easy Street,” whereas stickers are “those who settle, and love the life they have made and the place they have made it in.

Special combo, you got it," I say into the phone. "Which one?" "The winter melon soup." Winter melon is symbolic of a wife- a special order of the soup means someone's is about to be abducted. A special order of egg fried rice? Someone's kid. Fried pot stickers? A husband. Shanghai chow mein with chopped-up noodles? Someone's doomed to have their life cut short, the promise of longevity broken.

I loooves free,” Ethan said. “Don’t we all, man,” Mac said. He looked at me, rubbing his fingers together. “Until we make the majors, we’re poor.” “Aren’t most college students?” I asked. “Yep. So we have movies, free music, what else?” “Library, free books,” I offered. All the guys laughed really loudly, like that was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. But it was a good-natured laugh, not like they were making fun of me. Like maybe they thought I was really clever to offer free books. “My kid sister has this book called Free Stuff,” Mac said. “She sends away for all this junk: stickers, posters, booklets. She just loves getting mail.” “You guys must miss your families in the summer.” “Miss ’em all the time.” I didn’t ask why they didn’t go home for summer because I knew the answer: They loooves baseball.

What about childhood? What did you like to do?” I ask, fishing for any commonality now. “Take pictures of moss. Collect stickers. Pretend that the sticks I found were a wand, and I was Hermione Granger.” I pause and glance at her. “You’re a Potter head?” She grips the edge of the table. “Please, for the love of all that is holy, please tell me that you’re a Potter head as well.” “Eh, not so much.” She groans. “Ughhh, really?” “No, I actually am.” “Stop, are you?” she asks. “Yes, and I read some of the books when they were first released. That’s how old I am compared to you. I have some first editions.” “You’re a liar,” she yells, excitement bustling in her eyes. “Seriously?” “Yes, they’re my prized possessions. Have you been to Harry Potter World?” “No,” she bemoans. “But when I graduate, I plan on going. I’m assuming since you’re rich and can do whatever you want when you’re not playing, you’ve been?” “I have.” “Is the butter beer everything I think it would be?” “And then some,” I answer. “Harry Potter World is probably one of the best things that has ever happened to fandom. It feels so real.” “Urrghh, I’m so jealous. Did you get sorted into a house?” “Yeah, Gryffindor.” “Of course. You seem like an overachiever. I know I’m Hufflepuff through and through, and I’m damn proud of it.” “Do you ever feel bad for people who get Ravenclaw?” I ask. “No one ever talks about it. Gryffindor is clearly superior, Slytherin has its own merit because it’s evil, and then Hufflepuff is for all the fun-loving people. What about Ravenclaw?” “You know, now that you mentioned it, I don’t think I ever hear anyone claim they’re from Ravenclaw. That’s sad.” “It is.” She tilts her head to the side. “I think we figured out what we bonded over.

This is how you lose her. You lose her when you forget to remember the little things that mean the world to her: the sincerity in a stranger’s voice during a trip to the grocery store, the delight of finding something lost or forgotten like a sticker from when she was five, the selflessness of a child giving a part of his meal to another, the scent of new books in the store, the surprise short but honest notes she tucks in her journal and others you could only see if you look closely. You must remember when she forgets. You lose her when you don’t notice that she notices everything about you: your use of the proper punctuation that tells her continuation rather than finality, your silence when you’re about to ask a question but you think anything you’re about to say to her would be silly, your mindless humming when it is too quiet, your handwriting when you sign your name on blank sheets of paper, your muted laughter when you are trying to be polite, and more and more of what you are, which you don’t even know about yourself, because she pays attention. She remembers when you forget. You lose her for every second you make her feel less and less of the beauty that she is. When you make her feel that she is replaceable. She wants to feel cherished. When you make her feel that you are fleeting. She wants you to stay. When you make her feel inadequate. She wants to know that she is enough and she does not need to change for you, nor for anyone else because she is she and she is beautiful, kind and good. You must learn her. You must know the reason why she is silent. You must trace her weakest spots. You must write to her. You must remind her that you are there. You must know how long it takes for her to give up. You must be there to hold her when she is about to. You must love her because many have tried and failed. And she wants to know that she is worthy to be loved, that she is worthy to be kept. And, this is how you keep her.

History has brought us to the point where the Christian message is thought to be essentially concerned only with how to deal with sin: with wrongdoing or wrong-being and its effects. Life, our actual existence, is not included in what is now presented as the heart of the Christian message, or it is included only marginally. That is where we find ourselves today. Once we understand the disconnection between the current message and ordinary life, the failures just noted at least make a certain sense. They should be expected. When we examine the broad spectrum of Christian proclamation and practice, we see that the only thing made essential on the right wing of theology is forgiveness of the individual’s sins. On the left it is removal of social or structural evils. The current gospel then becomes a “gospel of sin management.” Transformation of life and character is no part of the redemptive message. Moment-to-moment human reality in its depths is not the arena of faith and eternal living. To the right, being a Christian is a matter of having your sins forgiven. (Remember that bumper sticker?) To the left, you are Christian if you have a significant commitment to the elimination of social evils. A Christian is either one who is ready to die and face the judgment of God or one who has an identifiable commitment to love and justice in society. That’s it. The history that has brought this about—being filtered through the Modernist/Fundamentalist controversy that consumed American religion for many decades and still works powerfully in its depths—also has led each wing to insist that what the other takes for essential should not be regarded as essential. What right and left have in common is that neither group lays down a coherent framework of knowledge and practical direction adequate to personal transformation toward the abundance and obedience emphasized in the New Testament, with a corresponding redemption of ordinary life. What is taught as the essential message about Jesus has no natural connection to entering a life of discipleship to him.

