Wesley Evers Quotes

Do all the good you can, By all the means you can, In all the ways you can, In all the places you can, At all the times you can, To all the people you can, As long as ever you can.

Wesley Rush was the most disgusting womanizing playboy to ever darken the doorstep of Hamilton High… but he was kind of hot. Maybe if you could put him on mute… and cut off his hands… maybe—just maybe—he’d be tolerable then. Otherwise, he was a real piece of shit. Horn dog shit.

Kid, Søren could eat you for breakfast and not even need to chew. Don’t ever fuck with a sadist, Wesley. For Søren, torture’s just foreplay.” “Why did you stay with him?” he’d whispered. Nora had grinned at him, and she saw a new fear in Wesley’s sweet brown eyes. “I like foreplay.

She’s smiling wider than I’ve ever seen her smile. “Daniel Wesley, where’d you learn those smooth moves?” I laugh. “Not moves, Six. Charisma.

Thanksgiving is inseparable from true prayer; it is almost essentially connected with it. One who always prays is ever giving praise, whether in ease or pain, both for prosperity and for the greatest adversity. He blesses God for all things, looks on them as coming from Him, and receives them for His sake- not choosing nor refusing, liking or disliking,anything, but only as it is agreeable or disagreeable to His perfect will.

Are you in love with him?” I rolled my head on the plank to look at Wesley. “I don’t think I know what being in love is yet. But this is different than anything I’ve ever felt.” “What’s it feel like?” “Remember when you thought I was jumping off to kill myself?” He winced. “It’s like that,” I said. “But no one catches you. You’re just hanging over infinity.

Do all the good you can, By all the means you can, In all the ways you can, In all the places you can, At all the times you can, To all the people you can, As long as you ever can. —John Wesley’s Rule

Hey!" I yell. Everyone turns around and looks at us. I glance at Six and her eyes are wide. I inhale a deep breath, then turn back to the table. Specifically to Holder. "She fist bumped me,"I say, pointing at Six. "It's not my fault. She hates purses and she fist bumped me, then she made me push her on the damn merry-go-round. After that, she demanded to see where I had sex in the park, then she forced me to sneak into my own bedroom. She's weird and half the time I can't keep up with her, but she thinks I'm funny as hell. And Chunk asked me this morning if I wanted to love her someday, and I realized I've never hoped I could love someone more than I want to love her. So every single one of you who has an issue with us dating is going to have to get over it because..." I pause and turn toward Six. "Because you fist bumped me and I could care less who knows we're together. I'm not going anywhere and I don't want to go anywhere so stop thinking I'm into you because I'm not supposed to be into you." I lift my hands and tilt her face toward mine. "I'm into you because you're awesome. And because you let me accidentally touch your boob." She's smiling wider than I've ever seen her smile. "Daniel Wesley, where'd you learn those smooth moves?" I laugh. "Not moves, Six. Charisma.

Wesley looked down at her and Nora could barely meet his brown eyes, which bored into her with the fiery love of a guardian angel. God probably had eyes like Wesley's.....anyone who looked into them wanted to immediately apologize for any and all sins ever committed.

You loved Sam as much as I loved Wesley.” Her chest hollowed out, but she nodded. Yes, she’d loved Sam—more than she’d ever loved anyone. Even Chaol. And reading in Wesley’s letter exactly what Arobynn had ordered Rourke Farran to do to Sam had left a raging wound in the core of her. Sam’s clothes were still in the two bottom drawers of her dresser, where Arobynn had indeed unpacked them. She’d worn one of his shirts to bed these past two nights.

No man that ever lived, not John Calvin himself, ever asserted either original sin, or justification by faith, in more strong, more clear and express terms, than Arminius has done.

The thing that really got me, though, was that no one, not even Jake Gaither, had ever called me sexy. Wesley was the first. And the truth was, being with him made me feel attractive. The way he touched me. The way he kissed me. I could tell his body wanted me. OK, OK. So it was Wesley. His body wanted everyone. But still. It was a feeling I hadn't experienced in...well, I'd never experienced it. It was exciting and empowering.

John Wesley: “Do all the good you can. By all the means you can. In all the ways you can. In all the places you can. At all the times you can. To all the people you can. As long as ever you can.

Nothing that had ever happened to him, not the shooting of Oyster, or the piteous muttering expiration of John Wesley Shannenhouse, or the death of his father, or internment of his mother and grandfather, not even the drowning of his beloved brother, had ever broken his heart quite as terribly as the realization, when he was halfway to the rimed zinc hatch of the German station, that he was hauling a corpse behind him

MAY Do all the good you can, By all the means you can, In all the ways you can, In all the places you can, At all the times you can, To all the people you can, As long as you ever can. —John Wesley’s Rule

Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the places you can, to all the people you can, as long as you ever can.

Hey Charlotte," Julianne yelled. "Hell must have frozen over!" And then in a quieter voice she added, "Charlotte was hoping it would." "What?" Colton asked. I sprinted the rest of the way to the door. As I rounded the corner I saw both Wesley and Colton in the entryway. Julianne stood in front of them transfixed, staring up at Colton with adoring eyes. "Julianne, it's time for you to go to your room," I said. "Right now." "Do you really know the devil?" she asked Colton. "Have you ever been to hell?" "Sometimes I think I have," he answered, glaring at me.

And I'm here too. You're weird and moody and maybe a little crazy, but you're also the most interesting person I've ever met. Trust me, you are special. And from now on, maybe you should stop trying so hard to be alone.

America’s first Sunday school had been founded in Savannah in 1736, America’s first orphanage in 1740, America’s first black Baptist congregation in 1788, America’s first golf course in 1796. John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, had been the minister of Christ Church in Savannah in 1736, and during his tenure had written a book of hymns that became the first hymnal used in the Church of England. A Savannah merchant had bankrolled the first steamship ever to cross the Atlantic, the Savannah, which made its maiden ocean voyage from Savannah to Liverpool in 1819.

