Victory Is Sweet Quotes

One final paragraph of advice: do not burn yourselves out. Be as I am - a reluctant enthusiast....a part-time crusader, a half-hearted fanatic. Save the other half of yourselves and your lives for pleasure and adventure. It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it’s still here. So get out there and hunt and fish and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, the lovely, mysterious, and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to the body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much; I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those desk-bound men and women with their hearts in a safe deposit box, and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this; You will outlive the bastards.

Who knew that the path to a womans heart was through the soul of an honest man?

For upon reaching his destination, a man with a past full of misfortunes can both taste the bitter drops of his sorrow and grin in triumph despite them. In reaching the desired end of his voyage there is an outbreak of joy. Even in a pyrrhic victory, a man of past and present tragedies experiences the sweetness of that unfamiliar emotion.

To teach is a necessity, to please is a sweetness, to persuade is a victory.

God uses chronic pain and weakness, along with other afflictions, as his chisel for sculpting our lives. Felt weakness deepens dependence on Christ for strength each day. The weaker we feel, the harder we lean. And the harder we lean, the stronger we grow spiritually, even while our bodies waste away. To live with your ‘thorn’ uncomplainingly — that is, sweet, patient, and free in heart to love and help others, even though every day you feel weak — is true sanctification. It is true healing for the spirit. It is a supreme victory of grace.

The sweetness of victory and the bitterness of defeat are alike a knife of dreams. -From Fog and Steel by Madoc Comadrin

Victory is sweet, but sweeter when your opponent is butt-ass naked in defeat.

A word of advice, my sweet Emmett - mourn the losses because they are many. But celebrate the victories because they are few.

Time always wins; our victories are only delays; but delays are sweet, and a delay can last a whole lifetime.

The Good News means we can stop lying to ourselves. The sweet sound of amazing grace saves us from the necessity of self-deception. It keeps us from denying that though Christ was victorious, the battle with lust, greed, and pride still rages within us.

And finally this question The mystery of whose story it will be. Of who draws the curtain. Who is it that chooses our steps in the dance? Who drives us mad? Lashes us with whips and crowning us with victory when we survive the impossible. Who is it... that does all these things? Who honors those we love for the very life we live? Who sends monsters to kill us, and at the same time sings that we'll never die? Who teaches us what's real and how to laugh at lies? Who decides why we live and what we'll die to defend? Who chains us and who holds the key that can set us free? It's you... You have all the weapons you need... Now fight!

The snake has had its victories over me. And in its victories I am no longer sweet nor gentle.

The smell of the sweat is not sweet, but the fruit of the sweat is very sweet.

Losing leaves a bitter taste that lingers long after the sweetness of victory has been forgotten.

Mine would be, "We will stand together, he and I. One in victory, one in shame. Only then can I truly own the power of Halla. How sweet the moment of revelation will be, when he learns that he handed it to me." -SD the Pilgrims of Rayne

The victories are sweet and soon forgotten, but the mistakes stay with you forever.

Victory, is like a boxer that hangs his gloves, after the consecutive losses; sometimes walking away is what builds character, than the actual fight. As humble fruit on a tree that falls to the ground and rots, never finding appreciation in the taste of mouths.

Do not be ashamed of your past. Learn from those experiences and move forward in your life. Teach others of the possibilities of change & living victoriously. You are a survivor.

Little Maiden Encounters Fear Deepest regions walked she there little maiden sweet and fair ventured far from the path never a whisper never a laugh...

A small victory, he thought, but sweet.

It was my teacher's genius, her quick sympathy, her loving tact which made the first years of my education so beautiful. It was because she seized the right moment to impart knowledge that made it so pleasant and acceptable to me. She realized that a child's mind is like a shallow brook which ripples and dances merrily over the stony course of its education and reflects here a flower, there a bush, yonder a fleecy cloud; and she attempted to guide my mind on its way, knowing that like a brook it should be fed by mountain streams and hidden springs, until it broadened out into a deep river, capable of reflecting in its placid surface, billowy hills, the luminous shadows of trees and the blue heavens, as well as the sweet face of a little flower. Any teacher can take a child to the classroom, but not every teacher can make him learn. He will not work joyously unless he feels that liberty is his, whether he is busy or at rest; he must feel the flush of victory and the heart-sinking of disappointment before he takes with a will the tasks distasteful to him and resolves to dance his way bravely through a dull routine of textbooks. My teacher is so near to me that I scarcely think of myself apart from her. How much of my delight in all beautiful things is innate, and how much is due to her influence, I can never tell. I feel that her being is inseparable from my own, and that the footsteps of my life are in hers. All the best of me belongs to her--there is not a talent, or an aspiration or a joy in me that has not been awakened by her loving touch.

Victory is very, very sweet. It tastes better than any dessert you've ever had.

When we take your person into account, you who are a young maiden, to whom God gives the strength and power to be the champion who casts the rebels down and feeds France with the sweet, nourishing milk of peace, here indeed is something quite extraordinary! For if God performed such a great number of miracles through Joshua who conquered many a place and cast down many an enemy, he, Joshua, was a strong and powerful man. But, after all, a woman – a simple shepherdess – braver than any man ever was in Rome! As far as God is concerned, this was easily accomplished. But as for us, we never heard tell of such an extraordinary marvel, for the prowess of all the great men of the past cannot be compared to this woman's whose concern it is to cast out our enemies. This is God's doing: it is He who guides her and who has given her a heart greater than that of any man.

Lonny finishes his drink and stands. “So what’s our plan?” “You don’t have to go,” I tell him, shrugging out of Carmindor’s jacket. “I’m sort of going AWOL, so it’s not in your contract.” “Then as far as I’m concerned, I’m off the clock,” he says, straightening his suit. “I can do whatever I want with my time, and I want to help you out. So what’s the plan?” “First,” I say, “to the vending machines. With all this good luck, they gotta have an Orange Crush.” And holy gods of soda, Batman, by the glowing light of the great vending machines on the third floor, I spot a beautiful Orange Crush button, and when I push it an orange bottle rolls out. I crack the seal and drink to the sweet, sweet taste of victory. “That’s your plan?” Lonny says. “To drink a soda?

Some victories didn't taste as sweet as they should

Blessed are the wretched. How beautiful will be their dawn and how sweet and great will be their victory.

Of Woman and Chocolate   "Chocolate shares both the bitter and the sweet. Chocolate melts away all cares, coating the heart while smothering every last ache.   Chocolate brings a smile to the lips on contact, leaving a dark kiss behind.   Chocolate is amiable, complimenting any pairing; berries, peanut butter, pretzels, mint, pastries, drinks...everything goes with chocolate.   The very thought of chocolate awakens taste buds, sparking memories of candy-coated happiness.   Chocolate will go nuts with you, no questions asked.   Chocolate craves your lips, melts at your touch, and savors the moment.   Chocolate is that dark and beautiful knight who charges in on his gallant steed ready to slay dragons when needed.   Chocolate never disappoints; it leaves its lover wanting more.   Chocolate is the ultimate satisfaction, synonymous with perfection.   Chocolate is rich, smooth pleasure.   Chocolate has finesse - the charm to seduce and indulge at any time, day or night.   Chocolate is a true friend, a trusted confidant, and faithful lover. Chocolate warms and comforts and sympathizes.   Chocolate holds power over depression, victory over disappointment.   Chocolate savvies the needs of a woman and owns her.   Simply put, chocolate is paradise.

God isn’t afraid of your sharp edges that may seem quite risky to others. He doesn’t pull back. He pulls you close. His love and grace covers your exposed grief. And step-by-step leads you to a new place of victory. A sweet place your soul is so glad to be in though you never would have chosen the hard path on your own.

A great blow it was,' he said in expensive tones, 'worthy of the mightiest warrior and truly struck upon the nose of the foe. The bright blood flew, and the enemy was dismayed and overcame. Like a hero, Garion stood over the vanquished, and, like a true hero, did not boast nor taunt his fallen opponent, but offered instead advice for quelling that crimson blood. with simple dignity then, he quit the field, but the bright-eyed maid would not let him depart unrewarded for his valor. hastily, she pursued him and fondly clasped her snowy arms about his neck. And there she lovingly bestowed that single kiss that is the true hero's greatest reward. Her eyes flamed with admiration, and her chaste bosom heaved with newly wakened passion. But modest Garion innocently departed and tarried not to claim those other sweet rewards the gentle maid's fond demeanor so clearly offered. And thus the adventure ended with our hero tasting victory but tenderly declining victory's true compensation.

And was his conscience not needling him, leeching some of the sweetness from his victory?

People surrender to love—they do it reluctantly and with trepidation, but when they give in it is sweet surrender as well as sweet victory. It is part of life, that potential hurt, that fearsome thrill, but women don’t seem to have nearly as hard a time with it. In the end, in the final tally, who knows who has brought the other down more or the most—we only know that this is life’s rich pageant, and we all have to take responsibility for our own feelings, for wishing to succumb and letting it happen. It is degrading to put the blame on Mame or anyone else for the chances we all take freely. One

I went to my room one day and locked the door and got down upon my knees before Almighty God and prayed to Him mightily for victory at Gettysburg. I told Him that this war was His, and our cause His cause, that we could not stand another Fredericksburg or Chancellorsville. Then and there I made a solemn vow to Almighty God that if He would stand by our boys at Gettysburg, I would stand by Him, and He did stand by you boys, and I will stand by him. And after that, I don't know how it was, and I cannot explain it, soon a sweet comfort crept into my soul. The feeling came that God had taken the whole business into His own hands, and things would go right at Gettysburg, and that was why I had no fears about you.

No matter how low, everyone wants somebody to look down upon. Jeremiah didn’t own one acre to his name, and land was what white men throughout the history of this nation had killed and employed deceit to get. Land occupied a space in white pride, and a white man without land was no better than the Black man he had enslaved or the Indian he had stolen from, through murder and connivance and a lack of sympathy. White men had laughed at the anguish of the displaced Creeks: sooner or later, every conqueror laughs at his victim. That’s what makes victory sweet, and more than that, justified.

Cassie fumbled helplessly beneath the shade of the ancient oak, still searching for her second shoe.The first had been easy to find, having landed close to where she had kicked it off; and when her hand had finally encountered it, she clutched it to her breast in a gesture of smug triumph. For one brief moment, she felt a twinge of sympathy for the sighted people who would never experience such sweet victory from a task as simple as finding a shoe.

The students should at all times remember that no matter what their mistakes may have been, God never criticizes nor condemns them; but at every stumble which is made, in that sweet, loving Voice says: “Arise, My Child, and try again, and keep on trying, until at last you have attained the True Victory and Freedom of your God-given Dominion.

Lord Balon grunted. “Casterly Rock has never fallen.” “Until now.” Theon smiled. And how sweet that will be. His father did not return the smile. “So this is why Robb Stark sends you back to me, after so long? So you might win my consent to this plan of his?” “It is my plan, not Robb’s,” Theon said proudly. Mine, as the victory will be mine, and in time the

Eternity before and after us renders every painful effort for victory over other people absurd, almost ludicrous.

Whenever I am faced with a challenge, I think about how winning feels, Victory is as sweet as honey, A taste which can lasts a lifetime

To a man, first love is a victory, to a girl it is a sweet wonder, and a joy, and a tender longing, all in one

Erase the victim mentality. Remember you are capable of achieving greatness. If only you'd believe in your abilities to overcome. You are victorious. Celebrate the victory.

Dear Daughter, Learn to be still and trust God on the battlefield, He will give you victory.

The Coven gathers intel better than the CIA.

Mistakes are what make life worth living dangerously. If it weren't for our mistakes then our victories wouldn't taste nearly as sweet.

It was said that trials were what made the victory so sweet, but Herbert never bought that. From where he sat, he’d settle for having the victories come a little easier now and then. . . .

You're mine now," he whispers, increasing the pace of the shiv as it moves in and out of my body. "Your body is my territory, my sweet victory. Together, we'll rule the unhinged, little killer.

Necessities for all manner of healing in the herb garden: Hyssop, Wormwood, Rue, Coriander, Pasqueflower, Rosemary, St John’s Wort, Costmary, Lady’s Mantle, Lady’s Bedstraw, Angelica, Heartsease, Lily of the Valley, Marigold, Milk Thistle, Thyme, Sweet Woodruff. To these I plan to add, as time permits: Wood Betony, Comfrey, Coltsfoot, Cowslip, Hawthorn, Lavender, Lemon Balm, Meadowsweet, Sage, Valerian, Yarrow and Winter Savory.

In that case,” Tomas answered softly, “your sin will be as grave as mine. I know it’s disappointing to you after having waited so long for the sweet victory of Kilty and Tomas Larkin both inside St. Columba’s at the same time … one laid out and the other on his knees praying for his immortal soul. But God won’t know who we are anyhow, because we’ve priests here who don’t even know how to pray in the Irish language … it’s that English they are.

We see the clash between nationalism and humanism in morbid patriotic slogans like “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” (Sweet and right it is to die for your country) and “Happy those who with a glowing faith in one embrace clasped death and victory.

The forty-one-year-old man felt only able to catch and avenge his early suffering through a series of small victories: eating sweet food when he wanted, letting the hearth-fire burn when the sun burned high, leaving the front door open both day and night.

