29. Most loneliness results from insulation rather than isolation. In other words, we are lonely because we insulate ourselves, not because others isolate us.
Do not give much of your fears to the knife that cuts to bring out blood. Instead, fear the unseen knife that cuts deeper than the knife you see! The unseen knife that inflicts pain in the heart and leaves its indelible footprints on our minds! The unseen knife that is sharper enough to either unite or make all things fall apart. Fear this knife: words! It can make or mar you greatly or badly!
A thousand words blossomed to her lips and died there, because no amount of speaking could communicate the depths of how he’d affected her. Of how he’d changed her.
Mr Earbrass stands on the terrace at twilight. It is bleak; it is cold; and the virtue has gone out of everything. Words drift through his mind: anguish turnips conjunctions illness defeat string parties no parties urns desuetude disaffection claws loss Trebizond napkins shame stones distance fever Antipodes mush glaciers incoherence labels miasma amputation tides deceit mourning elsewards…
Talk like an ambassador (Eph 4:29-30).
1)Consider the person (“only what is helpful for building others up”)
2) Consider the problem (“according to their needs”)
3) Consider the process (“that it may benefit those who listen”)
The paper burns, but the words fly free.
I was raised to believe that God speaks in the language of sacrifice,” he told me, “You are expected to sacrifice because it is the measure of the depth of your belief…
What you were supposed to hear when the record played backwards was the phrase wolf in white van. Nobody had a very firm idea of what that was supposed to mean, but they all agreed about what they were hearing: that it was a hellish picture to paint, and for young people to hear. Paul did ask what, exactly, it meant, and the guest talked about the symbol of the wolf in ancient cultures, but nothing got much clearer. It was a dark smudge of an idea shared among believers.
Like the kite that caught up to the sky,
painted with clouds, I lost track of it,
but it was connected
by string, something I was holding,
something I could always
It is what writers do, imagine and feel the pain of others, sometimes at the expense of feeling their own. Here, then, in these pages is mine, the fear of death, of loss, of unexpressed love. Here is the truth told in a story. And in the telling of it perhaps I have found some way to have courage, to believe.