Do all the good you can by all the means you can in all the places you can at all the times you can to all the people you can as long as ever you can.   - John Wesley

You think I’m too chicken-shit to blow you?” He’d seemed to consider me for a minute. “I think it’s a bad idea to ever say that Ryan Wesley is too chicken-shit to do something.

Bianca, Since you keep running away from me at school, and, if I remember correctly, the sound of my voice causes you to have suicidal thoughts, I decided a letter might be the best way to tell you how I feel. Just hear me out. I’m not going to deny that you were right. Everything you said the other day was true. But my fear of being alone is not the reason I’m pursuing you. I know how cynical you are, and you’re probably going to come up with some snarky reply when you read this, but the truth is, I’m chasing you because I really think I am falling in love with you. You are the first girl who has ever seen right through me. You’re the only girl who has ever called me on my bullshit. You put me in my place, but, at the same time, you understand me better than anyone ever has. You are the only person brave enough to criticize me. Maybe the only person who looks close enough to find my faults—and, clearly, you’ve found many. I called my parents. They’re coming home this weekend to talk to Amy and me. I was afraid to do this at first, but you inspired me. Without you, I never could have done that. I think about you much more than any self-respecting man would like to admit, and I’m insanely jealous of Tucker—something I never thought I’d say. Moving on after you is impossible. No other girl can keep me on my toes the way you can. No one else makes me WANT to embarrass myself by writing sappy letters like this one. Only you. But I know that I’m right, too. I know you’re in love with me, even if you are dating Tucker. You can lie to yourself if you want, but reality is going to catch up with you. I’ll be waiting when it does… whether you like it or not. Love, Wesley p.s.: I know you’re rolling your eyes right now, but I don’t care. Honestly, it’s always been kind of a turn-on.

In her remorse, she was also willing to admit that she was sad for another reason. She no longer had a reason to see or spend time with Wesley. She would lose her dream house to him and him to the house. It seemed almost tragic how everything had panned out and it made her consider more strongly than she had before that maybe it was a sign that she should take Jerry back. She’d lost her dream and was realizing quickly that in the end that’s all it had ever been and maybe it was time that she finally woke up.

So what did you want to talk to Wesley about?" he asked me. "Kelly likes him," I said. "So I figured while we were discussing Lady Macbeth's insanity and Duncan's murder, I could, you know, casually find out if he likes her too." Colton didn't blink. "He likes her." "He does? How do you know?" He shrugged like it was a silly question. "We talk sometimes. He told me on the drive over he hoped she would be here." "Then why hasn't he ever asked her out?" "He's shy. And we're in the middle of wrestling season, midterms, and Christmas." Colton picked up the liter of soda. "Have a little patience." I reached for the bowl of popcorn, but didn't start out of the kitchen yet. "Well can I hurry him along? Is there any chance he'll ask her out before this weekend?" Colton shook his head at me, then walked toward the living room. "You're not quite grasping the nature of patience, Charlotte.

Do all the good you can, By all the means you can, In all the ways you can, In all the places you can, At all the times you can, To all the people you can, As long as you ever can. —John Wesley’s Rule

As John Wesley said, “Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as you ever can.

The shock and fragrance of life, steaming red life, given off by the trail of the German's blood in the snow was a reproach to Joe, the reproach of something beautiful and inestimable, like innocence, which he had been lured by the Ice into betraying. In seeking revenge, he had allied himself with the Ice, with the interminable white topography, with the sawteeth and crevasses of death. Nothing that had ever happened to him, not the shooting of Oyster, or the piteous muttering expiration of John Wesley Shannenhouse, or the death of his father, or internment of his mother and grandfather, not even the drowning of his beloved brother, had ever broken his heart quite as terribly as the realization, when he was halfway to the rimed zinc hatch of the German station, that he was hauling a corpse behind him

This is the part of the country that invokes terrible nostalgia, a morbid and phlegm-induced retrospective of parties, clubs, drugs, shows, people, and is the goiter of my Boston days. I wouldn't have a clue as to who I'd ever care to see in this town, though I've done time here. If it weren't for Daughters and company, I'd feel like a compete tourist in a ghostly, plot-less town...pulling hoods up and heads around, opposite directions, if I ever saw someone I thought I might have known. Young people feeling really cool in bathrooms, dancing to the same songs in the same clubs, with the same dropout students, artists, thugs, bullies, jocks, all game in the search for one's self and sex.

Merger Evers/John F. Kennedy/Malcolm X/Martin Luther King/Robert Kennedy/Che Guevara/Patrice Lamumba/George Jackson/Cynthia Wesley/Addie Mae Collins/Denise McNair/Carole Robertson/Viola Liuzzo It was a decade marked by death. Violent and inevitable. Funerals became engraved on the brain, intensifying the ephemeral nature of life. For many in the South it was a decade reminiscent of earlier times, when oak trees sighed over their burdens in the wind; Spanish moss draggled blood to the ground; amen corners creaked with grief; and the thrill of being able, once again, to endure unendurable loss produced so profound an ecstasy in mourners that they strutted, without noticing their feet, along the thin backs of benches: their piercing shouts of anguish and joy never interrupted by an inglorious fall. They shared rituals for the dead to be remembered.

But I don't know, Wesley. This thing makes me think, too. S'pose we'd got Elnora when she was a baby, and we'd heaped on her all the love we can't on our own, and we'd coddled, petted, and shielded her, would she have made the woman that living alone, learning to think for herself, and taking all the knocks Kate Comstock could give, have made of her?" "You bet your life!" cried Wesley, warmly. "Loving anybody don't hurt them. We wouldn't have done anything but love her. You can't hurt a child loving it. She'd have learned to work, be sensible, study, and grown into a woman with us, without suffering like a poor homeless dog." "But you don't get the point, Wesley. She would have grown into a fine woman with us; just seems as if Elnora was born to be fine, but as we would have raised her, would her heart ever have known the world as it does now? Where's the anguish, Wesley, that child can't comprehend? Seeing what she's seen of her mother hasn't hardened her. She can understand any mother's sorrow. Living life from the rough side has only broadened her. Where's the girl or boy burning with shame, or struggling to find a way, that will cross Elnora's path and not get a lift from her? She's had the knocks, but there'll never be any of the thing you call 'false pride' in her. I guess we better keep out. Maybe Kate Comstock knows what she's doing. Sure as you live, Elnora has grown bigger on knocks than she would on love.

