Photo: Friends Meeting House, Queens, NY.
Photo: Friends Meeting House, Queens, NY.
Building Up One Another
https://flic.kr/p/2i4XsPV Building Up One Anotherby Michael DoyleWe must always build up one anotherRecalling that each is either sister or brotherThose things we don't understand comes down to fearBut holding each other up is to persevere Our own fears and doubts held onto to stronglyHowever held onto perhaps to wronglyNeed the truth to be spoken in loveGently, humbly as does speak, our God…
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On a whim… 🎃👻🧟♂️ #SpiritOfHalloween #Halloween 🎬🙂 #Grotesque #EmployeeOfTheMonth #TheOmniScalesPodcast #Empathy #SelfAwareness #Motivation #TikTok #Patience #TitaniumScalesProductions #Humility #Gratitude #Cdsxcalibur #Gym #VaynerTalent #VaynerX #VaynerMedia #Kindness #Practicality #Fitness #FitnessJourney #Creator #Podcast #Workout https://www.instagram.com/p/CVaNMFMpNR7/?utm_medium=tumblr
#6DAYS TO OUR #HUMILITY CONFERENCE AND #BOOK LAUNCH It's on (31st Oct to 5th Nov) kindly tell a friend..#THANK YOU🙏🙏🙏Mom Favour Senfuma akiwomyemu omutwe! I thank God for the GRACE Sustaining Mom https://www.instagram.com/p/CVZ5I6grIaM/?utm_medium=tumblr
I’m going to literate this again, because this is something I do NOT want people to think i’m joking/taking lightly at all.
DO NOT ASSUME WE ARE FRIENDS JUST BECAUSE WE’RE MUTUALS. I am not here to babysit everyone on the weird para social aspect just because we’re mutuals = bbfls. You are still a stranger to ME, and I am a stranger to YOU. Don’t assume not talking to me for MONTHS when we were never established/close to begin with but we have each other on discord/follow each other that we are friends. Do not assume just because we have mutual friends that we are friends. Again, YOU ARE A STRANGER TO ME!! Don’t expect to be met with kindness if you try to joke with me and I don’t even know you.
Respect my boundary's. Friendships happen casually and normally, but do not assume just because we’re mutuals / I gave you my discord for plotting stuff that does not mean we are bffls. I know I’ve been guilty of doing this myself, and that is something I am putting in the past. I get that it’s RP, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t over-step boundary's, and neither should you.
obsessed w Davies dunking on the musical and then having javert reveal his past in an extremely similar manner to the Confrontation Duet except with none of the plausibility of the musical because at least in that medium it’s like??? an expectation that characters will straight up inform the audience about their pasts and motivations?????
I think it’s far more empowering when men treat women as their equal rather than as their subordinate. He should relinquish the pride he has in him thinking that to control is to possess true manhood. True manhood is surrendering to Jesus and loving like He loves.
I’ve gotten progressively better this year, there’s so much weakness and doubt that’s been weaned out of my self for good. I’m better. And I like myself in Him.
I’m seeking for a submissive that is willing to be a sissy bitch…. Add me on Google chat me on GoddessRogue1@gmail.com kik….GoddessRogue1 old account got hacked
It weekend..who is ready to play and make me more horny for him and also i want to be your mentor , your sissy trainer, your slave trainer and also your mistress to dom you
Kik me @ jessyca_baby
Snap chat @ jessyca_baby1
Humility is the fear of the Lord;
its wages are riches and honor and life.
“I was in the robe-chamber, adjoining the House of Lords, when the King put on his robes. His brow was much furrowed with age and quite clouded with care. And is this all the world can give even to a king? All the grandeur it can afford? A blanket of ermine round his shoulders, so heavy and cumbersome he can scarcely move under it! A huge heap of borrowed hair, with a few plates of gold and glittering stones upon his head! Alas, what a bauble is human greatness! And even this will not endure.”
Feel free to dm me cum dumpsters if you wanna taste and swallow your cum🍆🍆🤤😘
Outpost on the Edge (Part I)
An @inklings-challenge Story for Team Lewis
Inklings Challenge | Team Lewis | Moodboard
Genre: Space Travel/Portal Fantasy (vaguely both?)
Themes: Mystery, Stewardship, Humility, Sacrifice, Grace
Word Count: 1,574
Author’s Note: Part II coming soon!
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“Be comforted, small one, in your smallness. He lays no merit on you. Receive and be glad. Have no fear, lest your shoulders be bearing this world. Look! It is beneath your head and carries you.”
― C. S. Lewis, Perelandra
“No one is told any story but their own.”
― C. S. Lewis, The Horse and His Boy
I would not have you think that I am brave, or that I was elected to this post on account of it. If I am better suited to it than some, it is through no virtue other than my natural disposition, which finds no fault in silence, nor struggles to fill it with the inner music of my own contemplations. For this reason I volunteered to man the outpost on the edge of my true country.
Mornings on the edge are white and windswept, infused with heather tea and permeated with the aroma of rain-washed earth. By midday all is overcast, and this is when I sleep. Evenings bring the only flush of color, a brief and gentle warming of my eyelids that wakes me as the sun peeks below the cloud line and sinks into the ocean. When all is dark, my vigil begins.
I am grateful then, for my bequest of woolen sweaters against the damp and cold. Their twined and knotted patterns match the gorse that grows thick on the cliffs, granting me a sense of belonging in this landscape where life stands in contrast to the elements.
Here, my very existence is one of defiance.
As if to illustrate this point, my post is built on an outcrop, jutting from the coastline and skirted by waves so continuous as to give it the appearance of an island. I make my home on this brink, where the bedrock holds fast against the erosion of the soil around it. I like it well enough; it reminds me of the Lewisian gneiss of the land where I was born (not to be confused with my true country).