For anxiety and the uncalm spirit, for a peaceful sleepe without evil dreames. Make an infusion of hoppes, skullcap, vervain, valerian, wild lettuce and passion flower. To these can be added lavender, lemon balm and chamomile to sweeten the potion and to infuse the air with calming sweetness.

A small victory, he thought, but sweet. He had passed his first test. Tyrion Lannister shouldered through the door, feeling almost tall. Five members of the king’s small council broke off their discussion suddenly. “You,”his sister Cersei said in a tone that was equal parts disbelief and distaste.

Come hither and chat whilst I roast this pig. Afterward, you can join me in praying to our Redeemer to give thanks for our great victory to free your people. Then he added, "Half your people, since on account of your fair complexion, I reckon you is one half white or thereabouts. Which in and of itself, makes this world even more treacherous for you, sweet dear Onion, for you has to fight within yourself and outside yourself, too, being half a loaf on one side and half the other. Don't worry. The Lord don't have no contention with your condition, for Luke twelve, five says, 'Take not the breast of not just thine own mother into thy hand, but of both thy parents.

When Marsyas was 'torn from the scabbard of his limbs' - DELLA VAGINA DELLA MEMBRE SUE, to use one of Dante's most terrible Tacitean phrases - he had no more song, the Greek said. Apollo had been victor. The lyre had vanquished the reed. But perhaps the Greeks were mistaken. I hear in much modern Art the cry of Marsyas. It is bitter in Baudelaire, sweet and plaintive in Lamartine, mystic in Verlaine. It is in the deferred resolutions of Chopin's music. It is in the discontent that haunts Burne- Jones's women. Even Matthew Arnold, whose song of Callicles tells of 'the triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre,' and the 'famous final victory,' in such a clear note of lyrical beauty, has not a little of it; in the troubled undertone of doubt and distress that haunts his verses, neither Goethe nor Wordsworth could help him, though he followed each in turn, and when he seeks to mourn for THYRSIS or to sing of the SCHOLAR GIPSY, it is the reed that he has to take for the rendering of his strain. But whether or not the Phrygian Faun was silent, I cannot be. Expression is as necessary to me as leaf and blossoms are to the black branches of the trees that show themselves above the prison walls and are so restless in the wind. Between my art and the world there is now a wide gulf, but between art and myself there is none. I hope at least that there is none.

We tell people,” he said, “to follow their dreams. We tell them that they won’t be complete until they do, that they’ll be miserable until they start reaching for that brass ring. They never tell you how good it feels to give up on a dream. That it’s a…” “Relief?” Lucy said. “A relief, exactly,” Jack said, nodding. “I decided one day that kids weren’t ever going to happen for me, that I was going to be single and childless and that was that. And I awoke the next morning and the sun was dancing on the water and the coffee tasted better than it ever had. It tasted like one less thing to worry about. One less promise to keep. One less fight to fight. One less heart to break. And it was sweet. Almost as sweet as victory. The sweetness of giving up.

[T]hose who have not been enclosed in the walls of prison without cause or provocation, can have but little idea how sweet the voice of a friend is; one token of friendship from any source whatever awakens and calls into action every sympathetic feeling; it brings up in an instant everything that is passed; it seizes the present with the avidity of lightning; it grasps after the future with the fierceness of a tiger; it moves the mind backward and forward, from one thing to another, until finally all enmity, malice and hatred, and past differences, misunderstandings and mismanagements are slain victorious at the feet of hope; and when the heart is sufficiently contrite, then the voice of inspiration steals along and whispers, [D&C 121:7-25]. [DHC3:293-294]

Land occupied a space in white pride, and a white man without land was no better than the Black man he had enslaved or the Indian he had stolen from, through murder and connivance and a lack of sympathy. White men had laughed at the anguish of the displaced Creeks: sooner or later, every conqueror laughs at his victim. That’s what makes victory sweet, and more than that, justified.

Even though great were this cruelty, oppression, and tyranny, though numerous were the oft-victorious clans of the many-familied Erinn; though numerous their kings, and their royal chiefs, and their princes; though numerous their heroes and champions, and their brave soldiers, their chiefs of valour and renown and deeds of arms; yet not one of them was able to give relief, alleviation, or deliverance from that oppression and tyranny, from the numbers and multitudes, and the cruelty and the wrath of the brutal, ferocious, furious, untamed, implacable hordes by whom that oppression was inflicted, because of the excellence of their polished, ample, treble, heavy, trusty, glittering corslets; and their hard, strong, valiant swords; and their well-riveted long spears, and their ready, brilliant arms of valour besides; and because of the greatness of their achievements and of their deeds, their bravery, and their valour, their strength, and their venom, and their ferocity, and because of the excess of their thirst and their hunger for the brave, fruitful, nobly-inhabited, full of cataracts, rivers, bays, pure, smooth-plained, sweet grassy land of Erinn"—(pp. 52-53).

There you are.” Roshar beamed. “I need your help, Arin.” “For the preparation of meat?” “It’s very important. You must impress this importance upon your cook here. The fate of political relations between my country and yours hangs in the balance.” “Because of meat.” “It’s for his tiger,” said the cook. Arin palmed his face, eyes squeezed shut. “Your tiger.” “He’s very particular,” said Roshar. “You can’t bring the tiger to the banquet.” “Little Arin has missed me. I will not be parted from him.” “Would you consider changing his name?” “No.” “What if I begged?” “Not a chance.” “Roshar, the tiger has grown.” “And what a sweet big boy he is.” “You can’t bring him into a dining hall filled with hundreds of people.” “He’ll behave. He has the mien and manners of a prince.” “Oh, like you?” “I resent your tone.” “I’m not sure you can control him.” “Has he ever been aught but the gentlest of creatures? Would you deny your namesake the chance to bear witness to our victorious celebration? And, of course, to the vision of you and Kestrel: side by side, Herrani and Valorian, a love for the ages. The stuff of songs, Arin! How you’ll get married, and make babies--” “Gods, Roshar, shut up.

We see the clash between nationalism and humanism in morbid patriotic slogans like “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” (Sweet and right it is to die for your country) and “Happy those who with a glowing faith in one embrace clasped death and victory.”4 Even John F. Kennedy’s less gruesome “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country” makes the tension clear.

In many cases, under the guise of righteousness or entitlement or supposed care for another’s well-being, people will seek their own perceived victory. It may be driven by the desire for money, power-seeking, or jealousy. Silent but poisonous jealousy compares itself to another, comes out worse, and then seeks to undermine the other in order to make itself feel better about its own mistakes and shortcomings. Of course, in most people, all this is entirely unconscious and rarely acknowledged. They are ugly qualities and few will face and seek to eliminate them. What seems sweet to the ego is poison to the fulfilment of one’s soul and to true happiness. If people knew this, they would not be so tempted to betray that which is truly good for short-term gains which have the smell of sickness and duplicity.

Sometimes she rebelled distantly: life is long... She feared the days, one after another, without surprises, of pure devotion to a man. To a man who would freely use all of his wife's resources for his own bonfire, in a serene, unconscious sacrifice of everything that wasn't his own personality. It was a false rebellion, an attempt at liberation that came above all with great fear of victory. She'd seek for a few days to take an attitude of independence, which she only achieved with some success in the mornings, when she woke up, when she still hadn't seen him. All it took was his presence, merely sensed, for her entire self to annul itself and wait. At night, alone in her room, she want him. All of her nerves, all of her sick muscles. So she resigned herself. Resignation was sweet and fresh. She had been born for it.

A godly man will forgive those who have wronged him Revenge is sweet to nature. A gracious spirit passes by affronts, forgets injuries and counts it a greater victory to conquer an enemy by patience than by power. It is truly heroic "to overcome evil with good" (Romans 12:21). Though I would not trust an enemy—yet I would endeavor to love him. I would exclude him from my creed—but not from my prayer (Matt. 5:44).

Damen said, ‘You haven’t told him.’ ‘You don’t even deny it?’ said Jord. A harsh laugh, when Damen was silent. ‘You hated us so much, all this time? It wasn’t enough to invade, to take our land? You had to play this—sick game as well?’ Damen said, ‘If you tell him, I can’t serve him.’ ‘Tell him?’ said Jord. ‘Tell him the man he trusts has lied, and lied again, has deceived him into the worst humiliation?’ ‘I wouldn’t hurt him,’ said Damen, and heard the words drop like lead. ‘You killed his brother, then got him under you in bed.’ Put like that, it was monstrous. It’s not that way between us, he ought to have said, and didn’t, couldn’t. He felt hot, then cold. He thought of Laurent’s delicate, needling talk that froze into icy rebuff if Damen pushed at it, but if he didn’t—if he matched himself to its subtle pulses and undercurrents—continued, sweetly deepening, until he could only wonder if he knew, if they both knew, what they were doing. ‘I’m going to leave,’ he said. ‘I was always going to leave. I stayed only because—’ ‘That’s right, you’ll leave. I won’t allow you to wreck us. You’ll command us to Ravenel, you’ll say nothing to him, and when the fort is won, you’ll get on a horse and go. He’ll mourn your loss, and never know.’ It was what he had planned. It was what, from the beginning, he had planned. In his chest, the beats of his heart were like sword thrusts. ‘In the morning,’ said Damen. ‘I’ll give him the fort, and leave him in the morning. It’s what I promised.’ ‘You’re gone by the time the sun hits the middle of the sky, or I tell him,’ said Jord. ‘And what he did to you in the palace will seem like a lover’s kiss compared with what will happen to you then.’ Jord was loyal. Damen had always liked that about him, the steadfast nature that reminded him of home. Strewn around them was the end of the battle, victory marked by silence and churned grass. ‘He’ll know,’ Damen heard himself say. ‘When word of my return to Akielos reaches him. He’ll know. I wish you would tell him then that I—’ ‘You fill me with horror,’ said Jord. His hands were tight on his knife. Both his hands, now. ‘Captain,

Finally, I advise you to consider that day as lost, in which (though you may have transacted much business in it) you have neither gained a victory over some sinful inclination, or form of self-will, nor thanked the Lord for all His benefits, and above all for His Sorrowful Passion endured for you, and for His Fatherly and sweet chastisements, when He has made you worthy to receive from Him the inestimable treasure of some trial.

This to live by, from the inimitable Edward Abbey: "One final paragraph of advice: [...] It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it’s still here. So get out there and hunt and fish and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, the lovely, mysterious, and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to the body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much; I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those desk-bound men and women with their hearts in a safe deposit box, and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this; You will outlive the bastards.

There is one thing that ought to be taught in all the colleges, Which is that people ought to be taught not to go around always making apologies. I don't mean the kind of apologies people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your feet, Because I think that is sort of sweet; No, I object to one kind of apology alone, Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing for everything they own. You go to their house for a meal, And they apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is veal; They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests, And they apologize publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's jests; If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't by Scott, And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the acting and the dialogue and the plot; They contain more milk of human kindness than the most capacious diary can, But if you are from out of town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner they apologize for everything American. I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them, I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them, Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious, And when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince them politely that it is magnificent and glorious, And what particularly bores me with them, Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them, So I think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb and nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf, Which is don't spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves.

The world of the ancient Greeks was one of turmoil and war, intrigue and treachery. There was no Greek nation; the divided land was ruled by scores of city states which fought continually for domination. For centuries the great cities of Athens and Sparta battled across land and sea for the right to become the leaders of Greece. Thebes, Corinth, Orchomenus, Plataea – all changed sides time and again and Victory flew between the warring factions, always the harlot, moving on, sweet with a promise she would not keep.

I ASSURE you that I am the book of fate. Questions are my enemies. For my questions explode! Answers leap up like a frightened flock, blackening the sky of my inescapable memories. Not one answer, not one suffices. What prisms flash when I enter the terrible field of my past. I am a chip of shattered flint enclosed in a box. The box gyrates and quakes. I am tossed about in a storm of mysteries. And when the box opens, I return to this presence like a stranger in a primitive land. Slowly (slowly, I say) I relearn my name. But that is not to know myself! This person of my name, this Leto who is the second of that calling, finds other voices in his mind, other names and other places. Oh, I promise you (as I have been promised) that I answer to but a single name. If you say, "Leto," I respond. Sufferance makes this true, sufferance and one thing more: I hold the threads! All of them are mine. Let me but imagine a topic say... men who have died by the sword-and I have them in all of their gore, every image intact, every moan, every grimace. Joys of motherhood, I think, and the birthing beds are mine. Serial baby smiles and the sweet cooings of new generations. The first walkings of the toddlers and the first victories of youths brought forth for me to share. They tumble one upon another until I can see little else but sameness and repetition. "Keep it all intact," I warn myself. Who can deny the value of such experiences, the worth of learning through which I view each new instant? Ahhh, but it's the past. Don't you understand? It's only the past!

Seamus tossed down two of his cards. “Hell. I’d train her if Tristan asked me. Wouldn’t mind seeing that pretty face every day.” I studied my cards, pretending not to hear him. “Maybe I should offer to work with her,” he said. “Free you up so you can get back to doing what you love.” My jaw tightened. “You go kill things, and I’ll show the lass some Irish moves. Win-win situation for both of us, right?” The cards in my hand began to buckle. “Ha!” Seamus gave Niall a victorious grin. “Pay up, bro.” Niall’s mouth turned down. “You don’t even like that album.” “I said it wasn’t my favorite one, but you know I like all of Johnny Cash’s stuff.” “Since when?” I stared at the two brothers with a mix of irritation and confusion. “What are you two going on about?” Chris asked. Seamus looked at me with a smug expression. “I told Niall you had it bad for the lass. He said she was too young and sweet to interest you. We made a friendly wager, which he just lost.” “You don’t have proof he’s into her,” Niall argued. “He just might not want your ugly mug around her.” Seamus snorted. “You do realize we’re identical twins.” “I’m still better looking.