About four months into it, we were shooting hoops in my dad’s driveway when Chip stopped in his tracks, held me in his arms, looked into my eyes under the starry sky, and said, “I love you.” And I looked at him and said, “Thank you.” “Thank you?” Chip said. I know I should have said, “I love you too,” but this whole thing had been such a whirlwind, and I was just trying to process it all. No guy had ever told me he loved me before, and here Chip was saying it after what seemed like such a short period of time. Chip got angry. He grabbed his basketball from under my arm and went storming off with it like a four-year-old. I really thought, What in the world is with this girl? I just told her I loved her, and that’s all she can say? It’s not like I just went around saying that to people all the time. So saying it was a big deal for me too. But now I was stomping down the driveway going, Okay, that’s it. Am I dating an emotionless cyborg or something? I’m going home. Chip took off in his big, white Chevy truck with the Z71 stickers on the side, even squealing his tires a bit as he drove off, and it really sank in what a big deal that must have been for him. I felt bad--so bad that I actually got up the courage to call him later that night. I explained myself, and he said he understood, and by the end of the phone call we were right back to being ourselves. Two weeks later, when Chip said, “I love you” again, I responded, “I love you too.” There was no hesitation. I knew I loved him, and I knew it was okay to say so. I’m not sure why I ever gave him a second chance when he showed up ninety minutes late for our first date or why I gave him another second chance when he didn’t call me for two months after that. And I’m not sure why he gave me a second chance after I blew that romantic moment in the driveway. But I’m very glad I did, and I’m very glad he did too--because sometimes second chances lead to great things. All of my doubts, all of the things I thought I wanted out of a relationship, and many of the things I thought I wanted out of life itself turned out to be just plain wrong. Instead? That voice from our first date turned out to be the thing that was absolutely right.

Jesus loves you. Everyone else thinks you're an ASSHOLE.

Real life doesn’t come beautifully wrapped with a bow on top. Most events usually look more like a three-year-old’s attempt to wrap Mommy’s gift. Crinkled and torn paper, too much tape, and covered in glitter and stickers. But it isn’t for the lack of effort or the love put into the thing. Some people just can’t wrap for shit. No matter how hard people try, there will always be limits beyond our control, a ceiling to our influence and our ability.

There was a car in front of me driving all conservatively, and then, lo and behold, I saw that he had a Romney bumper sticker.

As we actively love others and risk praying big prayers for them, let’s not dream of taking credit when we receive what we ask. Not only will we offend God and mislead people, we will place ourselves in position to take the blame when we don’t get what we ask. I am often reminded of a bumper sticker I once saw, which succinctly said: “There is a God. You are not Him.” As the words of Peter attest, none of us possesses enough “power or godliness” to enact a miracle in someone else’s life— even on our best day. Faith expressing itself through love is a miracle in itself.

We can agree that all humans are born in complete wonder, and that they don’t have to prove or perform in order to earn acceptance or love. We can reject the notion of “good, better and best” people. If we don’t, we’re creating conditions that will see the rise of another Hitler. Who dares decide who is “better” than others?

Love is a verb. Acting lovingly is the way to heal and rebuild. It also means working to meet our children in their world, instead of demanding they join ours.

really disabled,’ Matt says to Saskia. ‘He had one of those stickers on his car, but he just had really bad eyesight. It wasn’t like he was a paraplegic.’ ‘Quite the crime spree,’ says Saskia. ‘Should I be worried?’ ‘I’ve grown up a lot since then,’ says Matt. ‘It’s true. He changes his underwear nearly every day now,’ says Lizzy with a smile.

I love children, but I don’t think I can eat a whole one.

