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Forever, Erma by Erma Bombeck

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Thu, 31 Jul 2025 16:19:00 +0000

I always had a dream that when I am asked to give an accounting of my life to a higher court, it will go like this: “So, empty your pockets. What have you got left of your life? Any dreams that were unfulfilled? Any unused talent that we gave you when you were born that you still have left? Any unsaid compliments or bits of love that you haven’t spread around?” And I will answer, “I’ve nothing to return. I spent everything you gave me. I’m as naked as the day I was born.”

The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Sun, 16 Jun 2013 20:15:00 +0000

'I never saw any of them again—except the cops. No way has yet been invented to say goodbye to them."

from Collected Poems 1956-1976 by David Wagoner

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Mon, 11 Jun 2012 11:51:00 +0000

Gift Wrapping by David Wagoner

Already imagining her
Unwrapping it, I fold the corners,
Putting paper and ribbon between her
And this small box. I could hand it over
Out in the open: why bother to catch her eye
With floss and glitter?
Looking manhandled, it lies there
Like something lost in the mail, the bow
On backwards. And minutes from now,
She will have seen what it is.
But between her guesswork
And the lifting of the lid, I can delay
All disappointments: the give and take
Of love is in the immediate present
Again, though I can't remember myself
What's in it for her.

Ravenous: A Food Lover's Journey from Obsession to Freedom by Dayna Macy

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Mon, 19 Mar 2012 20:06:00 +0000

"There’s more food here if anyone is still hungry," a volunteer calls out. Some men begin to line up again. I apologize to one man because I only have broken pieces of meatloaf to give him. "No need to apologize," he says. "I’m the father of six; I know what it’s like to eat what’s left over. This is good. I’m blessed." As I serve him some broken pieces, I realize something: just as there is a crisis of hunger in the world, there is also a crisis of desire—where you’re always hungry, whether it’s for food, or things, or attention, or admiration. There’s no end to wanting more—until you recognize the abundance you already have. My search for balance extends beyond food. It extends to all that I am attached to and all I consume. I have to say "no" to some things so I can say “yes” to others. Each decision to consume is a choice to spend my time, energy, and attention. Maybe one key to being happier is not having more, but needing less.

The Indie Journey: Secrets to Writing Success by JA Konrath

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Sat, 17 Mar 2012 19:19:00 +0000

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Scott Nicholson: The real joy of the creative life, or any life, is when you have all the time and money to do whatever you want, and you discover you were already doing it.

Eli by Bill Myers

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 20:54:00 +0000

Opening Lines:

Monday was an inconvenient time to die. Come to think of it, Tuesday through Sunday weren't all that agreeable either.

The Indie Journey: Secrets to Writing Success by JA Konrath

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 20:04:00 +0000

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If you’re selling eggs, don’t piss off your chickens.

The Simple Dollar by Trent A. Hamm

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 20:34:00 +0000

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...frugality is an exchange: You’re trading the things you don’t value for things that you do value... Consider the human hierarchy of needs as described by Abraham Maslow. To put it simply, once one’s basic needs are met—clothing, food, shelter, companionship—humans then tend to have higher aspirations, such as self-actualization and professional fulfillment. This hierarchy is subverted in many ways—advertising, peer pressure, our own psychology—and it leaves us taking actions that undermine our basic needs while making futile attempts at grabbing at our higher needs.

THE HOLY SPIRIT: Amazing Power for Everyday People by Susan Rohrer

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 02:11:00 +0000

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Isn’t it amazing that the Spirit—who is capable of such great force—is simultaneously characterized by gentleness? This powerful Spirit is the embodiment of all of the fruits listed in Galatians 5:22–23, fruits that Scripture prioritizes above all of the marvelous gifts He distributes. The Holy Spirit is powerfully loving, commandingly joyful, actively peaceful, compellingly patient, emphatically kind, intensely good, infallibly faithful, potently gentle, and vigorously self-controlled. Who wouldn’t want to know a person like this?