Wesley was really the only thing getting me through those weeks. Some part of me was appalled at myself, but what could I say? I needed that escape-that high-more than ever, and he was always just a short drive away. A fix three or four times a week was all it took to keep me sane. God, I was like a fucking druggie. Maybe my sanity was long gone already.

They here shall be redeemed from sin, Shall here put on their glorious dress, Fine linen, pure, and white, and clean The saints' inherent righteousness. Love, perfect love, expels all doubt, Love makes them to the end endure; Their names thou never wilt blot out; Their life is hid, their heart is pure. Their names thou wilt vouchsafe to own Before thy Father's majesty, Pronounce them good, and say, 'Well done, Enter, and ever reign with me!

The smartest person to ever walk this Earth in all probability lived and died herding goats on a mountain somewhere, with no way to disseminate their work globally even if they had realised they were super smart and had the means to do something with their abilities. I am not keen on 'who are the smartest' lists and websites because, as Scott Barry Kaufman points out, the concept of genius privileges the few who had the opportunity to see through and promote their life’s work, while excluding others who may have had equal or greater raw potential but lacked the practical and financial support, and the communication platform that famous names clearly had. This is why I am keen to develop, through my research work, a definition of genius from a cognitive neuroscience and psychometric point of view, so that whatever we decide that is and how it should be measured, only focuses on clearly measurable factors within the individual’s mind, regardless of their external achievements, eminence, popularity, wealth, public platform etc. In my view this would be both more equitable and more scientific.

Look, I’ve already fucked you twice. You don’t have to flatter me. Besides, I love my friends way too much to trade them in for the sake of looking hotter.” “Seriously?” “Yeah. I mean, Casey has been my best friend since, like, forever, and she’s the most loyal person I’ve ever met. And Jessica… well, she has no idea about me and her brother. We weren’t friends back then. In fact, I didn’t want to know her after Jake and I split, but Casey said it would be good for me, and she was right… as usual. Jessica can be a little ditsy, but she’s the sweetest, most innocent person I know. I could never give either of them up just to look good. That’d make me a real dumbass.” “Then they’re lucky to have you.” “I just said not to flatter-” “I’m being honest.” Wesley frowned at the mirror. “I have only one friend-one real friend. Harrison is the only guy who will be seen with me, and that’s because we aren’t trying to attract the same audience, if you know what I mean.” A small smile spread across his lips when he turned to face me. “Most people will do anything to avoid being the Duff.” “Well, I guess I’m not most people.

No one will ever know the exact number of people executed and starved to death in the Soviet Union between the time of the Russian Revolution and the collapse of Communism. Soviet archives at this point do not reveal the total numbers. Unofficial estimates have ranged from twenty million to as high as eighty million. The wide range is explained in part by the fact that some estimates do not include certain groups of people who were murdered or those who died from hard labor, exhaustion, starvation, or disease (such persons were considered by the Soviets to have died of natural causes).

Wow,” Wesley said. We were lying in his bed only a few minutes after we’d finished, with a foot or more space between our bodies. “I definitely wasn’t expecting that.” God, he ruined everything when he talked. Annoyed, and still wading through the emotional repercussions, I sneered. “What? Ashamed that you screwed the Duff?” “No.” I was surprised by how serious he sounded. “I’m never ashamed of anyone I sleep with. Sex is a natural chemical reaction. It always happens for a reason. Who am I to dictate who experiences the joy of sharing my bed?” He didn’t see me roll my eyes as he continued. “No, I just meant that I’m shocked. I was honestly starting to believe that you hated me.” “I do hate you,” I assured him, kicking off the covers and moving to pick up my clothes. “You must not hate me too much,” Wesley said, rolling onto his elbow and watching me dress. “You did pretty much throw yourself at me. Generally, hatred doesn’t inspire that kind of passion.” I pulled on my T-shirt. “Believe me, Wesley, I definitely hate you. I was just using you. You use people all the time, so I’m sure you understand.” I buttoned my jeans and grabbed my alligator clip from the nightstand. “This was fun, but if you ever tell anyone, I swear I’ll castrate you.