Reading Group Guide  1.   The river town of Hobnob, Mississippi, is in danger of flooding. To offset the risk, the townspeople were offered the chance to relocate in exchange for money. Some people jumped at the opportunity (the Flooders); others (the Stickers) refused to leave, so the deal fell through. If you lived in Hobnob, which choice would you make and why? If you’d lived in New Orleans at the time of Hurricane Katrina, would you have fled the storm or stayed to protect your house? Did the two floods remind you of each other in terms of official government response or media coverage?  2.   How are the circumstances during the Prohibition era (laws against consuming or selling alcohol, underground businesses that make and sell booze on the black market, corruption in the government and in law enforcement) similar to what’s happening today (the fight to legalize and tax marijuana, the fallout of the drug war in countries like Mexico and Colombia, jails filled with drug abusers)? How are the circumstances different? Do you identify with the bootleggers or the prohibitionists in the novel? What is your stance on the issue today?  3.   The novel is written in third person from two different perspectives—Ingersoll’s and Dixie Clay’s—in alternating chapters. How do you think this approach adds to or detracts from the story? Are you a fan of books written from multiple perspectives, or do you prefer one character to tell his/her side of the story?  4.   The Tilted World is written by two authors. Do you think it reads differently than a book written by only one? Do you think you could coauthor a novel with a loved one? Did you try to guess which author wrote different passages?  5.   Language and dialect play an important role in the book. Do you think the southern dialect is rendered successfully? How about the authors’ use of similes (“wet towels hanging out of the upstairs windows like tongues”; “Her nylon stockings sagged around her ankles like shedding snakeskin.”). Do they provide necessary context or flavor?  6.   At the end of Chapter 5, when Jesse, Ham, and Ingersoll first meet, Ingersoll realizes that Jesse has been drinking water the entire time they’ve been at dinner. Of course, Ham and Ingersoll are both drunk from all the moonshine. How does this discovery set the stage for what happens in the latter half of the book?  7.   Ingersoll grew up an orphan. In what ways do you think that independence informed his character? His choices throughout the novel? Dixie Clay also became independent, after marrying Jesse and becoming ostracized from friends and family. Later, after Ingersoll rescues her, she reflects, “For so long she’d relied only on herself. She’d needed to. . . . But now she’d let someone in. It should have felt like weakness, but it didn’t.” Are love and independence mutually exclusive? How did the arrival of Willy prepare these characters for the changes they’d have to undergo to be ready for each other?  8.   Dixie Clay becomes a bootlegger not because she loves booze or money but because she needs something to occupy her time. It’s true, however, that she’s not only breaking the law but participating in a system that perpetrates violence. Do you think there were better choices she could have made? Consider the scene at the beginning of the novel, when there’s a showdown between Jesse and two revenuers interested in making an arrest. Dixie Clay intercepts the arrest, pretending to be a posse of gunslingers protecting Jesse and the still. Given what you find out about Jesse—his dishonesty, his drunkenness, his womanizing—do you think she made the right choice? If you were in Dixie Clay’s shoes, what would you have done?  9.   When Ham learns that Ingersoll abandoned his post at the levee to help Dixie Clay, he feels not only that Ingersoll acted

Find the Stickers Materials: Use commercially bought stickers. Children love stickers, which make wonderful, surprise gifts. Preparation and Instructions: Before you see the child, take four or five of the stickers and hide them on your head. At the beginning, make sure the stickers can be easily found. You may want to put one sticker on each earlobe, like earrings, and one sticker on your forehead, under your hair if possible. Be creative! The Game: Begin the game by saying to the child, “I have hidden four stickers on my face. See if you can find them.” As the child begins to look for them, use the skill of tracking. (Tracking is simply saying out loud what the child is doing. It is similar to the radio announcer at a ball game. You may say, “You are looking over by my ears, Aha! You found one. Now you are taking it off very gently and handing it to me.”) As the child hands you the stickers, put one sticker on each finger of one hand as a holding place. From this holding place you are ready to play the game again or to play a variation of the game. Variations: Once the child has located all the stickers, you can begin to play the “sticker-swap game” by saying, “I am going to take this sticker off my thumb and put it on my chin.” You proceed to do so. Then tell the child, “Take the sticker off my chin and put it on your nose.” From this point, you begin a turn-taking game in which you remove the sticker from the child’s face and place it on your face. The child then removes the sticker from your face and puts it on his or her face. Each movement of the sticker is noted out loud. You speak for yourself and for the child, unless the child catches on and begins to speak for himself or herself. Your observations may sound like this: “I am going to take the sticker off your chin and put it on my nose. Now you are taking it off my nose and putting it on your [wait for the child’s selection] ear.” Find

While she was gone, since I was already sending her letters every day, I ordered envelopes that had her address on them and little stickers that had my return address that I’d stick on the envelopes. I didn’t stop there. I also ordered some stamps that were a picture of her and me. Even though I sent the letters every day, some days she would get several at a time. Each letter I wrote was several pages long, so I’d take one page and I’d glue one stick of gum in the middle and fold it up. So she could have the gum they weren’t allowed. She said she would chew on it at night in bed. I had experienced enough of that world to know those little things mattered. I knew exactly what her days were like and how hard they were. She was getting so much mail that when they called out names to pass out the mail, they’d just toss Jamie’s on the ground and she’d have to pick it up. And they made fun of the envelopes with the stamps I’d had made. But she got all her mail. She was at Fort Leonard Wood for six months--from October until March. I made sure she got tons of mail the whole time. But this also meant she would be there on Valentine’s Day. I made sure that she felt loved on that day. I bought her a Valentine’s Day card and enclosed a chocolate bar in that letter. The card read: Jamie, we can’t be together for Valentine’s Day, so I came up with a way to at least show you how much you are loved. Valentine’s Day is twenty-four hours long. So expect twenty-four separate packages with a card and chocolate. I’m so proud of you. Love always and forever, Noah.