The Indie Journey: Secrets to Writing Success by J.A. Konrath, et al

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 02:07:00 +0000

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Look, I figured out early on that writing is about failure. Almost 100 percent guaranteed failure. You’ll never write it as well as you want, you will always fall short of perfection, a typo will always slip in, rejection is more certain than death and taxes, and, if you are lucky enough to get published, a horde is waiting to happily rake you over the coals. After a while, you build up great layers of scar tissue. At this point, I don’t care what anyone thinks except my readers, who are my only customers. And, in a way, they are among my closest, most intimate friends. So why should I care if some scared writer tries to apply a stigma? If you’re a writer, you should be scared, but if you go around worrying about other writers, you have your eyes on the wrong prize. Listen to readers. They rarely apply stigma. The only labels they care about are "good" and "crap."

The Damp by John Donne

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 11:29:00 +0000

WHEN I am dead, and doctors know not why,
And my friends' curiosity
Will have me cut up to survey each part,
When they shall find your picture in my heart,
You think a sudden damp of love
Will thorough all their senses move,
And work on them as me, and so prefer
Your murder to the name of massacre,

Poor victories ; but if you dare be brave,
And pleasure in your conquest have,
First kill th' enormous giant, your Disdain ;
And let th' enchantress Honour, next be slain ;
And like a Goth and Vandal rise,
Deface records and histories
Of your own arts and triumphs over men,
And without such advantage kill me then,

For I could muster up, as well as you,
My giants, and my witches too,
Which are vast Constancy and Secretness ;
But these I neither look for nor profess ;
Kill me as woman, let me die
As a mere man ; do you but try
Your passive valour, and you shall find then,
Naked you have odds enough of any man.

The Computation by John Donne

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 11:26:00 +0000

For the first twenty years, since yesterday,
I scarce believed, thou couldst be gone away,
For forty more, I fed on favours past,
And forty on hopes, that thou wouldst, they might last.
Tears drowned one hundred, and sighs blew out two,
A thousand, I did neither think, nor do,
Or not divide, all being one thought of you;
Or in a thousand more, forgot that too.
Yet call not this long life; but think that I
Am, by being dead, immortal; can ghosts die?

"Shoulders" by Naomi Shihab Nye from Red Suitcase

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 11:00:00 +0000

Shoulders

by Naomi Shihab Nye

A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.

No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.

This man carries the world's most sensitive cargo
but he's not marked.
Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,
HANDLE WITH CARE.

His ear fills up with breathing.
He hears the hum of a boy's dream
deep inside him.

We're not going to be able
to live in this world
if we're not willing to do what he's doing
with one another.

The road will only be wide.
The rain will never stop falling.

Anthem For Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 13:58:00 +0000

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Evening Prayer from Puritan Prayers by Anonymous

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 13:06:00 +0000

O lover of Thy people, Thou hast placed my whole being in the hands of Jesus, my redeemer, commander, husband, friend, and carest for me in Him. Keep me holy, harmless, undefiled, separate from sinners; may I not know the voice of strangers, but go to Him where He is, and follow where He leads. Thou hast bathed me once for all in the sin- removing fountain, cleanse me now from this day's defilement, from its faults, deficiencies of virtue, harmful extremes, that I may exhibit a perfect character in Jesus. O Master, who didst wash the disciples' feet, be very patient with me, be very condescending to my faults, go on with me till Thy great work in me is completed. I desire to conquer self in every respect, to overcome the body with its affections and lusts, to keep under my flesh, to guard my manhood from all grosser sins, to check the refined power of my natural mind, to live entirely to Thy glory, to be deaf to unmerited censure and the praise of men. Nothing can hurt my new-born inner man, it cannot be smitten or die; nothing can mar the dominion of Thy Spirit within me; it is enough to have Thy approbation and that of my conscience. Keep me humble, dependent, supremely joyful, as calm and quiet as a sucking child, yet earnest and active. I wish not so much to do as to be, and I long to be like Jesus; if Thou dost make me right I shall be right; Lord, I belong to Thee, make me worthy of Thyself.

Our Little Lord by George McDonald

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 13:00:00 +0000

Our little Lord, we give thee praise,
     that Thou hast deigned to take our ways.
Born of Mary, a man to be,
     and all the angels sing to thee.
The eternal Father's Son He lay,
     cradled in a crib of hay.
The everlasting God appears
     in our frail flesh and blood and tears.
What the globe could not enwrap,
     nestled lies in Mary's lap.
Just a baby, very wee,
     yet the Lord of all the world is He.
   –Martin Luther

They were looking for a king
To slay their foes and lift them high;
Thou cam'st, a little baby thing
That made a woman cry.