Before he could say my name, I closed the space between us. Quickly, my lips moved against his. The mental and emotional emptiness took over instantly, but physically, I was more alert than ever. Wesley’s surprise didn’t last as long as it had before, and his hands were on me in seconds. My fingers tangled in his soft hair, and Wesley’s tongue darted into my mouth and became a new weapon in our war. Once again, my body took complete control of everything. Nothing existed at the corners of my mind; no irritating thoughts harassed me. Even the sounds of Wesley’s stereo, which had been playing some piano rock I didn’t recognize, faded away as my sense of touch heightened. I was fully conscious of Wesley’s hand as it slid up my torso and moved to cup my breast. With an effort, I pushed him away from me. His eyes were wide as he leaned back. “Please don’t slap me again,” he said. “Shut up.” I could have stopped there. I could have stood up and left the room. I could have let that kiss be the end of it. But I didn’t. The mind-numbing sensation I got from kissing him was so euphoric-such a high-that I couldn’t stand to give it up that fast. I might have hated Wesley Rush, but he held the key to my escape, and at that moment I wanted him… I needed him. Without speaking, without hesitating, I pulled my T-shirt over my head and threw it onto Wesley’s bedroom floor. He didn’t have a chance to say anything before I put my hands on his shoulders and shoved him onto his back. A second later, I was straddling him and we were kissing again. His fingers undid the clasp on my bra, and it joined my shirt on the floor. I didn’t care. I didn’t feel self-conscious or shy. I mean, he already knew I was the Duff, and it wasn’t like I had to impress him. I unbuttoned his shirt as he pulled the alligator clip from my hair and let the auburn waves fall around us. Casey had been right. Wesley had a great body. The skin pulled tight over his sculpted chest, and my hands drifted down his muscular arms with amazement. His lips moved to my neck, giving me a moment to breathe. I could only smell his cologne this close to him. As his mouth traveled down my shoulder, a thought pushed through the exhilaration. I wondered why he hadn’t shoved me-Duffy-away in disgust. Then again, I realized, Wesley wasn’t known for rejecting girls. And I was the one who should have been disgusted. But his mouth pressed into mine again, and that tiny, fleeting thought died. Acting on instinct, I pulled on Wesley’s lower lip with my teeth, and he moaned quietly. His hands moved over my ribs, sending chills up my spine. Bliss. Pure, unadulterated bliss. Only once, as Wesley flipped me onto my back, did I seriously consider stopping. He looked down at me, and his skilled hand grasped the zipper on my jeans. My dormant brain stirred, and I asked myself if things had gone too far. I thought about pushing him away, ending it right where we were. But why would I stop now? What did I stand to lose? Yet what could I possibly gain? How would I feel about this in an hour… or sooner? Before I could come up with any answers, Wesley had my jeans and underwear off. He pulled a condom from his pocket (okay, now that I’m thinking about it, who keeps condoms in their pockets? Wallet, yes, but pocket? Pretty presumptuous, don’t you think?), and then his pants were on the floor, too. All of a sudden, we were having sex, and my thoughts were muted again.

He really did have far too many things to do, and as soon as this foolishness - whatever it was - was out of the way, perhaps he could get back to them and- He froze, hazel eyes flaring wide as they locked on the tall, slim figure in a blue-on-blue uniform identical to his own, and his mental grousing slithered to an incoherent halt. He could not possibly be seeing what he thought he was, a small, still voice told him logically. Only one woman had ever been authorized to wear the uniform of a Grayson admiral. Just as only one woman in the Grayson navy had ever carried a six-legged, cream-and-gray treecat everywhere she went. Which meant his eyes must be lying to him, because that woman was dead. Had been dead for over two T-years. And yet- "I told you I wouldn't apologize," Benjamin IX told his senior military officer, and this time there was no amusement at all in his soft voice. Matthews looked at him, his eyes stunned, and Benjamin smiled gently. "It may be a little late," he said, "but better late than never. Merry Christmas, Wesley.

From every direction, the place is under assault—and unlike in the past, the adversary is not concentrated in a single force, such as the Bureau of Reclamation, but takes the form of separate outfits conducting smaller attacks that are, in many ways, far more insidious. From directly above, the air-tour industry has succeeded in scuttling all efforts to dial it back, most recently through the intervention of Arizona’s senators, John Kyl and John McCain, and is continuing to destroy one of the canyon’s greatest treasures, which is its silence. From the east has come a dramatic increase in uranium-mining claims, while the once remote and untrammeled country of the North Rim now suffers from an ever-growing influx of recreational ATVs. On the South Rim, an Italian real estate company recently secured approval for a massive development whose water demands are all but guaranteed to compromise many of the canyon’s springs, along with the oases that they nourish. Worst of all, the Navajo tribe is currently planning to cooperate in constructing a monstrous tramway to the bottom of the canyon, complete with a restaurant and a resort, at the confluence of the Little Colorado and the Colorado, the very spot where John Wesley Powell made his famous journal entry in the summer of 1869 about venturing “down the Great Unknown.” As vexing as all these things are, what Litton finds even more disheartening is the country’s failure to rally to the canyon’s defense—or for that matter, to the defense of its other imperiled natural wonders. The movement that he and David Brower helped build is not only in retreat but finds itself the target of bottomless contempt. On talk radio and cable TV, environmentalists are derided as “wackos” and “extremists.” The country has swung decisively toward something smaller and more selfish than what it once was, and in addition to ushering in a disdain for the notion that wilderness might have a value that extends beyond the metrics of economics or business, much of the nation ignorantly embraces the benefits of engineering and technology while simultaneously rejecting basic science.

Angling to look out of the window over the sink, Olivia tried to train her face into looking as unfazed by the conversation as possible. “And besides,” she said turning back around. “I—” With a gasp, she found herself pinned between the counter and Wesley’s firm chest. He placed his arms on the counter to either side of her and let a moment of silence pass between them, highlighting her vulnerability as she waited to hear what this was all about. His proximity was threatening. His body a force of nature that boxed her in so tightly that she felt instantly helpless. “It’s just you and me here,” he said in a voice that was deep and menacing. “No one would ever know if I was to take you back into the bedroom, the living room, right here in fact. How could you possibly know how safe you were with a man you only just met?” With his body still pressed to hers, Wesley exuded an animalistic hunger that Olivia was beginning to fear on a very real level. “Please, I—” panic was coursing through her as if it were alive inside of her and she realized that if he meant her harm, she was helpless to stop him.

You know those short, brown-toned South American immigrants that pick your fruit, slaughter your meat, and bus your tables? Would you—a respectable person with a middle-class upbringing—ever consider going on a date with one of them? It's a rude question, because it affects to inquire into what everyone gets to know at the cost of forever leaving it unspoken. But if you were to put your unspoken thoughts into words, they might sound something like this: Not only are these people busing the tables, slaughtering the meat, and picking the fruit; they are the descendants of the people who bused the tables, slaughtered the meat, and picked the fruit of the Aztecs and Incas. The Spanish colonisers slaughtered or mixed their blood with the princes, priests, scholars, artisans, warriors, and beautiful women of the indigenous Americas, leaving untouched a class of Morlocks bred for good-natured servility and thus now tailor-made to the demands of an increasingly feudal postindustrial America. That's, by the way, part of the undertow of the immigration debate, the thing that makes an honest appraisal of the issue impossible, because you can never put anything right without first admitting you're in the wrong.