Thus I learned from life itself. At the beginning I was only a little mass of possibilities. It was my teacher who unfolded and developed them. When she came, everything about me breathed of love and joy and was full of meaning. She has never since let pass an opportunity to point out the beauty that is in everything, nor has she ceased trying in thought and action and example to make my life sweet and useful. It was my teacher’s genius, her quick sympathy, her loving tact which made the first years of my education so beautiful. It was because she seized the right moment to impart knowledge that made it so pleasant and acceptable to me. She realized that a child’s mind is like a shallow brook which ripples and dances merrily over the stony course of its education and reflects here a flower, there a bush, yonder a fleecy cloud; and she attempted to guide my mind on its way, knowing that like a brook it should be fed by mountain streams and hidden springs, until it broadened out into a deep river, capable of reflecting in its placid surface, billowy hills, the luminous shadows of trees and the blue heavens, as well as the sweet face of a little flower. Any teacher can take a child to the classroom, but not every teacher can make him learn. He will not work joyously unless he feels that liberty is his, whether he is busy or at rest; he must feel the flush of victory and the heart-sinking of disappointment before he takes with a will the tasks distasteful to him and resolves to dance his way bravely through a dull routine of textbooks.

What are ye doing, lass?” His voice was so soft and close in the darkness, it made her shiver. She forgot all about the hard floor. “I always imagined that once I got married, I’d finally know what it was like to spend the night in a man’s arms. Will you hold me, so I can feel what that’s like? I won’t ask for more than that. Just hold me.” He rolled to face her and touched her cheek. “Ah, lass,” he sighed. “How can I deny you when you ask so sweetly? If ’tis holding ye want, holding you shall get. But the floor is no place for you and your bairn. Up in the bed with you.” “It’s no place for a married man, either,” she said, smiling at her small victory. He sighed again, a sound heavy with sentiment she could only guess at. She climbed under the blankets and held them up for him, but he was taking his sweet time. “Are you coming?” “Aye, lass. Just donning my plaid.” She bit back a huff of frustration. She determined to enjoy what little affection he would give her and didn’t want to push her luck by asking for more. Her hormones would have to learn patience; this was going to be a painfully slow seduction. When Darcy slipped into bed, bare-chested, but wrapped in layers of wool from the waist down, she cuddled into his open arms. All her frustration drained away as he gathered her in and the heat of his chest turned her into a melty puddle of contentment. She nestled her nose into the tuft of hair between his mounded pectorals and inhaled his scent of saddle leather and faint, masculine musk. Beneath her closed eyelids, her eyes rolled back in her head with bliss.

Dear Sawyer and Quin, If you ever read this and I'm gone I want you to know something that has been weighing on me. I watch you two play and it can be so sad sometimes. You two have been best friends since Sawyer's birth. Always inseparable. It's been adorable , but comes with its challenges. I'm worried when I watch you boys. Quinton, you are always driven by your ego. You're strong and talented, but much too determined to beat down everyone in your efforts to be the best. You push yourself to win a competition, then shove it in someone's face. I’ve rarely seen you compliment others, but you always give yourself a pat on the back. You don't play anything for the love of it, you play to win and normally do. I've seen you tear down your brother so many times just to feel good about yourself. You don't have to do that, dear. You don't have to spend your life trying to prove that you're amazing. One day you'll fail and be alone because you've climbed to the top of a pyramid with only enough room for yourself. Don't let it get to that point and if you do, learn humility from your brother. He could do without so much of it. Sawyer, just because you're most often the underdog and the peaceful introspective kid, don't think I'm letting you off the hook. Your humility has become your worst enemy. It's so intense that I wonder if it will be your vice one day, instead of your greatest virtue. It's one thing to believe you are below all men, even when you're not, but it's another thing to be crippled by fear and to no longer try. Sometimes , dear, I think you fear being good at something because you've tasted the bitterness of being the one who comes in last and you don't want to make others feel that way. That's sweet of you and I smile inside when I see you pretending to lose when you race your younger cousins , but if you always let people beat you they may never learn to work hard for something they want. It's okay to win, just win for the right reasons and always encourage those who lose. Oh, and Sawyer, I hope one day you read this. One day when it matters. If so, remember that the bottom of a mountain can be just as lonely as the top. I hope the two of you can learn to climb together one day. As I'm writing this you are trying to climb the big pine tree out back. Quin is at the top, rejoicing in his victory and taunting Sawyer. And Sawyer is at the bottom, afraid to get hurt and afraid to be sad about it. I'm going to go talk to you two separately now. I hope my words mean something. Love you boys, Mom

The war was lost The treaty signed I was not caught I crossed the line I was not caught Though many tried I live among you Well-disguised I had to leave My life behind I dug some graves You'll never find The story's told With facts and lies I had a name But never mind Never mind Never mind The war was lost The treaty signed There's Truth that lives And Truth that dies I don't know which So never mind (...السلام و السلام) Your victory Was so complete Some among you Thought to keep A record of Our little lives The clothes we wore Our spoons our knives The games of luck Our soldiers played The stones we cut The songs we made Our law of peace Which understands A husband leads A wife commands And all of these Expressions of the Sweet indifference Some called love The high indifference Some call fate But we had names More intimate Names so deep And names so true They're blood to me They're dust to you There is no need And this survives There's Truth that lives And Truth that dies Never mind Never mind I leave the life I left behind There's Truth that lives And Truth that dies I don't know which So never mind (...السلام و السلام) I could not kill The way you kill I could not hate I tried, I failed You turned me in At least you tried You side with them whom You despise This was your heart This swarm of flies This was once your mouth This bowl of lies You serve them well I'm not surprised You're of their kin You're of their kind Never mind Never mind I had to leave my Life behind The story's told With facts and lies You own the world So never mind Never mind Never mind I live the life I left behind I live it full I live it wide Through layers of time You can't divide My woman's here My children too Their graves are safe From ghosts like you In places deep With roots entwined I live the life I left behind The war was lost The treaty signed I was not caught Across the line I was not caught Though many tried I live among you Well-disguised

NATIONAL ANTHEM OF AZAD HIND May Good Fortune, Happiness and ease rain down upon India; On Punjab, Sindh, Gujarat, Maratha on Orissa and Bengal, On the Indian Ocean, on the Vindhya Mountains, On the Himalayas, the blue Jamuna and the Ganges. May thy ways be priased, from Thee our life from thy body our hope. May the rising sun shine down upon the world and exalt the name of India In every heart may thy love grow and thy sweetness take shape. So that every dweller in every province. Every faith united, every secret and mystery put aside. May come into thy embrace, in plaited garlands of love. May the rising sun shine down upon the world and exalt the name of India. May the early morning with the wings of a bird praise Her. And with all the power and fullness of the winds bringing freshness into life. Let us join together and shout: ‘Long Live India’, our beloved country. The rising sun shines upon the earth, exalting the name of India. Victory! May India’s name be praised. Translated by C.H. IVENS

JANUARY 26 I WILL GIVE YOU SWEET REST IN THE NIGHT DO NOT BE filled with fears in the night hours, My child, for I have promised to be your fortress, your place of safety. I have spread My wings over you, and I will keep you secure. You don’t need to worry about dangers at night for you will not be harmed even though thousands may fall all around you. Remember how I sent My angels to guard My servant Paul when he was bound by chains in a prison cell. My angels filled his prison cell with light and caused his chains to fall off. They escorted him out of his cell, through the prison gates, and opened the city gates to let him escape. You too can count on My angels’ protection in the night hours. Fear not, and listen for the sound of My voice, for I will fill your heart with My song in the night hours. PSALM 91:1–7; ACTS 12:6–10; PSALM 42:8 Prayer Declaration You are my shield, and You give me victory and great honor. I pray to You, and You answer from Your sacred hill. I sleep and wake up refreshed because You, Lord, protect me. I will rest at night because You give me sleep. I take authority over every demon that is released against my family and me at night. I will meditate upon my Lord in the night watches.

I thought I should ask of thee---but I dared not---the rose wreath thou hadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for the morning, when thou didst depart, to find a few fragments on the bed. And like a beggar I searched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two. Ah me, what is it I find? What token left of thy love? It is no flower, no spices, no vase of perfumed water. It is thy mighty sword, flashing as a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The young light of morning comes through the window and spread itself upon thy bed. The morning bird twitters and asks, `Woman, what hast thou got?' No, it is no flower, nor spices, nor vase of perfumed water---it is thy dreadful sword. I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine. I can find no place to hide it. I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts me when press it to my bosom. Yet shall I bear in my heart this honour of the burden of pain, this gift of thine. From now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and thou shalt be victorious in all my strife. Thou hast left death for my companion and I shall crown him with my life. Thy sword is with me to cut asunder my bonds, and there shall be no fear left for me in the world. From now I leave off all petty decorations. Lord of my heart, no more shall there be for me waiting and weeping in corners, no more coyness and sweetness of demeanour. Thou hast given me thy sword for adornment. No more doll's decorations for me!

My morning schedule saw me first in Cannan’s office, conferring with my advisor, but our meeting was interrupted within minutes by Narian, who entered without knocking and whose eyes were colder than I had seen them in a long time. “I thought you intended to control them,” he stated, walking toward the captain’s desk and standing directly beside the chair in which I sat.” He slammed a lengthy piece of parchment down on the wood surface, an unusual amount of tension in his movements. I glanced toward the open door and caught sight of Rava. She stood with one hand resting against the frame, her calculating eyes evaluating the scene while she awaited orders. Cannan’s gaze went to the parchment, but he did not reach for it, scanning its contents from a distance. Then he looked at Narian, unruffled. “I can think of a dozen or more men capable of this.” “But you know who is responsible.” Cannan sat back, assessing his opposition. “I don’t know with certainty any more than you do. In the absence of definitive proof of guilt on behalf of my son and his friends, I suggest you and your fellows develop a sense of humor.” Then the captain’s tone changed, becoming more forbidding. “I can prevent an uprising, Narian. This, you’ll have to get used to.” Not wanting to be in the dark, I snatched up the parchment in question. My mouth opened in shock and dismay as I silently read its contents, the men waiting for me to finish. On this Thirtieth Day of May in the First Year of Cokyrian dominance over the Province of Hytanica, the following regulations shall be put into practice in order to assist our gracious Grand Provost in her effort to welcome Cokyri into our lands--and to help ensure the enemy does not bungle the first victory it has managed in over a century. Regulation One. All Hytanican citizens must be willing to provide aid to aimlessly wandering Cokyrian soldiers who cannot on their honor grasp that the road leading back to the city is the very same road that led them away. Regulation Two. It is strongly recommended that farmers hide their livestock, lest the men of our host empire become confused and attempt to mate with them. Regulation Three. As per negotiated arrangements, crops grown on Hytanican soil will be divided with fifty percent belonging to Cokyri, and seventy-five percent remaining with the citizens of the province; Hytanicans will be bound by law to wait patiently while the Cokyrians attempt to sort the baffling deficiency in their calculations. Regulation Four. The Cokyrian envoys assigned to manage the planting and farming effort will also require Hytanican patience while they slowly but surely learn what is a crop and what is a weed, as well as left from right. Regulation Five. Though the Province Wall is a Cokyrian endeavor, it would be polite and understanding of Hytanicans to remind the enemy of the correct side on which to be standing when the final stone is laid, so no unfortunates may find themselves trapped outside with no way in. Regulation Six. When at long last foreign trade is allowed to resume, Hytanicans should strive to empathize with the reluctance of neighboring kingdoms to enter our lands, for Cokyri’s stench is sure to deter even the migrating birds. Regulation Seven. For what little trade and business we do manage in spite of the odor, the imposed ten percent tax may be paid in coins, sweets or shiny objects. Regulation Eight. It is regrettably prohibited for Hytanicans to throw jeers at Cokyrian soldiers, for fear that any man harried may cry, and the women may spit. Regulation Nine. In case of an encounter with Cokyrian dignitaries, the boy-invader and the honorable High Priestess included, let it be known that the proper way in which to greet them is with an ass-backward bow.