U4NBA News: Notice The Version Of NBA 2K18 Is For You NBA 2K18 is scheduled to debut on store shelves until September 15th for those that who pre-order. It'll come to Xbox One, PS4, Windows PCs and mobile. You must have noticed some NBA 2K18 version informations to help you to decide which version of NBA 2K18 is the one to pre-order now or purchase on release day. NBA 2K18 Standard Edition NBA 2K18 Standard Edition is for mild fans of the series that don't care as much about Virtual Currency as they do getting access four-days before everyone else. Standard Edition is $59.99. Buyers get 5,000 in Virtual Currency, 10 Weeks of MyTeam Packs and some MyTeam themed cosmetic items for use in the game. This version will come to the Xbox 360, Xbox One, PS4, PS3, PCs and the Nintendo Switch. This version of the game gets you access to the NBA 2K18 Early Tip-Off Weekend, provided you place a pre-order before September 15th. Also Read: Kyrie Irving Will Grace The Cover Of The Standard Edition Of NBA 2K18 NBA 2K18 Legend Edition NBA 2K18 Legend Edition is the upgraded version of the standard game and the version is for big-time fans of Shaq. It’s also for anyone that loves MyCareer and wants an early jumpstart to their character. It doesn’t come with any exclusive features. Instead, it packs Virtual Currency that could make starting out in MyCareer a little easier. Legend Edition is $99.99. There's 100,000 in Virtual Currency included with Legend Edition. Again, you can use Virtual Currency to buy upgrades for your character in the game. The more Virtual Currency you have, the easier it’ll be to get extras in MyCareer. Character add-ons include a Shaq Championship Ring, Shaq Attaq shoes, Shaq Jerseys and Shaq clothing. There are 20 weeks of MyTeam Packs instead of the 10 that the basic version comes with. Physical copies of this game come with 5 Panini cards, Shaq MyTeam Stickers and a poster. Xbox One, PS4, PCs and the Nintendo Switch will get this version. This version qualifies for Early Tip-Off Weekend. NBA 2K18 Legend Edition Gold NBA 2K18 Legend Edition Gold is for the player that enjoys the series year after year and will find themselves spending hours across MyCareer and MyTeam modes for a long time. It’s also for the fan that loves basketball games and doesn’t have a lot of free time to dump into the game to earn Virtual Currency. This version costs $149.99, the most that any version of the game does. Shoppers get 250,000 in Virtual Currency when they buy Legend Edition Gold. There's 40 weekly MyTeam Packs. Developers guaranteed that players who own those packs can get at least one of Shaq and a TEAM 2K Card. Buyers also get the Shaq Attaq Shoes, the championship ring and Shaq Themed Jerseys and apparel. Physical add-ons include a poster, 10 Panini Cards, Shaq MyTeam Stickers and a lenticular printing. Nintendo Switch, Xbox One, Windows PCs and PS4 will get this version. The game qualifies for Early Tip-Off Weekend. In order meet player's demand for NBA 2K18 MT during Early Tip-Off Weekend, we decide to bring forward the activity where offers coupon code "NBA2017". You can buy NBA 2K18 MT from now on to gain up to 5% off.

November 4, 1987 Chicago I saw a bumper sticker the other day that read I LOVE KILLING COMMUNISTS. The word love was replaced by a heart shape I’m guessing they’ll put on the typewriter keyboard any day now, right beside the exclamation point. The bumper sticker was on a Ford Fairlane on Montrose Avenue.

Madison had covered one side of the hall without success, and was just bending down to check the first locker on the other side, when a familiar voice stopped her in her tracks. “Looking for lunch money?” Jeremy asked. Madison’s face turned beet red. She slowly turned to look at Jeremy, who was standing with his hands in his pockets, watching her. “Of course not,” she said. “Lunch is over.” “Then what are you looking for?” he asked, strolling toward her. She folded her arms and stood her ground. “That’s none of your business.” “Actually, it is my business,” Jeremy replied. “That’s my locker.” “What?” Madison spun to look at the locker. There was no way she could have known. “Well, it’s not what you think. I-I’m not planning on stealing from you,” she stammered. “I’m just…” Her voice trailed off as she tried to think of a logical explanation for why she was standing alone in the hall with her hand on his locker. Jeremy leaned his shoulder against his locker and grinned. He looked like the cat who had eaten the canary. “You’re just what?” Madison gulped and looked up at the I’M STUCK ON MADISON sticker on Jeremy’s locker door. A lightbulb went on in her brain, and she tilted her chin in defiance. “I’m just removing this sticker from your locker.” She reached up and tore the decal off the locker. As she did, she spotted the phone number on the back and screamed, “I found it!” Jeremy jumped back two feet in alarm. “Could you shout a little louder?” he cracked. “I don’t think the hall monitor heard you.” “So what are you doing lurking out here?” Madison asked, cradling the sticker with Blue’s number in her hand, so Jeremy wouldn’t see it. Jeremy leaned in until his face was only inches from hers, and whispered, “That’s for me to know and you to find out.