[H]is heart is ever lifted up to God at all times and in all places. In this he is never hindered, much less interrupted, by any person or thing. In retirement or company, in leisure, business, or conversation, his heart is ever with the Lord. Whether he lie down or rise up, God is in all his thoughts; he walks with God continually, having the loving eye of his mind still fixed upon Him, and everywhere “seeing him that is invisible.”7

weren’t sure if we were even going to make it. But the thing that was really bothering me was that my Mom, Dad and Wesley were out there. Man, if I had told Mom and Dad the truth, they would still be safe with us right here, I thought. Because I lied, my Mom, Dad and Wesley could be really hurt right now. Man, what am I going to do? “Zombie, are you ready?” Skelee asked. I looked at all the guys who were covered in pots and pans from head to toe. I thought about my Mom, Dad and Wesley. If they were still OK, I had to go save them. I thought about my best pals that really needed me right now. And I thought about Steve, who I knew somehow, somewhere, needed my help. And I knew that if there was ever a time to quit, if there was ever a time to give up, if there was ever a time to throw in the towel, this was not

Not daring to look at Chaol, she asked, “Do you know who Rourke Farran is?” The name made her sick with long-suppressed rage and grief, but she managed to say it. Because even if she didn’t want the entire truth … there were some things she did need to know about her capture. Still needed to know, even after all this time. She felt Chaol’s attention on her. “The crime lord?” She nodded, her eyes still on that street where so many things had gone so horribly wrong. “Have you ever dealt with him?” “No,” Chaol said. “But … that’s because Farran is dead.” She lowered the paper. “Farran’s dead?” “Nine months ago. He and his three top men were all found murdered by …” Chaol chewed on his lip, searching for the name. “Wesley. A man named Wesley took them all out.

I remembered how Belinda the Jungle Witch helped us before. But the problem was that she wasn’t around. So, I came to find the only other witch that I knew about, your neighbor, Ms. Ursula.” “After Steve and Alex came to see me, I had to travel to the different biomes to get all of the ingredients that I needed,” Ms. Ursula said. “So that’s why they said you were missing!” I exclaimed. “And that’s why you weren’t there when I broke your window.” “What window?” “Oh...err…nothing.” Wow, that was a crazy story. But I was just so happy to see Steve again. Life just wasn’t the same without him. “Hey Zombie, you ready to see your parents? They’ve been really worried about you,” Steve said. “My parents?!!! They’re here?!!!” “Yeah, a lot of the parents are in the gymnasium. I’m sure they’re going to be really happy to see all of you guys.” Then Steve, the guys and I ran downstairs to the gymnasium in the basement. When we opened the doors, there were a bunch of mobs from the neighborhood there. We found Skelee’s parents, Slimey’s parents, and Creepy’s family was all there too. I saw my Mom and Dad from far away and I ran to them. “Mom! Dad!” “Zombie! You’re safe! We were so worried about you!” I gave my parents the biggest hug ever. “Habby Burtday Zumbie!” “Wesley!” I gave Wesley the biggest hug ever, too. “Mom…Dad… I am so sorry for lying to you about Wesley’s trick-or-treating trip. I never meant for you to get hurt. I just wanted to look good in front of my friends. Now I know how dumb that was. And I promise I will never, ever lie to you again!” “Zombie, we already forgave you when we found out that you lied to us,” Mom said. “What? How did you know?” “Well,

faith in action.” At church, we were taught to be “doers of the word, not hearers only.” That meant stepping outside the pews, rolling up our sleeves, and doing “all the good you can, for all the people you can, in all the ways you can, as long as ever you can.” That credo, attributed to the founder of Methodism, John Wesley, inspired generations of Methodists to volunteer in hospitals, schools, and slums. For me, growing up in a comfortable middle-class suburb, it provided a sense of purpose and direction, pointing me toward a life of public service.

Heterosexuals are at least given the option of marriage and thus the possibility of having their sexual urges satisfied. For gay Christians in traditional churches, there is no such possibility. Unless our orientation is reversed—unless, in other words, we become heterosexual—gay and lesbian Christians are offered no hope that we will ever be able to fulfill our deepest sexual longings.

Fear pierces her heart. She hates it when Wesley gets mad. Not that he's ever hurt her. He'd never do that. He doesn't even shout at her, not really. It's more the resigned disappointment followed by the silent treatment that he stretches out like an elastic band, getting tauter and tauter until she can bear it no more

There’s been some speculation that Donovan is dating you to get a better contract with the Knights,” she continued. Fury rose in Donovan so fast it damn near obscured his vision. A loud guffaw stopped him from setting Kayla so straight she’d never look askance again. Jada slapped her hand on the table. “Are you serious right now? He’s dating me to get a better contract? That would be a big fat hell no. He’s the most upstanding man I’ve ever met and the last person to ever do something so underhanded. He didn't even know who I was when we first met. Please apologize to him right now or I will walk off this show.” Jada was deadly serious. She looked for all the world like a warrior ready to defend her family. He was touched beyond belief. Despite everything that had gone down between them, despite the way he’d hurt her feelings in that supply closet, she still had his back.