All the days of my appointed time will I wait." Job 14:14 A little stay on earth will make heaven more heavenly. Nothing makes rest so sweet as toil; nothing renders security so pleasant as exposure to alarms. The bitter quassia cups of earth will give a relish to the new wine which sparkles in the golden bowls of glory. Our battered armour and scarred countenances will render more illustrious our victory above, when we are welcomed to the seats of those who have overcome the world. We should not have full fellowship with Christ if we did not for awhile sojourn below, for he was baptized with a baptism of suffering among men, and we must be baptized with the same if we would share his kingdom. Fellowship with Christ is so honourable that the sorest sorrow is a light price by which to procure it. Another reason for our lingering here is for the good of others. We would not wish to enter heaven till our work is done, and it may be that we are yet ordained to minister light to souls benighted in the wilderness of sin. Our prolonged stay here is doubtless for God's glory. A tried saint, like a well-cut diamond, glitters much in the King's crown. Nothing reflects so much honour on a workman as a protracted and severe trial of his work, and its triumphant endurance of the ordeal without giving way in any part. We are God's workmanship, in whom he will be glorified by our afflictions. It is for the honour of Jesus that we endure the trial of our faith with sacred joy. Let each man surrender his own longings to the glory of Jesus, and feel, "If my lying in the dust would elevate my Lord by so much as an inch, let me still lie among the pots of earth. If to live on earth forever would make my Lord more glorious, it should be my heaven to be shut out of heaven." Our time is fixed and settled by eternal decree. Let us not be anxious about it, but wait with patience till the gates of pearl shall open.

beyond them. The Six Diseases If we want to look at how we practice all forms of rivalry, there are six diseases my father wrote about, all of which stem from the desire we have to win at all costs. These diseases rely on being in competition, which is typically where we go in a relationship the moment any discord pops up. When we relate to others in these ways, we are disconnecting from them and disconnecting from our true selves in order to access some form of outside validation. In other words, there is no relationship, no collaboration, no cocreation. There is only the victor and the loser. The Six Diseases are: The desire for victory I have to be the winner. If I don’t win, I’m a loser. If I win, everyone else is a loser. The desire to resort to technical cunning I rely on the power of my wits to show you how great I am. Who cares about people or their feelings as long as everyone can see how clever I am? The desire to display all that has been learned Check me out. I know lots of things. I can speak at length about anything. It doesn’t matter what anyone else has to say (especially if it’s dumb). The desire to awe the enemy I am a force to be reckoned with. Look out! I will wow you to get your approval even if I have to do something shocking and wild to get your attention. The desire to play the passive role I am so easy to get along with. Who wouldn’t like me? I am so unobtrusive and sweet. I will put anything that’s important to me aside to make sure that you see how likeable and wonderful I am. How could you not like me when I sacrifice everything just for you? The desire to rid oneself of whatever disease one is affected by I am not okay as I am. I will perform constant self-work and read as many books as I can and take so many classes to make myself good that you will see that I am always trying to be a good person even if I continue to do lots of shitty things. I know I’m not okay as I am. And I know you know that I know I’m not okay as I am, which makes it okay not to get truly better as long as it looks like I’m trying.

-Eternal Life- I had a dream of a place where everything was at peace. There was no more pain, no hurting or crying, A place where death forever ceased. There was no more hunger or disease Nor, nations rising up against each other. All pride and jealousy were swallowed up in the final battle. The King has returned, so let us all rejoice. We all gathered there to meet As people assembled to pay homage at His feet. Even the creatures on earth and in heaven came to proclaim His eternal, sweet and precious name. There we will reign with Him forevermore, As we crowned Him King of kings and Lord of lords. I am surrounded by thousands and thousands Of angelic hosts singing His praises. Oh, what a sweet sound which will continue throughout the ages. I turned to see our loved ones who had gone on before us We rejoiced with each other as we joined the endless chorus. Our new bodies, how perfect we are designed. Oh, the wisdom and knowledge of God How unsearchable are His ways, There will be joy and peace throughout the eternal days. There in that holy place forever we will be, The earth shall be full of His knowledge and glory As waters that cover the sea. When I woke up from that beautiful dream I gave thanks to Jesus Christ my Savior, Who will forever reign supreme. So, read to me the Word of Life page by page God’s eternal love will never age. I Corinthians 15: 51-55 Behold, I show you a mystery: We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump; for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. So, when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? Romans 8: 18 For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.

It was an imprudent idea to begin with.” “I shan’t argue with you on that point.” Rose scoffed at him. “You don’t get to play morally superior with me, Grey. I may have been stupid enough to conspire against you, but you didn’t even recognize someone you’ve known for years! If one of us must be the bigger idiot, I think it must be you!” Oh dear God. She covered her mouth with her hand. What had she just said? Dark arched brows pulled together tightly over stormy blue eyes. “You’re right,” he agreed. “I am an idiot, but only because I allowed this ridiculous ruse past the point when I realized your identity.” Rose froze-like a damp leaf on an icy pond. “You knew?” And yet he continued to pretend…oh, he was worse than she by far. “Of course I knew.” He glowered at her. “Blindfold me and I would know the scent of your skin, the exact color and texture of your skin. Do you not realize that I know the color of your eyes right down to the flecks of gold that light their depths?” Heart pounding, stomach churning in shock, Rose could only stare at him. How could he say such things to her and sound so disgusted? “When?” Her voice was a ragged whisper. “When did you know?” “I suspected before but tried to deny it. The morning after we last met I took one look at your sweet mouth and knew there couldn’t be two women in the world, let alone London with the same delectable bottom lip.” It hurt. Oh, she hadn’t thought hearing him say such wonderful things could hurt so much! She pressed a hand to her chest. “You suspected and yet you made love to me any way.” “Made love?” He snorted. “That’s a girl’s term, Rose. What you and I did…it was something far worse than making trite love.” Worse? How could he malign what had transpired between them. “So you regret it, despite your own choice to continue with the charade.” “What I regret,” he growled, suddenly moving toward her, “is your sudden attack of conscience.” He was mad. She took a step back. “I don’t understand you.” “If only you had managed to keep your guilt where it belonged.” A ravaged smile curved his lips as he shook his head. “We might have continued on, with neither being the wiser, but now we must endure the rest of the Season together, knowing what we can no longer have.” “Then you admit you have feelings for me.” He laughed hollowly. “So many I can scarce discern them all.” It was a hollow victory at best. “If you care for me and I for you, then why can we not reveal our feelings? You have but to ask and I’m yours.

As the year draws to a close, a sense of anticipation mingles with reflection. We stand at the threshold of a new chapter, ready to bid farewell to the familiar & embrace the unknown. In this transitional month, it’s essential to cultivate a healthy, energized & determined attitude, setting the stage for a remarkable finish to 2023 & a vibrant beginning to 2024. Darling listen – I want you to use this new month to do & say all the things that you’ve been putting off. The perfect time to say & do those things that matters is now. I also wish & hope that instead of focusing on what you haven’t achieved, you focus on the milestones you’ve crossed, the growth you’ve experienced & the resilience you’ve demonstrated. Let you celebrate your victories (both big and small) & carry the lessons of your setbacks into the new year. Sweetheart, December, a month of festivities, of togetherness, celebrations, of spreading cheers & goodwill, is the perfect time to cherish all the moments spent with loved ones, the memories created & the lessons learned. Let this month bring you the breakthrough you’ve been waiting for & a pie so big that you’ll need a truck to carry it home… Cheers to a season of success & sweet treats!

my barbaric living earns me millions. So thanks so much for your concern, but I think we’ll be fine. Now someone please get this douchecanoe out of here before I make him my new punching bag.

You even breathe wrong in the direction of my family—my real family—I will ruin you.

Victory is sweet, but how you handle yourself in defeat is often more telling.

In spite of all the unity-in-diversity rhetoric, this is a culture that increasingly prefers to live in tribal enclosures and economic cocoons. Victimology is a virus that has infected everything and everyone, including the church. Victimhood is never a victory. Every healed “victim” who goes on to heal others and not just therapize themselves can attest to one thing: No one gets better by being excused from carrying responsibility for the consequences of their choices and actions.

There is no sweet fellowship as having a true friend who will be there for you at all times: in times of victory, and in times of defeat, in times of success, and in times of sorrow, in times of plenty, and in times of scarcity, in times of sunshine and in times of darkness, in times of good health, and in times of sickness.

Indeed, there was such a wealth of it, and it was so easy to comprehend, that I felt a great light joy. The knowledge was like the love and like the beauty; indeed, I realized with a great triumphant happiness that they were all – the knowledge, the love, and the beauty – they were all one. ‘Oh, yes, how could one not see it. It’s so simple!’ I thought. If I had had a body with eyes, I would have wept, but it would have been a sweet weeping. As it was, my soul was victorious over all small and enervating things. I stood still, and the knowledge, the facts, as it were, the hundreds upon hundreds of small details which were like transparent droplets of magical fluid passing through me and into me, filling me and vanishing to make way for more of this great shower of truth – all this seemed suddenly to fade. There beyond stood the glass city, and beyond it a blue sky, blue as a sky at midday, only one which was now filled with every known star. I started out for the city. Indeed, I started with such impetuosity and such conviction that it took three people to hold me back. I stopped. I was quite amazed. But I knew these men. These were priests, old priests of my homeland, who had died long before I had even come to my calling, all of which was quite clear to me, and I knew their names and how they had died. They were in fact the saints of my city, and of the great house of catacombs where I had lived. ‘Why do you hold me?’ I asked. ‘Where’s my Father? He’s here now, is he not?’ No sooner had I asked this than I saw my Father. He looked exactly as he had always looked. He was a big, shaggy man, dressed in leather for hunting, with a full grizzled beard and thick long auburn hair the same color as my own. His cheeks were rosy from the cold wind, and his lower lip, visible between his thick mustache and his gray-streaked beard, was moist and pink as I remembered. His eyes were the same bright china blue. He waved at me. He gave his usual, casual, hearty wave, and he smiled. He looked just like he was going off into the grasslands, in spite of everyone’s advice, and everyone’s caution to hunt, with no fear at all of the Mongols or the Tatars swooping down on him. After all, he had his great bow with him, the bow only he could string, as if he were a mythical hero of the great grassy fields, and he had his own sharpened arrows, and his big broadsword with which he could hack off a man’s head with one blow. ‘Father, why are they holding me?’ I

When ego, unopposed, assumes its throne, The world, in fragments, reaps the seeds it’s sown. A kaleidoscope of discord and divide, Where separate streams in ceaseless turmoil bide. Through ego’s lens, reality transforms, A battleground where rampant desire storms. A sphere of strife, of victory and loss, Where fortunes shift as dice of fate are tossed. In ego’s solitary, narrow view, The world is painted in a hue so skewed. Confined by fears, by selfish dreams confined, Its canvas bears the limits of the mind. Thus, perception, in its manifold grace, Reflects the light of ego and soul’s face. In balance, may the truest sight be found, Where essence and ego in harmony abound. In the crucible where essence blends with sight, A wondrous transformation takes its flight. Where once division’s shadow coldly lay, Interconnection’s dawn breaks forth in day. What opposition’s harsh gaze once discerned, To harmonies of concord is now turned. The essence, with its ancient wisdom’s glow, Unveils the unity that lies below. Each leaf and stone, each soul that wanders free, A note within reality’s grand symphony. Essential, bound within the vast expanse, In life’s intricate, cosmic dance. This alchemical shift in vision’s sphere, Brings forth changes profound, both far and near. Challenges, once daunting, now unfold, As growth’s opportunities, bright and bold. Foes, once clad in enmity’s harsh guise, Transform to teachers, wise beneath the skies. Each joy, each pain, in life’s intricate weave, Threads of our evolution, we perceive. No longer a stage for vain rivalry’s play, But a landscape where learning’s blossoms sway. Growth and learning, in rich abundance, thrive, In this new world where our spirits come alive. Where once the ego’s voice, in solo strain, Ruled with iron will, in self’s domain, Now in harmony with the soul’s sweet song, It finds a place where it truly belongs. No longer master, but a partner kind, Guiding through life with a humble mind. It learns compassion’s tongue, intuition hears, Acts with mindfulness, as purpose nears. In perception’s alchemy, a journey grand, From fractured states to unity’s soft hand, From discord’s harsh cacophony to peace, A path that leads where true essences release. This sacred path, evolving as it weaves, Into our nature’s heart, where spirit cleaves. The veil of separation gently falls, As interconnectedness softly calls. Upon this path, with every step we tread, Our world transforms, new visions in its stead. The mundane now with sacredness imbues, The ordinary in extraordinary hues. Each day becomes a picture, rich and vast, For deepest truths, in vibrant colors cast. Through alchemy of sight, our roles transcend, Not mere observers, but creators bend. In world’s unfolding tale, we play our part, Co-architects, with collective heart. A reality, where highest potentials shine, In this, your design, our spirits intertwine.

The little wild flowers have a wonderful lesson to teach. They offer themselves so sweetly and confidently and willingly, even if it seems that there is no one to appreciate them. Just as though they sang a joyous little song to themselves, that it is so happy to love even though one is not loved in return. All the fairest beauties in the human soul, its greatest victories, and its most splendid achievements are always those which no one else knows anything about. Every inner response of the human heart to Love and every conquest over self0love is a new flower on the tree of love.