December by Gary Johnson

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 12:47:00 +0000

December

by Gary Johnson

A little girl is singing for the faithful to come ye
Joyful and triumphant, a song she loves,
And also the partridge in a pear tree
And the golden rings and the turtle doves.
In the dark streets, red lights and green and blue
Where the faithful live, some joyful, some troubled,
Enduring the cold and also the flu,
Taking the garbage out and keeping the sidewalk shoveled.
Not much triumph going on here—and yet
There is much we do not understand.
And my hopes and fears are met
In this small singer holding onto my hand.
Onward we go, faithfully, into the dark
And are there angels hovering overhead? Hark.

From Eating the Honey of Words by Robert Bly

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 12:46:00 +0000

Waking on the Farm

by Robert Bly

I can remember the early mornings—how the stubble,
A little proud with frost, snapped as we walked.

How the John Deere tractor hood pulled heat
Away from our hands when we filled it with gas.

And the way the sun brought light right out of the
      ground.
It turned on a whole hill of stubble as easily as a single
      stone.

Breathing seemed frail and daring in the morning.
To pull in air was like reading a whole novel.

The angleworms, turned up by the plow, looked
Uneasy like shy people trying to avoid praise.

For a while we had goats. They were like turkeys
Only more reckless. One butted a red Chevrolet.

When we washed up at noon, we were more ordinary.
But the water kept something in it of the early
      morning.

Evening Praise from Puritan Prayers by Anonymous

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 13:04:00 +0000

Giver of all, another day is ended and I take my place beneath my great redeemer's cross, where healing streams continually descend, where balm is poured into every wound, where I wash anew in the all-cleansing blood, assured that Thou seest in me no spots of sin. Yet a little while and I shall go to Thy home and be no more seen; help me to gird up the loins of my mind, to quicken my step, to speed as if each moment were my last, that my life be joy, my death glory. I thank Thee for the temporal blessings of this world —the refreshing air, the light of the sun, the food that renews strength, the raiment that clothes, the dwelling that shelters, the sleep that gives rest, the starry canopy of night, the summer breeze, the flowers' sweetness, the music of flowing streams, the happy endearments of family, kindred, friends. Things animate, things inanimate, minister to my comfort. My cup runs over. Suffer me not to be insensible to these daily mercies. Thy hand bestows blessings: Thy power averts evil. I bring my tribute of thanks for spiritual graces, the full warmth of faith, the cheering presence of Thy Spirit, the strength of Thy restraining will, Thy spiking of hell's artillery. Blessed be my sovereign Lord!

The Broken Heart by John Donne

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 15:16:00 +0000

He is stark mad, whoever says, That he hath been in love an hour,
Yet not that love so soon decays,
But that it can ten in less space devour ;
Who will believe me, if I swear
That I have had the plague a year?
Who would not laugh at me, if I should say
I saw a flash of powder burn a day?

Ah, what a trifle is a heart,
If once into love's hands it come !
All other griefs allow a part
To other griefs, and ask themselves but some ;
They come to us, but us love draws ;
He swallows us and never chaws ;
By him, as by chain'd shot, whole ranks do die ;
He is the tyrant pike, our hearts the fry.

If 'twere not so, what did become
Of my heart when I first saw thee?
I brought a heart into the room,
But from the room I carried none with me.
If it had gone to thee, I know
Mine would have taught thine heart to show
More pity unto me ; but Love, alas !
At one first blow did shiver it as glass.

Yet nothing can to nothing fall,
Nor any place be empty quite ;
Therefore I think my breast hath all
Those pieces still, though they be not unite ;
And now, as broken glasses show
A hundred lesser faces, so
My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore,
But after one such love, can love no more.

December 2 Mark the Calendar

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 18:59:00 +0000

December 2 Mark the Calendar

Jarber is expected to return home. --Charles Dickens: A House to Let.