If you insist on ‘exposing us’,” Donovan said, his voice hard as ice, using air quotes, “we’ll have to do some exposing of our own. Certain people, like network executives, probably aren’t too keen on their employees engaging in blackmail. Besides, Jada is beloved. You know it, and I know it. I’m sure her fans would love to fill your Twitter mentions with all kinds of creative replies if they knew what you were attempting to do.” “You have no proof of blackmail.” Lila’s eyes spat fire. Jada held up a manicured index finger. “Oh, but I do. You know how you kept calling and leaving messages? Silly me, I thought you were asking me to do interviews. Which you were, I guess, technically. I finally got around to listening to the voice mails.” She wrinkled her nose, “Wow. Really creative vocabulary you have there, Lila. That last voice mail was quite a doozy. I wasn’t expecting the threats about how you were going to destroy me, how you were going to leak damaging rumors about me, how you’d been behind a lot of the hate I received online with bot accounts.” Jada grimaced. “Ugly stuff. You sounded drunk or high when you admitted that, so you might not remember saying all that, but you did.” Jada kept her gaze trained squarely on Lila. She ignored John’s gasp. Lila’s already pale skin turned ghastly white. “I don't know what you’re talking about.” Jada sniffed. “Oh, I think you do. Really, I’d hate for those messages to fall into the wrong hands.” Lila sneered, her veneer finally cracking. “You wouldn’t dare. You’re a spoiled, rich girl. You don’t have the balls.” The courage of her convictions swept through Jada. “Keep telling yourself that.” Jada turned to the other member of the blackmailing crew. “As for you, John, I’m sure people would love to know their perfect Mr. America has slid into the DMs of no less than three contestants from My One and Only with a woe-is-me story, trying to get back together with them, all at the same time.” Jada snapped her fingers. “Did I forget to mention I ended my social media hiatus to check my DMs? I do so love it when women have each other’s backs.” Jada gave the cowards a moment to respond. When none came, she offered up the kill shot. “If none of that reasoning convinces you, and I can't imagine why it wouldn’t, please remember this spoiled, rich girl has a billionaire grandmother who loves her very, very much. If I tell her what you both attempted to do to me, she will ruin both your lives, barely lifting a finger. Contrary to what you believe, Lila, I don't make idle threats. I suggest you both slink away and forget you ever knew my name.

Well, I mean the vets know. Because they gotta pay attention to that stuff. Some of the mushers know, because they know dogs. But the other reporters – they don’t know.” Huey went on, “They don’t know about the two-year-old that runs in front of your wheel dogs. The way she moves like water, both smooth like an ocean and swift like a river. Or the three-year-old that runs behind your leader and moves with the effervescent energy of the sun.” Huey looked around the room and then back at Kyle. “They don’t know about King. I’ve seen dogs run, Mr. Walker. And I ain’t ever seen anything like them. It’s subtle, like the touch of a feather on a windy day. But it’s there.

Once upon a time she'd thought he'd had the most beautiful pair of eyes she'd ever seen. They were the color of a deep maple. She'd spent way too much time as a besotted teen trying to pinpoint the exact color. Molasses was too light, chocolate too dark.

Did you read the Peter Rabbit books when you were young?” I asked. “That’s what this place reminds me of--the Rabbits’ burrow.” “I’m glad.” He began to smile. I realized it was the first time I had ever seen him smile. “You look different when you smile,” I said softly. His eyes caught mine, resting on them for a moment before looking down at my bloody hands. “Come here.” He gestured for me to sit on the carpet in front of the fireplace. “This is going to sting, but it’s the only way to clean out those cuts.” He poured salt into the now-hot water and crouched down behind me, reaching around to circle my wrists and lower my hands slowly into the pot. I gasped at the shock. I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the pain. As the clear water reddened with blood and the bits of glass and metal loosened from my skin, I began to feel acutely aware of Wesley, still kneeling there behind me, his breath tickling my ear. He stood up abruptly. “Stay here. I’m going to see if I can find us anything to eat.

Actually, Wilson's art can't fit into these neat categories. My own take is that the best way to think of Wilson is as an outsider musician, but one who actually happens to have a huge amount of talent. Much like, say, Wesley Willis, Wilson is focussed on having huge commercial success, but has little to no idea what actually counts as commercial. He's very easily swayed by people around him, so if he's told he should be doing three-minute pop songs, he does three-minute pop songs, and if he's told he should do epic suites about the American Dream, he does those. But at all times there are two things that remain true about him: he has an unerring ability as an arranger, and a directness that makes his music more communicative than any other music I've ever heard.

Wesley insisted on preaching the law to Christians because the law is God’s means of crafting a holy people. But Wesley knew the perils of the law as well as any Lutheran ever did. He was well aware that the preaching of the law brings with it certain dangers: legalism, condemnation, and pharisaic judgmentalism. So he placed his preaching of the law in the context of free grace. Grace first, then law. The result of this combination, in this order, is the dynamo that drives Wesleyan spirituality.

Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as you ever can.” —John Wesley

Dr. Adam Clarke, in his autobiography, records that when Mr. Wesley was returning to England by ship, considerable delay was caused by contrary winds. Wesley was reading, when he became aware of some confusion on board, and asking what was the matter, he was informed that the wind was contrary. “Then,” was his reply, “let us go to prayer.” After Dr. Clarke had prayed, Wesley broke out into fervent supplication which seemed to be more the offering of faith than of mere desire. “Almighty and everlasting God,” he prayed. “Thou hast sway everywhere, and all things serve the purpose of Thy will, Thou holdest the winds in Thy fists and sittest upon the water floods, and reignest a King for ever. Command these winds and these waves that they obey Thee, and take us speedily and safely to the haven whither we would go.” The power of this petition was felt by all. Wesley rose from his knees, made no remark, but took up his book and continued reading. Dr. Clarke went on deck, and to his surprise found the vessel under sail, standing on her right course. Nor did she change till she was safely at anchor. On the sudden and favourable change of wind, Wesley made no remark; so fully did he expect to be heard that he took it for granted that he was heard.

I would rather have written the hymns of Wesley's than to have the fame of all the kings that ever sat on earth; it is more glorious, it has more power in it.

rule of Wesley”: Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as you ever can.

Statistics says, woemn are significantly less inclined to take professional risks as they get more workplace experience under their belt. As you get older, you need to be even more calculating, you would have built a reputation and there is more visiblity if youtake a chance that doesn't pay off. So, start today. No one ever got noticed by playing it safe.