Learn to admire others; it is the first step to overcome your ego.” “The ego destroys its egoist silently and suddenly, as a termite does.” “The ego is such a bullet that fires all your relations.” “The ego and vanity both hold such invisible fire that flames upon oneself.” “Your ego may hurt and damage you more than others.” Learn how to live and participate in people and society, how to help each other, and how to build harmony and peace among those who have lost their way. It can only be with respect, justice, and equality, without any distinctions. Be aware that your ego can destroy your ability if you focus on your caliber and status; it is a poison, not a remedy. Understand the outcomes and consequences of ego, egoists, and egotism. Read thoroughly to grasp the insight to enlighten your life and ways. “Everyone stands firm with their ego status; thus, I accept that I am zero and that everyone else is a hero, but remember that on every count, zero matters.” “The ego, vanity, jealousy, and other flaws define the imperceptive attitude and fly silently toward self-victimizing.” “Nothing else than the worst and abysmal self-defeat, which elucidates that one fetches and embraces itself to become the victim of ego, vanity, and jealousy.” “An egoist focuses on self-promotion and does not admire others or value anyone else. Unfortunately, such one remains the prisoner of egotism.” “A heart that contains love cannot keep the hate there A heart that performs forgiveness does not recognize revenge In a heart where there is altruism, there is no place for egoism Such a heart demonstrates a pure and real human.” “It proves not a difficult task if one discovers the universe; however, discovering one’s self-ego is the toughest matter, whereas overcoming that leads to a visionary victory.” “To show others, the quotes and sayings of the visionary figures, as a mirror instead of reform own conduct and character, indicates one’s worst egoism unless that reflects and demonstrates not their golden words.” “One can neither understand nor accept and respect others’ logic, view, and insight before overcoming their ego.” “After the jumping out of your ego, you liberate your own, and you see the way towards the values of others.” “The nurturing of morals is the language, and control of the ego is the eye of the soul.” “Surrender your ego to enjoy peace of mind and the beauty of equality and harmony.” “Everyone stands firm with their ego status; thus, I accept that I am zero and that everyone else is a hero, but remember that on every count, zero matters.” “Hatred, racism, discrimination, distinction, and vainglory germinate in the soil of ego.” “When one becomes capable of overcoming desires, hopes, and ego, one learns and understands the faculty of patience.” I Yield Not *** I suffer not from ego I let that not enter my life I yield not my will to avaricious As I am a truth of truths I dream not, impossibilities I become a dream of my dreams Since I exist as a reality Thus, it builds A sweet and lovely pleasure, Peace and calm I dance; I dance Without security Even no one can imagine My link to the spiritual world I am here and there No one is aware I wear and bear Every atmosphere. Deliberately *** I deliberately Become fool I enjoy that To punish My ego It is not strange Nor it is a surprise It is just an idea Of yourself What are you Who are you If my ego rules me I feel myself in the doom If I overcome my ego My ways become bright I see the destiny For that, I am here I deliberately Become fool To let people Enjoy and happy Let them heal Their wounds Caused by themselves Of their wrong deeds I deliberately Become fool To make the people active Put to use their time The great lessons That nowhere One can learn.

A click of a smile donates the sweetness of love and beautifies the world.” “A smile is not a sign of consent; it’s just the goodness and charity of one’s lips.” “Smiling is free healing power for oneself and others.” “A smile hides the pain that one bears.” “The smile of a common one gives pleasure, but the smile of a special one becomes the treasure of life.” “Smiling makes you beautiful; if you are beautiful, that makes you brilliant.” “Don’t look at my smile; realize the pain that I never tell” “The smile constitutes harmony; conversely, love embraces peace since that both aspires and inspires positive power and notion.” “Smile is a beautiful beauty of one’s character and heart since that inspires love.” “There are always reasons to smile; any pleasure and love are the main reasons. Sometimes, sadness, madness, worries, critique, and defeat make you also smile. Although the smile, with love, gives happy feelings, it also hurts people if it is in a way of insulting.” “Crying or Smiling is a universal language; every human understands and experiences that.” “Smiling is sometimes a sign of invitation, but do not take it seriously if it is only someone’s habit.” “Keep smiling; it’s a peaceful defeat of your opponents and a victory for the universe of your inner self.” “Smile fragrances one’s reflection of the inner, which inspires others’ pleasure feeling.” “No matter if you remain hurting, hating, and insulting me, I will always give you my love and smile without expecting any kind of best return.” Disguise of Smile *** Tears are my life And life is my tears I cover and bear The disguise of a smile To hide my pain I know the world is More painful than my tears Pain Behind The Smile *** What would I say, What is behind the whispering lips? No one knows how much pain I carry and bear behind the smile Life has become tired of tiredness Something is behind that journey sound. Smile and Tears *** In the gatherings, I smile for my friends But in solitude, I drop tears on my destiny

Aaron stands up from where he’s sitting as my chest tightens with that overflowing feeling, the one made up of beautiful things and happy dreams and hope. It feels like fireflies drifting through a sweet summer night or bubbles in a champagne bottle waiting to be opened in celebration.

The type of poison that Havoc bestows is the kind that tastes oh so very sweet indeed.

But one bad apple isn’t going to spoil my whole barrel. A million bad experiences can’t erase the sweet memories of companionship that I had with Penelope.

Your Struggle is My Struggle (The Sonnet) Your struggle is my struggle, ‘Cause my heaven is in your smile. Your trouble is my trouble, Without you by my side all victory is vile. My life is only life when you are in it, For a life without love is but death in disguise. Without you my achievements mean nothing, ‘Cause you’re the sweetness of all my flight. You are the light of my eyes, Without you I am but a ship without compass. You are the strength coursing through my veins, Without you I turn into worthless abscess. You are my sky, my land and my ocean. The breath of my life is you and my salvation.

I stand there, panting, and look at Beth. My first friend at Draycott, the girl who took me under her wing. Sweet, studious Beth. She’s kneeling on the floor, crying, grabbing as many of the bags as she can and stuffing them back into a Prada handbag. I was right about her being the drug dealer, but this doesn’t feel at all like victory.

We scream when we are in pain. But, weirdly, we also scream for the opposite of pain—intense pleasure, joyous surprise, great excitement. Have you seen the videos of fangirls in the sixties in the presence of the Beatles? They positively shriek. Crying is also triggered by opposites. You might cry on the worst day of your life and on the best. Weddings and funerals; the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat

I’m jaded, entitled, and arrogant, and I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life, chasing after meaningless trophies, taking my luck for granted, until all my victories tasted like dirt. Then you appeared on my patio and almost magically peeled away years of bitterness and rust from my heart. I only need to look at your sweet face, and suddenly, my existence makes sense again.

The [Crimean War] victory was bitter sweet for the Ottomans, their weak Islamic realm saved by Christian soldiers. To show his gratitude and keep the West at bay, Sultan Abdulmecid was forced, in measures known as Tanzimat--reform--to centralize his administration, decree absolute equality for all minorities regardless of religion, and allow the Europeans all manner of once-inconceivable liberties. He presented St. Anne's, the Crusader church that had become Saladin's madrassa, to Napoleon III. In March 1855, the Duke of Brabant, the future King Leopold II of Belgium, exploiter of the Congo, was the first European allowed to visit the Temple Mount: its guards--club-wielding Sudanese from Darfur--had to be locked in their quarters for fear they would attack the infidel. In June, Archduke Maximilian, the heir to the Habsburg empire--and ill-fated future Emperor of Mexico--arrived with the officers of his flagship. The Europeans started to build hulking imperial-style Christian edifices in a Jerusalem building boom. Ottoman statesmen were unsettled and there would be a violent Muslim backlash, but, after the Crimean War, the West had invested too much to leave Jerusalem alone.

If victory had a taste, today would be very sweet.

Ah, the sweet bliss of jomo – the Joy Of Missing Out! It's like a warm hug from your couch, a high-five to solitude, and a victory dance for staying in your own lane. While the world hustles and bustles, you're happily nestled in your cocoon of contentment, savoring the simple pleasures of quiet nights, leisurely mornings, and uninterrupted me-time. So embrace the JOMO vibe, my friend. The thrill of missing out, and the sheer delight of being perfectly, wonderfully, unapologetically you.

Jeremiah didn’t own one acre to his name, and land was what white men throughout the history of this nation had killed and employed deceit to get. Land occupied a space in white pride, and a white man without land was no better than the Black man he had enslaved or the Indian he had stolen from, through murder and connivance and a lack of sympathy. White men had laughed at the anguish of the displaced Creeks: sooner or later, every conqueror laughs at his victim. That’s what makes victory sweet, and more than that, justified.

The main scope of all is to allure us to the entertainment of Christ's mild, safe, wise, victorious government, and to leave men naked of all pretences, why they will not have Christ to rule over them, when we see salvation not only strongly wrought, but sweetly dispensed by him. His government is not for his own pleasure, but for our good. We are saved by a way of love, that love might be kindled by this way in us to God again; because this affection melts the soul, and moulds it to all duty, and the acceptable manner of performing duty. It is love in duties that God regards more than duties themselves. This is the true and evangelical disposition arising from Christ's love to us, and our love to him again; and not to fear to come to him. It is almost a fundamental mistake to think, that God delights in slavish fears, whereas the fruits of Christ's kingdom are peace and joy in the Holy Ghost; for from this mistake come weak, slavish, superstitious conceits.

Alessandra, you are the most important thing to me. Being your husband will always be my greatest honor and accomplishment. No victory will ever taste as sweet as the press of your lips against mine. I lost you, and I don’t deserve you.

I have too much to live for—homemade guacamole, good books, legal adulthood right around the corner, the sweet victory of peeling an orange in one go, and Max’s lists.

Alessandra, you are the most important thing to me. Being your husband will always be my greatest honor and accomplishment. No victory will ever taste as sweet as the press of your lips against mine. I lost you, and I don’t deserve you.” I swallowed hard against the memories of what we’d overcome. “But I vow to always hear you over the sound of my ambition. I will always be

I had expected indifference, or even sorrow, some element of pity for my opponent: but I saw none of these in his expression. There was some surprise there, certainly; but in Philip’s blown pupils, there was something else also. It was desire, as dark and sweet as a ripe plum. It was more than enough prize for the effort of my victory.

So it shall be with thee when thou dost leave this world.  This did sweetly revive my spirit, and help me to hope in God; which when I had with comfort mused on a while, that word fell with great weight upon my mind, O death, where is thy sting?  O grave, where is thy victory?  1 Cor. xv. 55.  At this I became both well in body and mind at once, for my sickness did presently vanish, and I walked comfortably in my work for God again.

Arin was in the still room, trying to soothe the anxiety of a woman who was saying that she had just preserved the jams, and must all of them be used for the banquet, every last one? She didn’t think the Dacrans appreciated ilea fruit. Why serve something they wouldn’t love as much as the Herrani did? It would be best, surely, to keep at least those jars for winter. Trying to explain the politics of such lavish consumption tangled Arin up in frustrated half sentences, because it didn’t make much sense to him, either, to consume every edible thing in one night. And then he heard Roshar’s accented voice in Herrani drifting down the hall from the ktichens. “…you don’t understand. The piece of meat must be the finest, cut from the loin, seasoned with this spice, not that one…” Arin excused himself, told the woman he’d discuss jams later, and followed the prince’s voice. “…and it must be well roasted on the outside, almost charred, yet bloody inside. Bright pink. Listen. This is crucial. If anything goes wrong, the banquet will be ruined.” Arin entered the main kitchen to find the prince haranguing the head cook, who slid a half-lidded look of annoyed sufferance at Arin. “There you are.” Roshar beamed. “I need your help, Arin.” “For the preparation of meat?” “It’s very important. You must impress this importance upon your cook here. The fate of political relations between my country and yours hangs in the balance.” “Because of meat.” “It’s for his tiger,” said the cook. Arin palmed his face, eyes squeezed shut. “Your tiger.” “He’s very particular,” said Roshar. “You can’t bring the tiger to the banquet.” “Little Arin has missed me. I will not be parted from him.” “Would you consider changing his name?” “No.” “What if I begged?” “Not a chance.” “Roshar, the tiger has grown.” “And what a sweet big boy he is.” “You can’t bring him into a dining hall filled with hundreds of people.” “He’ll behave. He has the mien and manners of a prince.” “Oh, like you?” “I resent your tone.” “I’m not sure you can control him.” “Has he ever been aught but the gentlest of creatures? Would you deny your namesake the chance to bear witness to our victorious celebration? And, of course, to the vision of you and Kestrel: side by side, Herrani and Valorian, a love for the ages. The stuff of songs, Arin! How you’ll get married, and make babies--” “Gods, Roshar, shut up.

This is not what I had planned for dessert, Louisa Windham.” Sir Joseph murmured the words near Louisa’s ear, though she was too enchanted with the feel of his weight above her to argue. “I’ve never wrestled with a grown man before.” “You had the element of surprise to aid you. When you are my wife, I will not be so easily subdued as to end up on my own hearth rug, regardless of the astonishing pleasures to be found there.” Louisa concluded she’d subdued him thoroughly, for he did not move off her where she lay on that rug. “Joseph, did you just use your tongue—?” “I’m tasting you, seeing if you savor of the Christmassy scent you’ve teased my nose with on so many occasions.” His voice had taken on a purring quality, the sound of it curling straight down beneath Louisa’s belly to places low and sweet. “I believe I will enjoy being married to you, sir.” “Hush.” He traced the curve of her ear with his nose, which made her shiver wonderfully. “I’m wrestling with my conscience—and, madam, I intend to emerge victorious from at least one struggle this evening—though be assured you shall enjoy certain parts of being married to me a great deal.” “One hoped that would be the—oh, Joseph…” He’d shifted, wedged his body more tightly into hers so she could feel his arousal. “The lady falls silent. Surely, the season of miracles is upon us.” Louisa

Cutting down a wall, the wall sawyer could feel the tension in a home ease and something windy rush in circles round her feet. It was addictive, each a sweet victory of art. The tumbling motion of a falling wall was like a volcanic eruption fading into a mountain of roses. The wall sawyer felt a loving animosity toward walls. “You must pay attention to your obsessions, where life and love intersect,” she told the little queen. 