So what are you doing lurking out here?” Madison asked, cradling the sticker with Blue’s number in her hand, so Jeremy wouldn’t see it. Jeremy leaned in until his face was only inches from hers, and whispered, “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” “Ahem!” a deep voice sounded behind them. “I hate to interrupt this little tete-a-tete, but don’t you have someplace else you ought to be right now?” Madison and Jeremy sprang away from each other like startled pigeons. They turned and guiltily faced the principal. Madison spoke first. “Hello, Mr. Kaufman. I left some, um, material for my report for Mr. Dalberg’s class in my locker and I was just about to get it.” “Is that your locker?” Mr. Kaufman asked. Jeremy cut in. “Actually, it’s my locker. Madison forgot to mention that she had asked me to keep it for her.” Jeremy spun the combination on the lock to show Mr. Kaufman that he was actually getting the report. He swung open the locker and grabbed the first thing he could put his hands on--a MAD magazine. Without skipping a beat, Madison took it and started talking. “You see, Mr. Kaufman, we’re studying the role that periodicals and newspapers have played in American historical events. For instance, um, Tom Paine’s pamphlet Common Sense helped start the American Revolution, and, well, Horace Greeley’s editorials in the New York Tribune sparked the great Westward migration and the idea of Manifest Destiny, and now MAD magazine has, um, er--” “Redefined the concept of social satire in the twentieth century,” Jeremy jumped in. “Without MAD, there’d have been no National Lampoon. Without the National Lampoon, no Saturday Night Live. Without SNL, there’d be no Bill Murray. Eddie Murphy. Adam Sandler. The list goes on and on.” “Really?” Mr. Kaufman raised one eyebrow. “Very interesting.” Madison plastered a grateful smile on her face and extended her hand to Jeremy. “Thanks for keeping this, um, research material for me.” Jeremy shook her hand politely. “Anytime, Madison. I have room in here for lots more of your, uh, reports.” Before Mr. Kaufman could say anything, Jeremy shut his locker, and the two of them marched off in opposite directions away from the principal. As she walked away, Madison held her breath waiting for Mr. Kaufman to call them back. But he didn’t. Madison couldn’t believe her luck. What a bizarre encounter! And yes, she had to admit it: Jeremy had really bailed her out when she’d run out of gas with her excuse.

As we get older we all learn that there isn't a finish line....or maybe there is, but it keeps moving. It's a rare moment where we look around, sigh with satisfaction, pull our spouse or kids or pets or parents closer, and say, This is perfect, or Now I have everything. Wanting is the human condition. It's what led us to invent fire and the wheel and Instagram. There's nothing wrong with desire, but just like every self-help book, bumper sticker, and issue of O magazine insists, it's not the destination that matters, but the journey, not the summit, but the climb.

Bev made sure she served Wilson his standard tomato-and-grilled-cheese-with-french-fries personally, though Bev always called them chips, as if to make Wilson feel right at home. He thanked her and said everything looked absolutely “scrummy.” She giggled just like Chrissy used to do in history class. It was all I could do not to laugh right out loud. “I think Bev has a crush on you, Wilson. I know you're probably used to that by now. Don't you have a fan club at school? The 'I Heart Wilson' club, or something?” “Ha, ha, Blue. I have never been all that popular with the girls.” “Wilson. Don't be an idiot. You were all Manny could talk about the whole first month of school.” “Manny is not a girl,” Wilson remarked mildly. I snickered. “True. But I think I was the only one who wasn't following you around with my tongue hanging out. It was disgusting. Now even Bev has joined the club. I saw a bumper sticker on her car that said British Butts Drive Me Nuts.” Wilson choked on a mouthful of food, laughing, and grabbed at his lemonade to wash it down. I loved making him laugh, even if it was hazardous to his health.

spray-painted on top of band stickers

Marcy leaned forward to study the landscaping, tall cypresses encircled by Peruvian lilies looming over the guardhouse. She sighed, said, “This is a bit much.” Her husband said, “Baby, people love the illusion of safety and the spectacle of enclosure.” They were given bar-coded stickers for their cars.

It’s my job to protect you.” His hands come to hold my cheeks, bringing me to him and hugging me. I wrap my arms around his waist as he kisses the top of my head. “You can’t protect me from everything.” I tell him and Max laughs from beside us. “Don’t anger him just when he’s starting to think rationally.” Max slaps my father on the shoulder. “You did good. I’m proud of you. When we get home, I’m going to put a sticker on the chart for you.” “Fuck you,” my father says to him, not letting me go.

Bob: Loyalty's no good if you aren't brave enough to use it. A gun with no bullets. Hildy: I sense hidden depths. Or did you see that on a bumper sticker somewhere?

After dinner I text Chris to see if she wants to come over, but she doesn't text back. She's probably out with one of the guys she hooks up my scrapbooking. with. Which is fine. I should catch up on I was hoping to be done with Margot's scrapbook before she left for college, but as anyone who's ever scrapbooked knows, Rome wasn't built in a day. You could spend a year or more working on one scrapbook. I've got Motown girl-group music playing, and my sup plies are laid out all around me in a semicircle. My heart hole punch, pages and pages of scrapbook paper, pictures I've cut out of magazines, glue gun, my tape dispenser with all my different colored washi tapes. Souvenirs like the playbill from when we saw Wicked in New York, receipts, pictures. Ribbon, buttons, stickers, charms. A good scrap book has texture. It's thick and chunky and doesn't close all the way.

If he had played by the rules, as he had mostly done at Google, he’d still be waiting for approval. Inside Otto, engineers printed out orange-colored stickers and pasted them around the San Francisco headquarters with a message they knew Levandowski would love: “Safety Third.

It was to be taken seriously, Olive saw this. All love was to be taken seriously, including her own brief love for her doctor. But Betty had kept this love close to her heart for years and years; she had needed it that much. Olive finally said, leaning forward in her chair, “Here’s what I think, young lady. I think you’re doin’ excellent.” Then she sat back. What a thing love was. Olive felt it for Betty, even with that bumper sticker on her truck.

In 2016 and again in 2020, Conservative Evangelicals were lost in the sea of materialism, capitalism, corruption, and hypocrisy as they endorsed their bloated orange Messiah. Trump embodied the shallow faith and deep rot that reflected their own souls. Through the love of politics, power, and money, the church relegated the message of Jesus into political t-shirts and bumper stickers. Christ became a prop or mascot of a forgotten faith.