Work relationships are not dating. You can have meaningful work connections without ever meeting that person's family or their significant other. I say this beacause it's more important to create a large number of strong-enough connections than a single superdeep one. Those may come, in time. But honestly, it's fine if they don't

The new prayer book, The Sunday Service for the Methodists in North America, was Wesley’s abridgement of the Book of Common Prayer. He had wished to improve the prayer book ever since his association with Thomas Deacon and the Manchester nonjurors during his Oxford days when they were trying to pattern liturgy and worship after the Early Church. Wesley’s diary indicates that he also experimented with the order of the service while in Georgia. And when quoting the Psalms, he had almost always used the language of the prayer book Psalter, derived from the early Coverdale text, rather than the Authorized Version (King James). His reverence for the traditional BCP is evident in the way he preserved the tone and much of the text of the work in the Sunday Service.

for me when I’m sick; that we’ll fight over money troubles and then find a way through; that we’ll ache with sadness and longing as we grow older and develop wrinkles and find new and interesting ways to love one another.  “For this is what I believe a marriage truly is: I believe it means opening your eyes every day to a person who is also in the midst of ever-constant change. And it means loving the bits that are still there, along with the bits that they’ve left behind, along with the bits that they’re headed towards. Time isn’t linear; love is complex. And I am so open to the concept of loving Wesley Sheridan completely, for all the days of my life.

Sharing these stories was a relationship game changer for Wesley and Marie. For Marie, having a disagreement and being able to talk about it was nothing short of miraculous. Not only did it not end their relationship, she felt closer to him than ever because they had both shared these childhood stories. “Our relationship had gone to the next level. It feels more real,” says Marie. “I almost look forward to our conflicts now, because we always seem to come out of them understanding something new about each other and it brings us closer and closer. I don’t go looking for fights, but I don’t run away from them anymore either. I love that feeling when we get though a hard time together. That’s what a relationship is all about. Even when we disagree, we’re still on the same team, trying to find a way to understand each other and work it out.” As for the television issue—they have a remote now with a timer that will turn the television off after 20 minutes.

swear I didn’t know Jay was the guy from junior high. If I had, I’d never have brought him here.” He turned to his car. “Let me take him home. Then I’ll come back, and we can talk about us. I’m not like Jason. Give me a chance, Violet, please.” My lower lip trembled. I felt like a deflated balloon. Overstretched. Worn out. A part of me knew that what Wes said was true. He wasn’t like Jason. But how could I look at him and not see the face of my tormenter? And how could I ever stop wondering if I was just another notch on his belt? I shook my head. Jason’s bullying had shattered my spirit, but being hurt by Wesley would destroy me. Better to guard my heart against that than let my walls down. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to date. Maybe you’re not like Jason, but you go through girls so quickly, and I couldn’t cope with having my heart broken.” Wes’s expression hardened. “Fine, if that’s what you want. But I can’t say that your decision doesn’t hurt. Yes, I have a past. But you’re the one who’s refusing to give us a chance at a future.” He turned away and stalked over to his car, never once looking back. As I watched him drive away, I told myself I’d done the right thing. Then why did it feel like I’d lost something precious?

Our current economics fosters an ever-more authoritarian government that is financed by and protects the ever-increasing power of the wealthy.

Moreover, notice that the places where Christian revival fires seem to be burning in the world are far away from anywhere where George Whitefield or John Wesley ever preached. The next Billy Graham quite likely not only did not vote for or against Donald Trump, but as likely also doesn’t speak English.

O merciful God, whatever you may deny me, do not deny me this love. Save me from the idolatry of loving the world, or any of the things of the world. Let me never love any creature but for your sake and in subordination to your love. Take full possession of my heart; raise there your throne and command there as you do in heaven. Being created by you, let me live to you; being created for you, let me ever act for your glory; being redeemed by you, let me render to you what is yours and let my spirit ever cleave to you alone. John Wesley

Under the working of the Spirit of God through men like Finney and Wesley, no one would ever have dared to say, “I am a Christian” if he had not surrendered his whole being, taking Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior!

The Kitten poster reminds me of Blake Snyder’s SAVE THE CAT! The Last Book on Screenwriting That You’ll Ever Need, which has a cover with a similar image. I hope the kitten falls to its death. This hope is not born out of maliciousness, but sympathy. What's the point of hanging in there if no one's going to save you? The little fucker can only hang on for so long.

Do all the good you can / By all the means you can / In all the ways you can / In all the places you can / At all the times you can / To all the people you can / As long as ever you can. —JOHN WESLEY

I'm sorry. I don't like myself. Not like this. I won't. Ever." "He nodded. Then we had better find a reason to start.

Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can.

She quickly glanced at the framed quote on her desk. John Wesley: “Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can.

Do all the good you can, in all the ways you can, to all the souls you can, in every place you can, with all the zeal you can, as long as ever you can.

Sam clears his throat. “See?” Wesley sighs. “Lover Boy shows up to scowl at me and flex his muscles and generally stomp around.” Adam smirks. “I think Lover Boy knows I have no intention of ever wooing Her Royal Highness.

As John Wesley was crossing the Atlantic Ocean, contrary winds came up. He was reading in his cabin when he became aware of some confusion on board. When he learned that the winds were knocking the ship off course, he responded in prayer. Adam Clarke, a colleague, heard the prayer and recorded it. Almighty and everlasting God, thou hast sway everywhere, and all things serve the purpose of thy will, thou holdest the winds in thy fists and sittest upon the water floods, and reignest a king for ever. Command these winds and these waves that they obey thee, and take us speedily and safely to the haven whither we would go. Wesley stood up from his knees, took up his book, and continued to read. Dr. Clarke went on deck, where he found calm winds and the ship on course. But Wesley made no remark about the answered prayer. Clarke wrote, “So fully did he expect to be heard that he took it for granted that he was heard.”3 How bold are your prayers?

They know you're a football player and part owner of a cupcake shop. But that's what you do, not who you are." Beautiful, impactful words from a beautiful, impactful woman. She stopped when she noticed him watching her. "Sorry, I talk with my hands. It helps me think." He knew. She was in her element. It was the sexiest thing he'd ever been fortunate to witness. "I'm going to give them that," she continued. "And that's going to lead to them coming down here to buy cupcakes and put money in y'all's pockets. You want to be a star, right?" No. "Yes." But he was committed. It was time for him to come out of the shadows. Time to take control of his life and make himself worthy of... His eyes flickered to Sloane. Make himself worthy of someone to love.