The most-holy temple of the Comforter And the beloved of the All-Pure Theotokos, Let us praise Porphyrios from our heart, For he loves and heals all, he protects And intercedes that we be granted theosis. Therefore, we cry out: Rejoice, O Father Porphyrios! (Kontakion of the Saint)

The feminist in her railed at her for turning all melty when the man had just insinuated he owned her. But her inner child wearing the cone-shaped princess hat with flowing veil kicked the feminist right in the shins and told her to shut her yap. Xander

—You see this apple? Sweet. Crisp. Ruby red. It wasn’t always like that, you know. The first apples in America were mottled and too bitter to eat. But after generations of grafting, now they’re all like this one. Most people think this is man’s victory over nature. But it’s not. In evolutionary terms, it’s the apple’s victory.

Sweet lady,” he said, “no victory is half so beautiful as you.

Looking out the window of a large women's monastery after Divine Liturgy, my friend saw a few nuns walking toward the woods with satchels on their backs. Inquiring who they were, she was told they were ascetics who lived in the wilderness and had come to the monastery to attend Liturgy and to receive some food. Although we are much weaker in our times and far less ascetical than the early desert fathers and mothers, let it never be said that extreme Christian asceticism is extinct. Who knows how many St. Mary of Egypts are hidden in the wilderness?

I am overwhelmed with gratitude! Wherever my travels take me I am so aware that God leads us as trophies in his victory parade. What he knows to be true about us diffuses through us like a perfume of sweet aroma everywhere we go, celebrating the success of the cross.

Kay very calmly and sweetly said, “You know, Pat, how much better do you think Lea Henry and Cindy Noble are going to get at this point?” She was saying ease up—it’s enough. I had reached the point of diminishing returns. “I think they are both trying really hard to please you, but how much more can they possibly do?” she said. “I just wonder if you’ve really thought about that.

What is Hope? Hope is a thread that connects dream and reality. Hope can also be reason to live life fully - to wake up every morning with a smile on our face and with a strong belief that there is something better in store for us. And when that hope turns into reality, it perhaps becomes one of our sweetest victories ever - sweet because it's always fought mentally, with our own self.

FROM AN OPPRESSIVE MARCH TO DANCING FREE Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. Galatians 6:9 If you’re an American patriot who wants to restore constitutional government to our land, who wants to see big government cut back to its rightful small-government boundaries, who wants a nation once again united under the banner of faith and freedom . . . well, we know we’ve got our work cut out for us. We may have big challenges ahead, but name me a generation that didn’t. There’s nothing wrong with America that our activism and some good old-fashioned election victories can’t fix. Elections are where we the people can fire politicians who don’t abide by the Constitution; who don’t support liberty, or the right to life, or the right of an entrepreneur to follow his dream, start a business, and create jobs unhindered by burdensome regulation and crushing taxes. Our mission is to take back our government so that it once again represents a land not of government subsidies and patronage and welfare dependency, but of individual spirit, drive, and initiative; not of government direction but of individual responsibility; not of tax-fed bureaucrats but of businesses meeting real market needs and creating jobs. SWEET FREEDOM IN Action Patriotism, like faith, is for the long haul. We should never be discouraged, because God is always with us; and this is America, where anything is possible! Don’t give up!

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she peered over the edge of the bed at her husband. When he rolled to one side and then the other and finally settled for lying on his back, she arched an eyebrow. “Comfortable?” He made that Scottish harrumph sound. “Come on up here,” she said, patting the bed. “I promise to keep my hands to myself.” He made no response. Fine. Be that way. She scooted out of bed and unabashedly stretched out alongside her tall Highlander. The burgundy kilt did nothing to disguise the hardness of the floor, and her hip protested when she turned on her side to face him. “What are ye doing, lass?” His voice was so soft and close in the darkness, it made her shiver. She forgot all about the hard floor. “I always imagined that once I got married, I’d finally know what it was like to spend the night in a man’s arms. Will you hold me, so I can feel what that’s like? I won’t ask for more than that. Just hold me.” He rolled to face her and touched her cheek. “Ah, lass,” he sighed. “How can I deny you when you ask so sweetly? If ’tis holding ye want, holding you shall get. But the floor is no place for you and your bairn. Up in the bed with you.” “It’s no place for a married man, either,” she said, smiling at her small victory. He sighed again, a sound heavy with sentiment she could only guess at. She climbed under the blankets and held them up for him, but he was taking his sweet time. “Are you coming?” “Aye, lass. Just donning my plaid.” She bit back a huff of frustration. She determined to enjoy what little affection he would give her and didn’t want to push her luck by asking for more. Her hormones would have to learn patience; this was going to be a painfully slow seduction. When Darcy slipped into bed, bare-chested, but wrapped in layers of wool from the waist down, she cuddled into his open arms. All her frustration drained away as he gathered her in and the heat of his chest turned her into a melty puddle of contentment. She nestled her nose into the tuft of hair between his mounded pectorals and inhaled his scent of saddle leather and faint, masculine musk. Beneath her closed eyelids, her eyes rolled back in her head with bliss.

never complicate my Daniel Fasts. I keep it simple. Twenty-one days without meat or sweets.  I have fruits, vegetables and water. I was sure this Daniel Fast was going to help me:             Gain control of my emotions. In order to walk by faith, I had to walk in the spirit not the flesh. Just because my life was in chaos, didn’t mean I had to give in to it. There was no way I could walk in the flesh and experience victory.            Rely more on the Holy Spirit for answers and fulfillment than on human logic and comfort food. The Holy Spirit is always with us and He knows the answers to all of the questions that we have.            Detox my body from all of the processed food and sugars that weren’t healthy for me anyway. Our bodies are temples and my temple needed cleansing that would in turn help increase my energy and ward of feelings of depression.

The bitterness of defeat adds to the sweetness of victory.

Oh, baby, I’m fine,” Amanda said dismissively, wiping her eyes with the Kleenex. Justin looked at her suspiciously. “You don’t seem fine.” “Are you kidding me? This is how I behave in all my interviews. Didn’t you know? You’re marrying a consummate professional!

Sam sighed. “While I do appreciate that this is so amusing for you, I am cutting off this conversation. We are done talking about this. I am done discussing Luke Reynolds.” With that, Sam leaned back in her chair with a defiant expression on her face. She crossed her arms determinedly, closing off her posture, and tilted her chin up as if to put a period on the sentence.

The sweetness of victory and the bitterness of defeat are alike a knife of dreams

Instead of him savoring imminent victory, his mind swept back to the taste of her sauce on his tongue—woodsmoke and black pepper, sweet heat. Much better than he was giving her credit for. But what knocked him flat was the smoothness of her finger—delicate, pliable, soft. So unlike her rigid poise, the angular cut of her high cheekbones. The slash of her pointed chin. Sharp edges that matched the cut of her words. Sharp edges at odds with the supple curve of her fingertip. For a moment, when he’d slipped his mouth around her pinky, he’d felt a jolt. An awakening. An awareness that maybe the hardness on her outside didn’t match the woman inside.

August 19 Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing. (2 Corinthians 6:10) Sorrow was beautiful, but his beauty was the beauty of the moonlight shining through the leafy branches of the trees in the woods. His gentle light made little pools of silver here and there on the soft green moss of the forest floor. And when he sang, his song was like the low, sweet calls of the nightingale, and in his eyes was the unexpectant gaze of someone who has ceased to look for coming gladness. He could weep in tender sympathy with those who weep, but to rejoice with those who rejoice was unknown to him. Joy was beautiful, too, but hers was the radiant beauty of a summer morning. Her eyes still held the happy laughter of childhood, and her hair glistened with the sunshine’s kiss. When she sang, her voice soared upward like a skylark’s, and her steps were the march of a conqueror who has never known defeat. She could rejoice with anyone who rejoices, but to weep with those who weep was unknown to her. Sorrow longingly said, “We can never be united as one.” “No, never,” responded Joy, with eyes misting as she spoke, “for my path lies through the sunlit meadows, the sweetest roses bloom when I arrive, and songbirds await my coming to sing their most joyous melodies.” “Yes, and my path,” said Sorrow, turning slowly away, “leads through the dark forest, and moonflowers, which open only at night, will fill my hands. Yet the sweetest of all earthly songs—the love song of the night—will be mine. So farewell, dear Joy, farewell.” Yet even as Sorrow spoke, he and Joy became aware of someone standing beside them. In spite of the dim light, they sensed a kingly Presence, and suddenly a great and holy awe overwhelmed them. They then sank to their knees before Him. “I see Him as the King of Joy,” whispered Sorrow, “for on His head are many crowns, and the nailprints in His hands and feet are the scars of a great victory. And before Him all my sorrow is melting away into deathless love and gladness. I now give myself to Him forever.” “No, Sorrow,” said Joy softly, “for I see Him as the King of Sorrow, and the crown on His head is a crown of thorns, and the nailprints in His hands and feet are the scars of terrible agony. I also give myself to Him forever, for sorrow with Him must be sweeter than any joy I have ever known.” “Then we are one in Him,” they cried in gladness, “for no one but He could unite Joy and Sorrow.” Therefore they walked hand in hand into the world, to follow Him through storms and sunshine, through winter’s severe cold and the warmth of summer’s gladness, and to be “sorrowful, yet always rejoicing.

The victory over Pakistan unleashed a huge wave of patriotic sentiment. It was hailed as ‘India’s first military victory in centuries’,53 speaking in terms not of India the nation, but of India the land mass and demographic entity. In the first half of the second millennium a succession of foreign armies had come in through the north-west passage to plunder and conquer. Later rulers were Christian rather than Muslim, and came by sea rather than overland. Most recently, there had been that crushing defeat at the hands of the Chinese. For so long used to humiliation and defeat, Indians could at last savour the sweet smell of military success.

Dear Daughter, Learn to be still and trust The God of the battlefield. Let Him be your shield and He will give you victory.

The millisecond you admit you're mine as much as I am yours, it’s on.

His pregnant, hormonal—not that he would be stupid enough to say that to her face, or even within hearing distance—sister was pissed at him for something and liked to torture him during their training sessions.

The Coven asked us to. And we’ve found life is much easier when we don’t question them,

That will be the easy part. Compared to what invariably follows, this will be the sweet phase of the process. The next phase will be bitter and prolonged; even unpalatable to the point of insufferable when you’re back at home. “It’s the other parts,” I continued, “the mental, emotional, and spiritual parts, that are harder because these are the parts that you have to do. Not only do you have to begin this healing while you’re here, but you now have to accomplish it without the old crutch of the alcohol. Sure, alcohol can ruin your life in the long run, but it served the purpose of being a pretty powerful coping mechanism for a very long time. It was an aid that helped you survive. Now you take the alcohol away and you deal with your life sober. All that stuff that was drowned out by the alcohol when you were little, before you went to war, when you went to war, when you came back from war—now you face that stuff without the drink. We are here to help, but even with the therapists, social workers, groups, and medications, it will be challenging—but worth it. You’re a strong man, and you’ll get beyond this to be stronger than you’ve ever been, stronger than most people will ever be in their entire lives. You’ll get beyond this so you can be happy, so you can have a job that fulfills you, so you can be the father you want to be to your son, so you can tell the story of your survival and your victory. This is the story that will save your life and the lives of many others, so it is truly all well worth it. And you’ll need to remember this end goal every hour of every day because this will likely be the hardest thing you’ve ever done in your life. And you can do this.

Kithairon sang of cunning Kronos and sacred Rhea who stole her son Zeus, mighty among immortals. Then the Muses asked the gods to put their ballot stones in the urn of gold. All stood up and Kithairon won the greater part. Hermes shouted loud, at once proclaiming sweet victory. The gods adorned his brow with flowers, and Kithairon rejoiced. But Helikon was stunned with bitter rage, and tore a massive boulder from the mountain. Insanely he shouted and lobbed the rock down on thousands of mortals below.

Let me kiss you Irma! There in the middle, in the space between the light and dark, Let me love you in the corners bright, Where your heart beat is the mark, To guide me through the mist of time with all my might, Because my love it is you that spreads like brightness in my world, Where your memories cast everlasting light, On the darkest and desolate corners of my world, And then fills me with the spirit to fight, All my demons and my fears, Your simple look offers me endless joy, As my existence the drapery of your brightness wears, And I begin to foil life’s every ploy, To oust me from my dominion, that is mine, But little does it know one can never steal the scent from the rose, And your memories that enrich me, become my goldmine, Granting me courage that before the brightest flash of life, I may put up my best pose, So come let me bear you in my arms, Let me kiss you like the night kisses everything beyond those shadows, And as my heart with these beautiful feelings warms, Let me offer smiles to the life’s marooned widows, Who have moaned enough and grieved a lot, Let me kiss you and then wage the war, Between the right and the evil in the reality’s merciless plot, It may happen that then stars that seem too far, Would tumble from the skies, To bury the evil in the star dust, But let us tread with caution for haste is only good when catching flies, For lovers always do what they must, It is the destiny of love and maybe the price of the kiss, That we all pay for with our heart beats, So let me hold you in my arms and feel my real bliss, Before my fate confronts the destiny and my courage both of them meets, In the open playground of life and chance, Where the truthful and the valiant always wins, Because it is a well coordinated dance, Where one always has to win though it is a competition between the twins, So kiss me and wish for my victory, Because through me you shall win too, As we are cast in the life’s endless trajectory, Where there shall always be one constant Irma, that, I love you, So, let the stars bear witness to valour of love, And as you kiss me, let the stars tumble from the skies, Then let no one seek the Heavens above, Because for our love, our passions and joys, here is where a lover dies, And this is where Christ died, This is where crusades were waged, This is where goodness was promoted and this is where Judas lied, And this is where lovers are caged, So let our battles of love be fought here, For a kiss, for a warm embrace, for a sweet memory’s sake, Then as I see you and your beauty everywhere, Let me love you forever for love’s and my own sake, Tonight when the sky shall be lit with many a twinkling star, I shall wait under the open sky and the moonlight, And as my eyes behold their darling most star, We shall then be the shadows in the darkness secretly kissing our heart beats in the cover of the night. To cast particles of darkness and cover the moonlight, And make it a part of our own shadows, Then we shall create a romantic night, As we freely fleet across the night’s endless love meadows.

was the best, most beautiful, sweet and pretty, astonishing and iconic. A victory, that I could be all these things when my mother could not. And a sign of how clueless she was about where power truly lived.