Olive finally said, leaning forward in her chair, “Here’s what I think, young lady. I think you’re doin’ excellent.” Then she sat back. What a thing love was. Olive felt it for Betty, even with that bumper sticker on her truck.

also get a day pass for $60). Most rental vehicles available on Nantucket come with these stickers. Before you drive onto the beach, you must let the air out of your tires down to 15 pounds (you can go lower for Great Point—there are two air hoses just past the guardhouse to refill them when you’re heading back to civilization). Here are my thoughts on drive-on beaches: I love them. This love intensified when I had children. Instead of schlepping all of our stuff from whatever parking spot I happened to find (if I found a parking spot—because when you have kids, it’s challenging to get out of the house in a timely fashion), I just pulled onto the beach and all of their stuff was right there in the back of the car. There were years when the kids napped in the car, windows wide open. There were years when the kids climbed on the car (I had

I'm thinking of things I like about living more than I realized; insane things considering how trivial they are. I like Burger King fries. I like watching my dad listening to Hall & Oates. The smell of new tennis balls. I love this old collection of unicorn stickers I have in a cookie tin in my closet. Maybe this is life flashing before your eyes; maybe it's supposed to be mundane.

There was an astounding variety to go through. He had seen a fat one addressed to Paris—the envelope sealed with a Christmas tree sticker. A card to the Czech Republic. And one to India. Another of Morley's. A small red envelope going to England. A lot to the United States. A lot more for Canada. Another of Morley's. And a second, in a child's printing, addressed to the North Pole. It was affecting. All of them presumably said the same thing. The one thing that is so hard to say in person, but that everyone says at the bottom of a card: love. Love, me. Love, you. Love, Dave. Love, Stuart.

My surefire, crowd pleasing, thank you card recipe. 1) Select a card that is very you. My cards are floral and bright, most commonly with gold envelopes and I seal each with a glitter heart sticker or a piece of sparkly washi tape. If you see great cards in a store, buy them on the spot it's OK to hoard thank you cards. 2) Begin with your salutation, for example: to my dearest Isabel. 3) Next, write about something you enjoy about the person or about an experience you had together that you were thankful for. You want something that is specific to the receiver and could in no way be mistaken for a stock phrase. “I had such a fantastic time with you at dinner. It's always a treat to laugh with you, and get your opinions on writing, politics, and what kind of handbag I should consider.” But don't say thank you yet, we're getting to that. This third step is all about recreating and memorializing a special moment you shared. 4) Now we are at the actual thanks part. Find something to directly thank your subject for. “Thank you for making it to Soho five months pregnant. Five months, I can't believe it!” “I appreciate that you came out to see me even though your ankles were killing you.” Or, if you are thanking someone for something tangible, a gift let's say, “Thank you for the gorgeous floral notebooks. You know how much I love writing, and notebooks, and florals. You basically nailed it.“ 5) Now tell her how you really feel. Be vulnerable. “You are a part of my heart and every time I see you I feel immediately at peace and ease. There's something about you that makes me feel safe.” 6) Now let's lighten it up shall we? “I look forward to all of the swanky nights we'll be having forever because you are a forever friend. #bust #sorrynotsorry #whydopeopleusehashtags #theyarenotlanguage 7) Sign it like you mean it. “All of my love, T Money. Use this template to get started and just get started now. I once worried that I was writing too many thank you cards and that people would be annoyed with me. Let me tell you this. No one has ever complained about getting too many thank you notes from someone if the sentiment is authentic. I now keep blank cards with me wherever I go, much like one might keep emergency Xanax. You never know when you're going to need the sweet relief of gratitude.

a bumper sticker put it more concisely, “Gravity is not just a good idea; it’s the law.

A week before the fair, Andy had to turn in all of her notes and photographs to Dr. Finney to prove that she had actually done all of the work herself. She was laying out the dubious evidence on the teacher’s desk when Cleet Laraby walked in. Andy had to clasp together her hands to keep them from trembling when Cleet stopped to look at the photos. “Meg Ryan,” Cleet said. “I dig it. Blow up the bitch, right?” Andy felt a cold slice of air cut open her lips. “My girlfriend loves that stupid movie. The one with the angels?” Cleet showed her the sticker on his backpack. “They wrote that shitty song for the soundtrack, man. That’s why I keep this here, to remind me never to sell out my art like those faggots.” Andy didn’t move. She couldn’t speak. Girlfriend. Stupid. Shitty. Man. Faggots.

Our choices are us. Envisioning choices as sea blue circles places a sticker across our days: every word, each coffee, every button, and choices in between. The blue stickers across our days are reflection points and moments of consideration. This is a choice is the breath before you look fully at loved ones or strangers and the breath before you change and reframe a pattern so as to not misplace a moment. The breath before you say I love you to you. Again and again. This is a choice.

There are many reasons why you may want to use a bullet journal: • You like being organized and completing your work on time. • You enjoy taking physical notes. • You’re constantly making various to-do lists. • You’re obsessed with gorgeous stationery (washi tape, stickers, brush pens, etc.). • You love setting goals for yourself and reflecting on them. • You like journaling, but just can’t seem to find the right fit for you. • You’d like to have time to do things you’re passionate about. • If one or more of these apply to you, a bullet journal would be perfect for you.