Being inside her was his second priority. His first? Making her come so hard against his fingers she'd feel the aftershocks for days. August slipped a finger inside her. Her hips' movement quickened. "Just like that, August." Her moan acted as rocket fuel to his lust. He added another finger, sliding in and out of her. His plan had been to go slow, but shit, she was so tight and so fucking wet and it felt so damned good. She squeezed her inner muscles around him. He bent his fingers, rubbing against the spot inside her that made her go wild. With his other hand, he rubbed circles around her clit. "Shit, Sloane," he gritted out when her hand wrapped around his dick. This was supposed to be all about her. "Two can play this game," she whispered in his ear. "I bet I can make you come before you make me come." He was a professional athlete. Competitiveness flowed through his veins. "You're on." Two minutes later, he was questioning his life's choices. He'd been so sure he could win this bet. Why? His hubris was going to be the death of him, but what a way to go. Her fingers were magical. "Shit," he moaned when she rubbed some of her wetness along the head of his dick and then up and down his length. Just following the movement of her fingers nearly short-circuited his brain. Her fingers moved a little easier, up and down with one hand and squeezing with the other. She knew he didn't like a gentle hand. He was fucking close. But not yet. Not yet. Not until he'd given her all the pleasure he could. Not until he made her feel more than she'd ever felt. They fell into a decadent rhythm, fully intuned to the other. She moved her hand up and down his length at the same tempo he slid his fingers in and out of her, just like they would if she was riding his dick. He was so fucking close. August ground his teeth into dust. In due time.

He slid a finger down her folds. Her panting increased in volume. Her hip movements increased in pace as she chased his finger. He found her clit and circled it with his thumb, as he pushed inside her with his middle finger. Her inner walls clasped tightly on to the digit. He groaned at the heavenly sensation. He dragged his finger in and out, savoring the feeling. Her hips moved in tandem with the movement of his finger. Her hold on his shirt tightened when he rubbed against a spot high inside her. Her hips bucked forward. A tiny moan slipped from between her lips before she pressed her mouth shut. Not on his watch. He wanted it all. "Don't hold back. Tell me," he demanded. "Feels so good," she whimpered, the fucking sexiest sound he'd ever heard. "I can make it better." He wedged another finger inside her. And pressed gently against her clit. He swallowed her scream with his mouth. The kiss was wild, greedy. Lips, tongue, teeth sliding, clinging, giving, demanding pleasure. She tasted like heaven, offering all the sustenance he would ever need. Her hips picked up speed. She was so fucking tight wrapped around his fingers. How good would his dick feel inside her? Incredibly, he got even harder. As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, her hands landed on the front of his jeans. She squeezed once, twice. He almost detonated. "Sloane. Sweetness. Please." She didn't need his plea. Instead, she pulled his zipper down and slipped her fingers inside. He didn't have the willpower to stop her. Her hand wrapped around his dick was so fucking good. She pulled up and down, exerting the perfect amount of pressure to have him gasping as pleasure sang through his veins.

His shoulders corded with muscle. His mouth between her legs. A portrait that belonged in the Louvre. A quick flick of his tongue had her seeing stars. Then, a slower swipe had her wishing for more. Sloane's mouth dried. He alternated between faster and slower swipes, taking his cues from her. He nibbled, then bit. Faster when the movement of her hips slowed. Slower when she came perilously close to the edge. Beautiful torture. His mouth on her was a million times better than she'd ever imagined. He was a certified master with his tongue. She bucked, begging him for more. Demanding more. Sweat slickened her skin. Her hands slipped on the sofa cushions, searching for purchase. Through it all, he was there. August and his wonderful tongue. Her eyes squeezed shut as delicious sensations bombarded her from every direction. Then his fingers, long and immeasurably talented, joined in the action between her legs. He was so slow and deliberate, going at his own pace, despite her demands. And she fucking loved every second of it. He held his tongue tight against her clit as he sank three fingers inside her. In and out. The sensations inside her twisted tighter and tighter, pushing her higher and higher. Until she broke, splintering into a million jagged pieces.

Sloane gasped at the amazing sensation. At the stretch and pull. Had anything felt so good in the history of ever? Their eyes met when he was fully inside. He felt it too. How perfect this all was. Then they were kissing again as August slid in and out of her in a slow, perfect rhythm. His fingers rubbed against her clit. She was so close. So close. But the couch's width only allowed a certain amount of movement. She needed more. She hummed her frustration. Her hum increased in volume when he slid out of her without returning. "Shh," he murmured. Then, before she could blink, she was draped over the arm of the couch and he was thrusting into her from behind. Oh, wow. This was better. She hadn't thought that was possible, but she was thrilled to be proven wrong. This angle allowed him to go deeper. Fill her completely. He twisted his hips, changing the angle slightly. It was too much. Perfect. Unyielding. She turned her head for another wild, incandescent kiss. He filled his hands with her breasts, alternatively massaging and pinching her nipples. Through it all, his hips never stopped their magical motion. Sensations were bombarding her from every angle, leaving her gasping for air. "Touch yourself," he commanded in her ear. It didn't occur to her to argue. Even as he continued to thrust in and out of her, she eagerly slid her fingers between her slick folds, coating her digits in her wetness. Pleasuring herself was nothing new. Men were often temporary, but vibrators were forever. But this, being with August while she saw to her own pleasure, was amazing. Her clit, now so sensitive, sent bolts of feeling through her as she rubbed it the way she'd mastered over the years. "That's right. Get yourself off while you ride my dick." His low, deep voice in her ear spurred her on as he twisted her right nipple, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through her body. She cried out in ecstasy as she moved in tandem with him, pushing her hips down as he thrust inside her. She wanted to give him all that he was giving her. His tortured groan was everything she wanted to hear. "My dick loves how wet you are.