The Good News means we can stop lying to ourselves. The sweet sound of amazing grace saves us from the necessity of self-deception. It keeps us from denying that though Christ was victorious, the battle with lust, greed, and pride still rages within us. As a sinner who has been redeemed, I can acknowledge that I am often unloving, irritable, angry, and resentful with those closest to me. When I go to church I can leave my white hat at home and admit I have failed. God not only loves me as I am, but also knows me as I am. Because of this I don’t need to apply spiritual cosmetics to make myself presentable to Him. I can accept ownership of my poverty and powerlessness and neediness.

Success and failure are two sides of the same coin. And a sweet victory is often preceded by a defining moment when the pains of a crushing disappointment also strengthen us to try again.

Who, then, hath failed? That one who tries To reach life far above his eyes; Who longs to do the worthiest things, And 'gainst all difficulties flings The power and strength that make a man; That one who would complete what faith began, But, climbing on, o'ercoming all, Bursts his strong heart, and reels, to fall Before some last vast summit still unscaled? He hath not failed! There is a triumph in defeat; And noble sorrow's tears are sweet. The high heart raptures, though it break In stress of agony's fierce ache. Yes, when all strength, all will is spent In strife where truth and honor both are blent, The sense of worth, the thought that all Was risked for good, to stand or fall— These things turn blackest ruin that may be, To victory! Who, then, hath failed? 'Tis he whose deeds Scorn truth and right; who hears nor heeds Our fear, our faith, or wrath, or love. Whose iron ambition strives above All measures of all good and ill; A frenzied ego with a poisoned will; Who gains his joy, his life, his light In triumphs of a monstrous might! Though 'neath a world-wide power his shame be veiled, He, he, hath failed!

We fought this war for vengeance, and vengeance we have taken. But it is not sweet. If this is victory, then our hands are too small to hold it.

But what if this is the mission God has for you right now? He might use the articles to help someone. Or maybe He has a gift for you on the other end of this. But you won’t know until you roll up your sleeves and accept the assignment.” Birdie tucked a stray curl behind Rosalie’s ear. “And it’s even better than that. God’s not like the boss who gives you an assignment and then leaves you to do it all by yourself. He’s a loving father, who walks you through each step. And if you miss one—forget to pray or lose your way—He’s still there, loving you, calling you His child. It’s amazing.” Rosalie longed to trust her newfound Savior. She craved His guidance, His love. But prying her fingers off of her own life, and trusting herself to God, pained her. “I’m so used to only having myself to rely on, Birdie. I like being the one to rivet on my own.” “Yeah,” Birdie conceded. “It’s hard—impossible really—to let go of that on your own. The good news is, sweets, you don’t have to. Even the letting go is by His grace alone.” “You’re right.” “Of course I am. Because it’s the truth of God’s Word.” Birdie nodded determinedly. “Plus, think of it this way, if nothing else, maybe dozens, or hundreds, or who knows how many ladies will sign up to work at the plant to be just like ‘Seattle’s Own Rosie the Riveter.

On this Thirtieth Day of May in the First Year of Cokyrian dominance over the Province of Hytanica, the following regulations shall be put into practice in order to assist our gracious Grand Provost in her effort to welcome Cokyri into our lands--and to help ensure the enemy does not bungle the first victory it has managed in over a century. Regulation One. All Hytanican citizens must be willing to provide aid to aimlessly wandering Cokyrian soldiers who cannot on their honor grasp that the road leading back to the city is the very same road that led them away. Regulation Two. It is strongly recommended that farmers hide their livestock, lest the men of our host empire become confused and attempt to mate with them. Regulation Three. As per negotiated arrangements, crops grown on Hytanican soil will be divided with fifty percent belonging to Cokyri, and seventy-five percent remaining with the citizens of the province; Hytanicans will be bound by law to wait patiently while the Cokyrians attempt to sort the baffling deficiency in their calculations. Regulation Four. The Cokyrian envoys assigned to manage the planting and farming effort will also require Hytanican patience while they slowly but surely learn what is a crop and what is a weed, as well as left from right. Regulation Five. Though the Province Wall is a Cokyrian endeavor, it would be polite and understanding of Hytanicans to remind the enemy of the correct side on which to be standing when the final stone is laid, so no unfortunates may find themselves trapped outside with no way in. Regulation Six. When at long last foreign trade is allowed to resume, Hytanicans should strive to empathize with the reluctance of neighboring kingdoms to enter our lands, for Cokyri’s stench is sure to deter even the migrating birds. Regulation Seven. For what little trade and business we do manage in spite of the odor, the imposed ten percent tax may be paid in coins, sweets or shiny objects. Regulation Eight. It is regrettably prohibited for Hytanicans to throw jeers at Cokyrian soldiers, for fear that any man harried may cry, and the women may spit. Regulation Nine. In case of an encounter with Cokyrian dignitaries, the boy-invader and the honorable High Priestess included, let it be known that the proper way in which to greet them is with an ass-backward bow.

Rest is attained only through labor; victory only through combat; joy only through tears; and the sweetness of God's love only through hatred of self.

All good things come to those who have infiltrated their enemy. That is the Kremlin’s path to victory, and it’s been their faith since 1917. You can be sure the Russians have agents in the White House, in our CIA, in our NSA, in our military, in our State Department. “In a globalizing world,” noted Primakov, “it is impossible to talk about an isolated Russia. We are not isolated from others and we do not isolate them, not even our enemies. We have diversified our economic orientation….” And it’s true. Russia’s strategy is not a strategy of isolation. Russia’s strategy is infiltration and integration. That is why the Russians can openly prepare for war and we don’t feel any sense of alarm. Russia’s agents have been surrounding us all along, whispering sweet nothings into our collective ear. Trouble is coming. Can you hear it's approach? Or are you seduced by sweet nothings?

The sun is so bright! I can hardly see, and it hurts to open my eyes.” “Did Mikhail give you sunglasses?” Father Hummer asked quickly. “Why would he? I have a pair in my room, but there was no need to wear them in the evening.” She peeked out through her fingers, closing her eyes hastily when the sunlight seemed to burn through them. “Doesn’t the brightness bother you?” “Mikhail may have left a pair of his glasses here. He tends to do that sort of thing when he loses a chess match.” To distract her while he rummaged through his desk, he gave her a little more insight into Mikhail. “When he loses a chess match, which isn’t often, his eyes go dark, reminding me of great brooding storm clouds gathering. He’s used to winning, and every now and then I manage to lull him into a false sense of security. I savor every victory. It’s very sweet to me after so many years of losing to the man, but he always wants a rematch. Be careful if you play chess with him, he takes it very seriously.” He laughed softly, invitingly. “I played with him. It was hard to concentrate when every single time I looked up, he was staring at me with this look…” She blushed when she realized she maybe should have kept that part to herself instead of confessing to the priest. He laughed as he triumphantly held up a pair of dark glasses specially crafted for Mikhail. “I don’t have that problem when I play a match with him,” he admitted with a small chuckle.

She felt her lips widen. She thrust again—he parried. “I won’t draw blood, de Warenne,” she said, but she thought maybe she would, just so she could see the look in his eyes. A terrible excitement consumed her. With it was her rage. She thrust and he parried, but took a step back. Elated, Amanda went on the offensive. His eyes widened but he merely blocked each blow, allowing her to drive him ruthlessly and rapidly back into the larboard railing. She laughed, triumphant. “You can do better than that, de Warenne! Surely you are not afraid of my naked blade?” “You remain very angry with me. I understand,” he began. She was furious. He knew nothing! She thrust and he parried; she feinted and then slipped through his defenses, instantly cutting a long line into his fine, fancy shirt. She withdrew, heady with the scent of victory. “You understand what?” she asked sweetly. He glanced at the long tear, very surprised, and then he slowly looked up at her. “I did not draw blood,” she said, exhilarated now. She laughed at him. “You were fortunate,” he said, color flooding his cheeks. “No, I was careful. I chose not to take your blood, de Warenne!” She thrust so swiftly that, before he could defend himself, she had taken the top three buttons off his shirt, causing it to gap open, revealing the two thick muscles of his chest. Above them, someone laughed. De Warenne was disbelieving. “Fight, de Warenne,” she said fiercely, panting. She was determined to savagely exchange blows—she would ruthlessly engage, there would be no quarter! “Or show your men that you can be outplayed and outfought by a child.

She felt her lips widen. She thrust again—he parried. “I won’t draw blood, de Warenne,” she said, but she thought maybe she would, just so she could see the look in his eyes. A terrible excitement consumed her. With it was her rage. She thrust and he parried, but took a step back. Elated, Amanda went on the offensive. His eyes widened but he merely blocked each blow, allowing her to drive him ruthlessly and rapidly back into the larboard railing. She laughed, triumphant. “You can do better than that, de Warenne! Surely you are not afraid of my naked blade?” “You remain very angry with me. I understand,” he began. She was furious. He knew nothing! She thrust and he parried; she feinted and then slipped through his defenses, instantly cutting a long line into his fine, fancy shirt. She withdrew, heady with the scent of victory. “You understand what?” she asked sweetly. She glanced at the long tear, very surprised, and then he slowly looked up at her. “I did not draw blood,” she said, exhilarated now. She laughed at him. “You were fortunate,” he said, color flooding his cheeks. “No, I was careful. I chose not to take your blood, de Warenne!” She thrust so swiftly that, before he could defend himself, she had taken the top three buttons off his shirt, causing it to gap open, revealing the two thick muscles of his chest. Above them, someone laughed. De Warenne was disbelieving. “Fight, de Warenne,” she said fiercely, panting. She was determined to savagely exchange blows—she would ruthlessly engage, there would be no quarter! “Or show your men that you can be outplayed and outfought by a child.

The Struggle Is Real. But So Is The victory! Sweet!

The more failures you overcome, the more sweeter your victory will become.

The tears would choke you, sweet, in vain; My soul with victory is fed, Because I see your face again— No jewels, but the lips are red.

I stand for believing in God and defying the devil—and our God loves that kind of courage among His people. If you are still wrapped in grave clothes and great fears lie upon you, it is time for you to dare to rise and in sweet faith in the risen Jesus Christ declare: “I will not take this any longer. I am a child of God—why should I go mourning all the day?” Will God answer? “All right, My child,” He will answer as the burden rolls away, “I have waited long to hear you say that. Jesus is Victor and in Him you overcome!

If we can secure victory in this Team Shokugeki and unseat the current Council of Ten... then I shall humbly accept the First Seat as my due! This battle is nothing less than the battle to restore the rightful queen to her throne, and I shall see us victorious! The rest of you are... yes. You shall be my loyal entourage, who dutifully serve and revere their queen! Be honored!" "Whoa. Talk about force of personality." "Yay! It's like she's finally back to her old self!" "Heh. A wonderful sight, if I do say so myself. The royal dignity of a queen at all times. That has always suited her best, I think." "Isn't it nice she's feeling better now, Soma? Um... Soma?" "Hold it right there, Nakiri! Where do you get off deciding that?! The First Seat is mine! You hear me?!" "Hold your tongue and listen to your betters, commoner!" "Hey! Don't you underestimate the strength of family cooking, Nakiri! What happened to all that modest and sweet "friends to the bottom of your heart" stuff, huh?!" "That was that. This is an entirely different matter! You just need to listen when the Divine Tongue tells you what's what!" "Daaad! Get over here and tell her!" "N-no fair! Getting Chef Saiba involved is against the rules!" "That was great, Erina. No, really. You did an awesome job... ... standing up to that stubborn blockhead of a father of yours." I think somewhere, somehow a certain father and son may have rubbed off on me a little.