Everybody, she says, has been a good citizen. She will say the name, quickly write it on the sticker, and then have m press it to each of their chests as they leave. It is a line of quiet faces. I take them down in my head. Now, she calls out each one as best as she can, taking care of every last pitch and accent, and I hear her speaking a dozen lovely and native languages, calling all the difficult names of who we are.

THE PRAISED GENERATION HITS THE WORKFORCE Are we going to have a problem finding leaders in the future? You can’t pick up a magazine or turn on the radio without hearing about the problem of praise in the workplace. We could have seen it coming. We’ve talked about all the well-meaning parents who’ve tried to boost their children’s self-esteem by telling them how smart and talented they are. And we’ve talked about all the negative effects of this kind of praise. Well, these children of praise have now entered the workforce, and sure enough, many can’t function without getting a sticker for their every move. Instead of yearly bonuses, some companies are giving quarterly or even monthly bonuses. Instead of employee of the month, it’s the employee of the day. Companies are calling in consultants to teach them how best to lavish rewards on this overpraised generation. We now have a workforce full of people who need constant reassurance and can’t take criticism. Not a recipe for success in business, where taking on challenges, showing persistence, and admitting and correcting mistakes are essential. Why are businesses perpetuating the problem? Why are they continuing the same misguided practices of the overpraising parents, and paying money to consultants to show them how to do it? Maybe we need to step back from this problem and take another perspective. If the wrong kinds of praise lead kids down the path of entitlement, dependence, and fragility, maybe the right kinds of praise can lead them down the path of hard work and greater hardiness. We have shown in our research that with the right kinds of feedback even adults can be motivated to choose challenging tasks and confront their mistakes. What would this feedback look or sound like in the workplace? Instead of just giving employees an award for the smartest idea or praise for a brilliant performance, they would get praise for taking initiative, for seeing a difficult task through, for struggling and learning something new, for being undaunted by a setback, or for being open to and acting on criticism. Maybe it could be praise for not needing constant praise! Through a skewed sense of how to love their children, many parents in the ’90s (and, unfortunately, many parents of the ’00s) abdicated their responsibility. Although corporations are not usually in the business of picking up where parents left off, they may need to this time. If businesses don’t play a role in developing a more mature and growth-minded workforce, where will the leaders of the future come from?

The people on that broadcast had been part of one of the most historic victories ever known. But they didn’t go around telling themselves how great they were. They didn’t print up bumper stickers commemorating their own awesomeness. Their first instinct was to remind themselves they were not morally superior to anyone else. Their collective impulse was to warn themselves against pride and self-glorification. They intuitively resisted the natural human tendency toward excessive self-love.

how to make notes ========== Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny (Preeti Shenoy) - Your Highlight at location 1584-1589 | Added on Monday, 15 June 2015 11:21:47 wanted to share my ‘colour coded’ way of remembering things with everybody, so they too could benefit. I felt like I had stumbled upon a great secret and my discovery would be hailed. I pictured it being used in schools, colleges and everywhere else as a new memory technique. I wondered why nobody else had thought of such a simple but brilliant technique earlier. As I was waiting for him to finish making the photocopies, my eyes chanced upon small glittering stickers of cartoon characters like Tw eety bird, Fairies and Garfield and some Disney characters, which children use to decorate their books and other objects. I thought the stickers would make a nice finishing touch and I bought twenty sheets. I also came across some very beautiful printed stationery and could not resist buying about eight packets of writing sheets. They looked very beautiful and ========== Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny (Preeti Shenoy) - Your Note at location 1596 | Added on Monday, 15 June 2015 11:24:46 cont. how to make notes ========== Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny (Preeti Shenoy) - Your Highlight at location 1590-1596 | Added on Monday, 15 June 2015 11:24:46 I also looked around the shop and discovered some water colours. I had last painted with water colours only in school. On an impulse, I bought a set of water colours and a set of brushes as well. It was like an urgent impulse inside my head that was driving me to buy all this stuff. They seemed absolutely essential. I reached home armed with my large bag of purchases and unpacked them carefully and arranged them all on my desk. Then I sat down and decorated the corners of each set of notes with tiny stickers of cartoon characters. I used highlighter pens and highlighted each set of the notes in my colour coded way with green, purple and orange. There were seventy sets to finish and I was like a woman possessed. I stayed up the whole night doing just this. I was a reservoir of energy. I just couldn' t stop. Strangely I did not feel even a little tired. ========== Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny (Preeti Shenoy) - Your Highlight at location 1617-1617 | Added on Monday, 15 June 2015 11:55:29 uncannily ========== Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny (Preeti Shenoy) - Your Highlight at location 1650-1650 | Added on Monday, 15 June 2015 14:48:08 besotted ========== Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny (Preeti Shenoy) - Your Highlight at location

For somehow, against probability, some sort of indigenous, recognizable culture has been growing on western ranches and in western towns and even in western cities. It is the product not of the boomers but of the stickers, not of those who pillage and run but of those who settle, and love the life they have made and the place they have made it in.

Like old furniture and cars and things, we should post "As Is" stickers on people. Love me that way. Not how you think I should be or will be.

