Luck favors the well prepared.
All the things you think are important – money, power, material possessions – none of them will make you happy. There’s no correlation between wealth and happiness. Absolutely none. It’s one of society’s biggest lies.
Did evil beget evil? How many people never realized it until too late, until facing the ugly moment of truth when they saw themselves for who and what they really were, monsters disguised as human beings.
My personal heroes are not athletes, musicians, or actors. My heroes are our military service members, law enforcement officers, and federal special agents who put their lives on the line to keep America safe from its enemies. I sleep well because they often don’t. My freedom isn’t free; it comes at an extremely high price. I’m a firm believer in the Wounded Warriors Project trademarked statement: “The greatest casualty is being forgotten.” The.
Our time on Earth is limited. I’m understanding that now. We can’t change our pasts, but we can guide our futures.
The Wounded Warriors ball cap he wore helped mitigate the grooves on his face. He didn’t think of himself as a wounded warrior per se, but he believed in its trademarked statement: The greatest casualty is being forgotten.
Gnag’s best efforts to blacken the world would only serve to scatter the light like stars in the heavens.
At the very least, in a world where we walk around numb as lepers so much of the time, a song can make you actually feel something, a tingle in a place you thought long dead. That’s what the best songs – the best works of art – do for me.
Since we were made to glorify God, worship happens when someone is doing exactly what he or she was made to do.
Maybe the song you’re writing is for one specific heartbroken soul who won’t be born for another four hundred years.
I want you, dear reader, to remember that one holy way of mending the world is to sing, to write, to paint, to weave new worlds. Because the seed of your feeble-yet-faithful work fell to the ground, died, and rose again, what Christ has done through you will call forth praise from lonesome travelers long after your name is forgotten. They will know someone lived and loved here.
The winter is whispering, “green and gold,” And the heart is whispering, too – It’s a story the Maker has always told And the story, my child, is true.
When we manage to make something pretty, it’s only because we are ourselves a flourish on a greater canvas.
We all forget from time to time, and so we need one another to tell us our stories. Sometimes a story is the only way back from the darkness.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I said with a sniffle. “My brother and sisters don’t seem to carry this same pain, and we were all there at the same time, in the same house.” Al said, “If I were to interview four siblings about their childhoods, they would each describe a completely different family.” Your story, then, is yours and no one else’s. Each sunset is different, depending on where you stand.
He must have forgotten that in the mind of a boy, a warning isn’t much different from an invitation.
I want you, dear reader, to remember that one holy way of mending the world is to sing, to write, to paint, to weave new worlds.
You can not blame your equipment. You can’t blame your lack of time. You can’t blame your upbringing. Either you’re willing to steward the gift God gave you by stepping into the ring and fighting for it, or you spend your life in training, cashing in excuse after excuse until there’s no time left, no fight left, no song, no story.
Who you are runs deeper than your skin. A man may be handsome in aspect but black as death in his heart, you know.
He knew better than to pray that the cloven would transform in a whirl of light into Esben Wingfeather, young and handsome and whole. Those things only happened in stories. So Janner pleaded simply for each beat of the beast’s heart.