The American Patriot's Almanac: Daily Readings on America by William J. Bennett

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 16:46:00 +0000

THIS PRAYER is abridged from George Washington's Thanksgiving Proclamation of 1789. May we all unite in rendering unto God our sincere and humble thanks— For His kind care and protection of the people of this country, For the great degree of tranquility, union, and plenty which we have enjoyed, For the peaceable and rational manner in which we have been enabled to establish constitutions of government for our safety and happiness, For the civil and religious liberty with which we are blessed, and the means we have of acquiring and diffusing useful knowledge, and in general for all the great and various favors which He hath been pleased to confer upon us. And may we also unite in most humbly offering our prayers and supplications to the great Lord and Ruler of Nations and beseech Him— To pardon our national and other transgressions, To enable us all, whether in public or private stations, to perform our several and relative duties properly and punctually, To render our national government a blessing to all the people, by constantly being a government of wise, just, and constitutional laws, discreetly and faithfully executed and obeyed, To protect and guide all nations and to bless them with good government, peace, and concord, To promote the knowledge and practice of true religion and virtue, and the increase of science, And generally to grant unto all mankind such a degree of temporal prosperity as He alone knows to be best.

The American Patriot's Almanac: Daily Readings on America by William J. Bennett

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 16:43:00 +0000

ON NOVEMBER 22, 1963, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated by Lee Harvey Oswald during a visit to Dallas, Texas. This somber anniversary is a good time to remember the stirring words the young president offered the nation in his inaugural address, less than three years before his death: Since this country was founded, each generation of Americans has been summoned to give testimony to its national loyalty. The graves of young Americans who answered the call to service surround the globe. Now the trumpet summons us again—not as a call to bear arms, though arms we need—not as a call to battle, though embattled we are—but a call to bear the burden of a long twilight struggle, year in and year out, "rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation," a struggle against the common enemies of man: tyranny, poverty, disease, and war itself. . .. In the long history of the world, only a few generations have been granted the role of defending freedom in its hour of maximum danger. I do not shrink from this responsibility—I welcome it. I do not believe that any of us would exchange places with any other people or any other generation. The energy, the faith, the devotion which we bring to this endeavor will light our country and all who serve it. And the glow from that fire can truly light the world. And so, my fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country. . .. With a good conscience our only sure reward, with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love, asking His blessing and His help, but knowing that here on earth God's work must truly be our own.

Did Christ O'er Sinners Weep by Benjamin Beddome

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 20:33:00 +0000

Did Christ o’er sinners weep,
And shall our cheeks be dry?
Let floods of penitential grief
Burst forth from every eye.

The Son of God in tears
The wondering angels see:
Be thou astonished, O my soul;
He shed those tears for thee.

He wept that we might weep;
Each sin demands a tear;
In heaven alone no sin is found,
And there’s no weeping there.

from A Selection of Hymns from the Best Authors, by John Rippon, 1787.

Confession and Petition from Puritan Prayers by Anonymous

noreply@blogger.com (Thea) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 13:01:00 +0000

Holy Lord, I have sinned times without number, and been guilty of pride and unbelief, of failure to find Thy mind in Thy Word, of neglect to seek Thee in my daily life. My transgressions and short-comings present me with a list of accusations, but I bless Thee that they will not stand against me, for all have been laid on Christ. Go on to subdue my corruptions, and grant me grace to live above them. Let not the passions of the flesh nor lustings of the mind bring my spirit into subjection, but do Thou rule over me in liberty and power. I thank Thee that many of my prayers have been refused. I have asked amiss and do not have, I have prayed from lusts and been rejected, I have longed for Egypt and been given a wilderness. Go on with Thy patient work, answering 'no' to my wrongful prayers, and fitting me to accept it. Purge me from every false desire, every base aspiration, everything contrary to Thy rule. I thank Thee for Thy wisdom and Thy love, for all the acts of discipline to which I am subject, for sometimes putting me into the furnace to refine my gold and remove my dross. No trial is so hard to bear as a sense of sin. If Thou shouldst give me choice to live in pleasure and keep my sins, or to have them burnt away with trial, give me sanctified affliction. Deliver me from every evil habit, every accretion of former sins, everything that dims the brightness of Thy grace in me, everything that prevents me taking delight in Thee. Then I shall bless Thee, God of Jeshurun, for helping me to be upright.