I have never yet been to my true country, but I often think on that future embarkation as I shiver in the pre-dawn chill, and my anticipation seemingly quickens the sunrise that lightens the gray. Thus one joyful thought sustains me through the cruelest hour.
I would not have you think my life here is one of isolation, either, for in this hour I meet my charges, where the storm-tossed waves deposit them on the shore below my lookout. Here the rocks stand with the foam at their feet, statues weathered beyond recognition. Broken against them are the bones of ships, ruins of a battle won long ago and forgotten by the souls who crawl out from the water and cower at the sight. Some are drawn to the light I carry, others hide in the shadows. All must be helped up the uncertain path to my outpost, and guided through the sea spray that obscures it from the ragged coastline. To many, I am no more than a hand reaching out through the mist.
Then we step together through the doorway of my abode. I will describe it to you now, so you may imagine it (as you must—for it is a strange sight, composed of disparate parts of other times and places). I can best liken it to a series of train cars. The first of these is my dwelling, with every needed thing in evidence (bed, stove, tea, etc.). Attached to it are several other compartments, similarly provisioned, for guests. The last is a library—or rather, access to a library, by way of a narrow and spiraling staircase at the far end, as you may have seen leading up to a second level of seating. Only this staircase leads to a space altogether unexpected, the proportions of which you would never guess from below. The windows, bright spillways of light high in the walls overhead, are shaped like those of a passenger train, but there the mind's eye must relinquish any further resemblance. The central aisle is in size and appearance more like that of a cathedral, with towering bookcases instead of pews. Beyond that I cannot describe it in terms you would understand, save for one final feature: an impression of movement, quite unlike a train, for there is nothing mechanical in the sound or sensation—no rattle of tracks, no whirring of wheels, no hum of any engine whatsoever—merely a faint vibration felt in the blood rather than the feet, bringing with it a certainty that one is not stationary.
"Thank you," I say upon entering, for something in the nature of this library prompts it.
Once, in a fit of feeling, I climbed to the very top of a shelf and peered out one of the windows, through the ripples and bubbles of the glass, half expecting the view to be a moving blur of starlight and whatever else stirs above the clouds. Instead, I met an exalted view of my coastal perch, at once familiar and yet transformed. It changed my mood altogether. There I sat, and looked down on all my lesser emotions, feeling only the exhilaration that is unique to high places.
Then I clambered down again, carefully, so as to inflict no injury on the books. These are unnumbered, of every size and color, the slenderest volumes usually the most pristine in appearance, while the older, fatter tomes tend to be ragged, as though knocked about or well-handled with love, or both.
One might think a library is a place of mental or emotional endeavor only, but for me it is a physical labor akin to the dredging of souls that I perform every night on the shore. The bookshelves are vast and must be searched and sorted (and dusted—so much dusting), as the research I do here pertains to my guests. Each visitor has a book that relates to them specifically, as well as other texts that touch upon or interconnect with it. My task is to find and cross-reference, collect and assemble. The sheer size of the library caused me no little consternation, when first I came to it, but I have since noticed how the pertinent manuscripts have a way of coming to hand when I need them. Sometimes, a book topples from its shelf or makes its way mysteriously to my desk, where I have learned to let it lie in wait, knowing its significance will become apparent to me in time (often with the subsequent arrival of a particular guest). Finally, I present all relevant passages as they apply to the guest, who has been resting meanwhile.
We all get lost in our own stories, sometimes.
It is not unusual for my guests to ask me questions I cannot answer, for the full story is never told all at once (it would take an eternity to tell). Sufficient for each of my visitors is the reminder that we are still in the middle of something greater. If I can reassure them of their significance, that is enough. I have been given orders not to go seeking more.
Some of my guests stay longer than others; some return frequently, others visit only once. I serve them all tea with their stories, as often as they want it. Sometimes I help them commit passages to memory, or chart their next destination, or build the little boats on which they make their journeys hence. These partings are made bearable by the hope of seeing them again (though perhaps not here).
But now I must tell you of an arrival unlike the others, and remind you that I am not brave.
For some time I have anticipated the coming of The Guest, which is not unannounced. It grew first in my mind as an apprehension, then as an explanation for a creeping rot (of sorts) within the library. There have always been books I cannot open, pages I cannot read, either because the words will not come into focus or because they are too bright for my eyes. Often there are footnotes or scribbles in the margins that are as yet too faint to decipher, though they are growing bolder all the time. I am used to these peculiarities and know them to be harmless to my work. But a spreading plague of blots obscuring important words, or sentences written over other sentences so as to make both unreadable—in these I sense something sinister, even before the words begin rearranging themselves into insults and nonsense and things unrepeatable.
I slam the cover on one such discovery, as the sun steeps low in the sky, a citrus teabag lowering itself into a boiling ocean.
I will make tea, I decide. It will brace me for the watch to come, and lie in preparation for my visitor. It matters not what type of visitor they may be; I greet them all the same, as I would wish to be greeted. There is a certain ritual to the process—the measuring of the leaves, the arranging of the cups—and it calms me. Even as the crashing waves grow louder with an incoming storm, I take solace in the performance of these simple actions, and in the old familiar music of my meditations: There is nothing to fear. Nothing may come here but what is already written. I remember the precious honeycomb left behind by one of my previous guests, and I fetch it. The edge of my spoon rasps against the sturdy clay of the mugs as I add a generous helping of honey to each, this homey and humdrum sound at odds with the rising tempest outside.
Between one full stir and the next, I hear the creaking of the threshold.
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(to be continued)
Oh all the pain that could have been avoided if we would have slowed down just a bit to put Jesus first.