The inner qualities of the woman‘s heart, result in an important byproduct, which may be called „charm“. This charm like light, is a force. Intangible, imponderable though it be, the strivings of our intellect may not attain fruition if deprived of its life-giving touch. The nourishment which the tree draws though its root may be classified and measured, - not so the vitality which is the gift of the sunlight, and without which its functioning becomes altogether impossible. This ineffable emanation of woman‘s nature has, from the first, played its part in the creation of man, unobtrusively but inevitably Had man‘s mind not been energised by the inner working of woman‘s vital charm, he would never have attained his successes. Of all the higher achievements of civilization - the devotion of the toiler, the valour of the brave, the creations of the artist – the secret spring is to be found in woman‘s influence. In the clash and battle of primitive civilization, the action of woman‘s shakti is not clearly manifest; but, as civilization becomes spiritual in the course of its development, and the union of man with man is acknowledged to be more important than the differences between them, the charm of woman gets the opportunity to become the predominant factor. Such spiritual civilization can only be upheld if the emotion of woman and the intellect of man are contributed in usual shares for its purposes. Then their respective contributions may combine gloriously in ever-frsh creations, and their difference will no longer make for inequality. Woman, let me repeat, has two aspects, - in one she is the Mother, in the other, the Beloved. I have already spoken of the spiritual endeavour that characterises the first, viz., the striving, not merely for giving birth to her child, but for creating the best possible child – not as an addition to the number of men, but as one of the heroic souls who may win the victory of man‘s eternal fight against evil in his social life and natural surroundings. As the Beloved, it is woman‘s part to infuse life into all aspirations of man; and the spiritual power that enables her to do so I have called charm, and was known in India by the name shakti. There is a poem called Ananda lahari  (The stream of Delight), attributed to Shankaracharya. She who is glorified therein is the Shakti in the heart of the Universe; the Giver of Joy, the Inspirer of Activity. On the one hand, we know and use the world; on the other we are related to it by tie of disinterested joy. We can know the world because it is a manifestation of Truth: we rejoice in it because it is an expression of Joy. „Who would have striven for life“ says the Rishi, „if this ananda had not filled the sky?“ It seems to me that the „Intellectual Beauty“, whose praises Shelley has sung, is identical with this Ananda. And it is this ananda which the poet of Ananda lahari has visualised as the woman; that is to say, in his view, this Universal Shakti is manifest in human society in the nature of Woman. In this manifestation is her charm. Let no one confuse this shakti with mere „sweetness“, for in this charm there is a combination of several qualities – patience, self-abnegation- sensitive intelligence, grace in thought, word and behaviour – the reticent expression of rhythmic life, the tendernes and terribleness of love; at its core, moreover, is that self-radiant Spirit of Delight which ever gives itself up. This shakti, this joy-giving power of woman as the Beloved, has up to now largely been dissipated by the greed of man, who has sought to use it for the purposes of his individual enjoyment, corrupting it, confining it, like his property, within jealously-guarded limits. That has also obstructed for woman herself her inward realization of the full glory of her own shakti. Her personality has been insulted at every turn by being made to display its power of delectation within a circumsribed arena.

Mrs. Cornwell smiled, and Terri knew and hated that smile. It was the same one her own mother used when she thought Terri was showing some interest in a member of the opposite sex. A smug, I-told-you-so, isn't-that-sweet smile. Terri turned to Brian and felt a confusing surge of sympathy for the kid plus a determination not to show the slightest interest in him. Neither feeling gave her any idea what to say to him, however.

I won’t sit here with my legs tangled together and take orders like a good little soldier.” My voice was surprisingly calm. “I’m not my father, and I sure don’t intend to comfortably fit into the tidy, screwed-up box you created for me. You want me to stay away from Brock? You do the same with other women. You mess around with me, and me only.” Where did that come from? I wasn’t entirely sure, but I liked extra-feisty Sparrow. Knew she might be the death of me, but still rooted for her. She was the crazy underdog who wasn’t afraid of biting the ass of its owner. “Are you offering me what I think you’re offering?” He tipped his chin down. “Because I won’t be gentle.” “I don’t want you to be gentle.” I walked across the kitchen to fix myself some breakfast, my tone bored. “I want you to be badass, and cut the jealous tantrums. You act like a chick.” As I opened the fridge and shoved my head in, in search of something interesting to eat, I smiled to myself. I’d learned Troy, knew that he would take the bait. The harder I fought back every time he messed with me, the more he liked me. I bet if I set his penthouse on fire, he would laugh like it was all a big, fat joke. “Hell, wifey, I’m game. Let’s play.” And with that, I knew there would be no more mistresses in the immediate future. For the first time since we got together, I’d won. And victory never felt so sweet.

You have to defy the odds and break the mould. Sweet victory is when you succeed after most people thought you wouldn't.

In fact, the harder you have to work to achieve a goal, the more you will appreciate it. How many times have you looked back from a big victory and thought how sweet it was to finally triumph after your long struggle? Admit it, the tougher the climb, the better the view at the top.

This was triumph, but I sensed that the smoke of battle hid vile carnage, and when it cleared the victory might not be as sweet.

One morning we heard a sound like someone scraping a stick along a fence,” she said. “My mother stiffened. She knew. They were shooting people. We could see the man in the attic make a sign with his arms like shooting. Then we heard singing. It was Shema Yisrael.” She began to sing Shema Yisrael, the central prayer in the Jewish prayer book, softly in Hebrew. Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God is one Lord. And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy might. And these words which I command thee this day shall be in thine heart. “There were two hundred people singing Shema Yisrael, including my father and brother, going to death,” she said. “I did not at the time connect the shooting with my father and brother and cousins. The shots became steady and constant. My mother held me tight.” Lola read from a letter she wrote in 1981 to her four children: Here is the essence of my story. To help my children grow, flourish and multiply without guilt or remorse, without a feeling that they are descended of people who went to slaughter like sheep. No song like Eli Eli or Ave Maria will surpass the chant of my father, my brother, my cousins, and hundreds of others as they were led to be shot. It was the most powerful, courageous, and victorious hymn. Their voices did not bleat like sheep. Their voices told of victory overcoming evil by dying like men without somebody’s blood on their hands. Their voices sang in unison a praise to the Lord. There was a might in them as if they were already one with their master. And it said Shema Yisrael, Hear Oh Israel, I will take you from your suffering and you will flourish. This was the message I received. That song was sung for me by my father. I flourished as I wish and hope my children will. My children, my dear sweet children. Your daily problems, which you try to solve with so much determination, are insignificant in the view of the awesome past of your ancestors. So you are told, but this is not true. Life is made out of difficulties and joys, of sorrows and utter happiness, but as long as your souls are not soiled with meanness which hurts others, be proud of your life. Your life is the extension of the ones which are gone. And now they are immortal. Don’t pity them. They went peacefully because they had hope for the future, your present. My father’s mighty chant was meant as well for you and yours. With all my love, your mom.

Do the seconds speak of laughter or the minutes, tears shed? Do the hours whisper kisses or days of dreams unlived? Do the months declare victory or the years, defeat of soul and life?

I want a dessert." She turns and starts wiping down the clean counters like it's her new mission in life. "I'll go to the farmers' market and get some ripe fruit." "Not. Fruit." Fact is, I can't eat a mango anymore without wanting to suck on Delilah's tongue. "Something rich and sweet and creamy." And now I'm thinking about sinking to my knees before her. Behind the kitchen island, I reach down and adjust myself. Having zero experience with flirting, I don't think I'm doing a proper job of it. I'm only getting myself riled up here. Especially since Delilah's expression remains deadpan. "I don't think any of that is on the approved list." "I think you bring up that damn list to annoy me, Tot." "This is true." She doesn't bother to hide her glee. Like a bee to nectar, I drift closer. "Come on, Delilah. Cheat with me. Just a little?" Shaking her head in clear exasperation, she tosses the cloth into the sink and faces me. "All right, just this once. Name your poison." She isn't in my arms. My mouth isn't on hers. But it's still a victory, and I rub my hands together in anticipation. "Let's see... oh, God, the choices. Your Totally Toffee-Chip Cookies? Your Mad Monster Chocolate Cake?" I stop to think of all the desserts Delilah has made over the years. "Ah. I know... Bountiful Banana Cream Pie.

In his whole presentation, it never emerges that women are different beings – we will not say lesser, rather the opposite from men. He finds the suppression of women an analogy to that of Negroes. Any girl, even without a suffrage or legal competence, whose hand a man kisses and for whose love he is prepared to dare all, could have set him right. It is really a stillborn thought to send women into the struggle for existence exactly as man. If, for instance, I imagined my gentle sweet girl as a competitor, it would only end in my telling her, as I did seventeen months ago, that I am fond of her and that I implore her to withdraw from the strife into the calm, uncompetitive activity of my home. It is possible that changes in upbringing may suppress all a woman’s tender attributes, needful of protection and yet so victorious, and that she can then earn a livelihood like men. It is also possible that in such an event one would not be justified in mourning the passing away of the most delightful thing the world can offer us – our ideal of womanhood. I believe that all reforming action in law and education would break down in front of the fact that, long before the age at which a man can earn a position in society, Nature has determined woman’s destiny through beauty, charm, and sweetness. Law and custom have much to give women that has been withheld from them, but the position of women will surely be what it is: in youth an adored darling and in mature years a loved wife.

The ability to see beautiful again is what I want for you and for me. Forgiveness is the weapon. Our choices moving forward are the battlefield. Moving on is the journey. Being released from that heavy feeling is the reward. Regaining the possibility of trust and closeness is the sweet victory. And walking confidently with the Lord from hurt to healing is the freedom that awaits.

He is a genius who lives a victorious life—a sweet melody of grace and love. He excels in what he does. A loving man, sweet and kind.

I had been so busy all day, I hadn’t eaten. I didn’t want to go to the modest Chinese place, the pizza parlor, or the more upscale Golden Butter restaurant in our small town. And the coffee shop didn’t serve meals, leaving only Kind of a Big Dill. And Quinn Harper. The bane of my existence. If I went in to eat and she saw me, she’d be all smiles, sweetness, and light. And no doubt crowing in delight at her victory. I’d sworn I would never eat there. A stupid thing to say, but as I realized, I often said stupid things to Quinn. Everyone loved her. Proclaimed her the best thing that could have happened to Richton. She was nothing but a pain in my ass, and I refused to succumb to her charms. If I did, the slope that would put me on was too slippery, and winter would close in fast.

It wasn’t your decision to make.” “The fuck it wasn’t.” “Don’t you dare go all growly alpha man on me right now.

Yosemite is just north of Madera, right?" Todd nodded. "If we take Route Forty-four, we should be there in about six hours." "Just in time for a late-night snack with the girls," said Ken, grinning. "Quick pit stop," said Todd, steering the car adeptly into the parking lot of a convenience store. He pulled up alongside the gas pumps and brought the car to a halt. "I'll get some supplies," said Ken, jumping out of the car and running into the store. Todd filled up the tank with gas and handed the attendant

What, my studious daughter, have you already put away the tool of your intelligence and consigned it to silence? Have you let your ink dry and abandoned your pen and the labour of your right hand, when you used to take such pleasure in it? Do you now intend to take seriously the propaganda of Laziness, who, if you are inclined to believe it, will sing sweetly to you: "You have done enough. It is time that you had a rest." 'But don't you know that, although after great labour the wise person rests [their] mind, now is not the time to abandon good work? It is not like you to be among those who give up in mid-course. The knight who leaves the field of battle before the moment of victory is deeply shamed, for the laurel wreath belongs to those who persevere. Now stand up and make your hand ready; get up out of the ashes of indolence!

What, my studious daughter, have you already put away the tool of your intelligence and consigned it to silence? Have you let your ink dry and abandoned your pen and the labour of your right hand, when you used to take such pleasure in it? Do you now intend to take seriously the propaganda of Laziness, who, if you are inclined to believe it, will sing sweetly to you: "You have done enough. It is time that you had a rest." 'But don't you know that, although after great labour the wise person rests [their] mind, now is not the time to abandon good work? It is not like you to be among those who give up in mid-course. The knight who leaves the field of battle before the moment of victory is deeply shamed, for the laurel wreath belongs to those who persevere. Now stand up and make your hand ready; get up out of the ashes of indolence!

If you want the sweet taste of victory, plant a seed of victory by not entertaining gossip with your lips and focus on nurturing your aspirations.

Why can’t reality be as sweet and victorious as fairytales? I can only clasp Ryke’s hand and wish upon a star that one day, it will be.

The night air smelled sweet, like victory. The night had called, and the Green Falcon had answered.

Your body is my territory, my sweet victory. Together, we'll rule the unhinged, little killer.

Into another city, not only Daniel, but all the children of God, from the least to greatest, from the lowest to highest, from first to last, are soon to enter; a city not merely sixty miles in circumference, but fifteen hundred miles; a city whose walls are not brick and bitumen, but precious stones and jasper; whose streets are not the stone-paved streets of Babylon, smooth and beautiful as they were, but transparent gold; whose river is not the mournful waters of the Euphrates, but the river of life; whose music is not the sighs and laments of broken-hearted captives, but the thrilling paeans of victory over death and the grave, [50] which ransomed multitudes shall raise; whose light is not the intermittent light of earth, but the unceasing and ineffable glory of God and the Lamb. Into this city they shall enter, not as captives entering a foreign land, but as exiles returning to their father's house; not as to a place where such chilling words as "bondage," "servitude," and "oppression," shall weigh down their spirits, but to one where the sweet words, "home," "freedom," "peace," "purity," "unutterable bliss," and "unending life," shall thrill their bosoms with delight forever and ever. Yea; our mouths shall be filled with laughter, and our tongue with singing, when the Lord shall turn again the captivity of Zion. Ps.126:1,2; Rev.21:1-27.

Jameson’s defenses were impressive, but Grayson was more than happy to help me take out his brother. The moment that Jameson walked in to find Grayson caught in the booby traps he’d laid for me was sweet for so many reasons. Rainbow tinsel was a good look for Grayson Hawthorne. Surprise was a good look for Jameson. Victory was an incredible look for me.