I Don’t Care Anymore,” Hellyeah “Ballad of a Prodigal Son,” Lincoln Durham “Battleflag,” Lo Fidelity Allstars “How You Like Me Now (Raffertie Remix),” The Heavy “Black Honey,” Thrice “Bourbon Street,” Jeff Tuohy “Cellophane,” Sara Jackson-Holman “Drive,” Joe Bonamassa “Fake It,” Bastille “Heathens,” twenty one pilots “Jekyll and Hyde,” Five Finger Death Punch “Lovers End,” The Birthday Massacre “Meth Lab Zoso Sticker,” 7Horse “Bad Reputation,” Joan Jett “Peace,” Apocalyptica “Send Them Off!,” Bastille “Tainted Love,” Marilyn Manson “Take It All,” Pop Evil

I do not know what love is I do not know if this is love or what love is or if love's a thing, if it can be worn like an old coat, or felt like harsh fabric on naked flesh, or if it is a sensation, like that first time the brakes of my bike failed while riding downhill or the climax of masturbation, or if love is an invention, and we all manufacture our own versions - some bright, some dull, some marbled, but all with labels and stickers that say: this is love. I do not know what love is or if I can say what I think love is, could be or should be. If we were to ever sit on the marble floor, on one of those dry, electricity free, 45 degree Delhi nights, sharing a drink of Old Monk's and I were to tell you that this is love, slap me for I would either be drunk or a liar. and if i were drunk, I won't be drunk on love or your loving for I don't know what love is or if it can be known. Maybe, one night, after thirty years of searching for what love means, we will sit outside - you and I - amidst the debris of our meanderings, our bent backs resting on the rusted iron railing, our skin pimpled, throats scratched from prayers uttered to absent gods and we would be in love and believe that love is this: love is all the spaces, non-events, the unspoken words and everything in between the first second of these thirty years to this. Love is this.

I do not know if this is love or what love is or if love's a thing, if it can be worn like an old coat, or felt like harsh fabric on naked flesh, or if it is a sensation, like that first time the brakes of my bike failed while riding downhill or the climax of masturbation, or if love is an invention, and we all manufacture our own versions - some bright, some dull, some marbled, but all with labels and stickers that say: this is love. I do not know what love is or if I can say what I think love is, could be or should be. If we were to ever sit on the marble floor, on one of those dry, electricity free, 45 degree Delhi nights, sharing a drink of Old Monk's and I were to tell you that this is love, slap me for I would either be drunk or a liar. and if i were drunk, I won't be drunk on love or your loving for I don't know what love is or if it can be known. Maybe, one night, after thirty years of searching for what love means, we will sit outside - you and I - amidst the debris of our meanderings, our bent backs resting on the rusted iron railing, our skin pimpled, throats scratched from prayers uttered to absent gods and we would be in love and believe that love is this: love is all the spaces, non-events, the unspoken words and everything in between the first second of these thirty years to this. Love is this.

I was hoping to be done with Margot's scrapbook before she left for college, but as anyone who's ever scrapbooked knows, Rome wasn't built in a day. You could spend a year or more working on a scrapbook. I've got Motown girl-group music playing, and my supplies are laid out all around me in a semicircle. My heart hole punch, pages and pages of scrapbook paper, pictures I've cut out of magazines, glue gun, my tape dispenser with all my different colored washi tapes. Souvenirs like the playbill from when we saw Wicked in New York, receipts, pictures. Ribbon, buttons, stickers, charms. A good scrapbook has texture. It's thick and chunky and doesn't close all the way.

The very last thing a terminally ill patient wants is to be fussed over with antibiotics and feeding tubes in order to prolong his pain, but this is often what families insist on. They panic and press red buttons and jam oxygen masks over their loved ones’ faces, despite their clear DNR stickers, because they are the ones afraid of death.

Motherhood is significant for yet another reason. Over the past twenty-five years, I have learned that not only does God use motherhood to change our children, but He also uses it to change us. I once read about a bumper sticker that said, “My children saved me from toxic self-absorption,” 32 and I laughed—and simultaneously thanked God. We live in a culture that constantly pushes us toward narcissism—and frankly, that’s precisely what the emphasis on pursuing our passions does too. But motherhood, unlike anything else I know, has the power to pull us outside of ourselves. It’s one of the only situations where we’re capable of loving someone more than we love ourselves, and we practice a level of servanthood that we would otherwise find impossible. Motherhood allows us to grow at an exponential rate and to be molded into Christ’s image. So much of who I am today, which enables me to do the ministry I do, was developed in the crucible of motherhood.

He was close. And I was babbling. About my nerdy planning hobby. He couldn’t possibly have the least bit of interest in my preference for letter-sized planners over A5 (my to-do list was long, and my writing was big, so I needed the extra room). He didn’t even know what washi tape was, and he certainly didn’t seem like the type of guy who’d like stickers. And…I shouldn’t care if he was or wasn’t. I just…didn’t want him to think I was dumb. That something I loved was dumb.

Somebody once told me love is the best word to write but also the hardest. Keats uses it all the time, with a kind of originary fervor like he’s Adam naming the animals: this is love, and this is love, and this too, this is also love. I’m more of a sticker, so it’s hard for me to say what I must, that I wrote to understand what was happening to me, and I couldn’t get to the end of it. Although this book is not a memoir but a work of literary criticism, the whole of a particular love is folded inside it.