A Quote by Max Lucado
Christmas begins what Easter celebrates. The child in the cradle became the king on the cross. And because he did, there are no marks on my record. Just grace. His offer has no fine print. He didn't tell me, "Clean up before you come in." He offered, "Come in, and I'll clean you up." It's not my grip on him that matters but his grip on me. And his grip is sure. So is his presence in my life.
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The player may experiment about with his swing, his grip, his stance. It is only when he begins asking his caddie's advice that he is getting on dangerous ground.
Nobody taught me my slider. I mean, if you look at my grip, I don't think anyone has the same grip as I do. It's a separate grip. I hold it kind of weird and everything. When I started throwing it, I just wanted to start throwing something different and came up with that. I turned it a little bit.
Jack, get a grip of yourself.' I have a grip of myself.' Jack took a grip of himself. It was a most intimate grip; not the kind of grip that you usually take of yourself in public.
When a man comes to me, I accept him at his best, not at his worst. Why make so much ado? When a man washes his hands before paying a visit, and you receive him in that clean state, you do not thereby stand surety for his always having been clean in the past.
Why shouldn’t we experience heartbreak? Through those doorways God is opening up ways of fellowship with His Son. Most of us collapse at the first grip of pain. We sit down at the door of God’s purpose and enter a slow death through self-pity. And all the so-called Christian sympathy of others helps us to our deathbed. But God will not. He comes with the grip of the pierced hand of His Son, as if to say, “Enter into fellowship with Me; arise and shine.” If God can accomplish His purposes in this world through a broken heart, then why not thank Him for breaking yours?
What did you do?” I mumble. He is just a few feet away from me now, but not close enough to hear me. As he passes me he stretches out his hand. He wraps it around my palm and squeezes. Squeezes, then lets go. His eyes are bloodshot; he is pale. “What did you do?” This time the question tears from my throat like a growl. I throw myself toward him, struggling against Peter’s grip, though his hands chafe. “What did you do?” I scream. “You die, I die too” Tobias looks over his shoulder at me. “I asked you not to do this. You made your decision. These are the repercussions.
Graham runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. Finally, with a determined scowl, he crosses the room. His hands grip my shoulders. “We are not,” his voice is a gentle tremor, “breaking up
When you blow it, God still celebrates His Son in you. The litmus test of whether or not you understand the gospel is what you do when you fail. Do you run from Him and go clean yourself up a little bit before you come back into the throne room? Or do you approach the throne of grace with confidence? If you don't approach the throne of grace with confidence, you don't understand the gospel.
Is it any wonder the power this man held over me - this man who did not run from his demons like most of us do, but embraced them as his own, clutching them to his heart in a choke-hold grip. He did not try to escape them by denying them or drugging them or bargaining with them. He met them where they lived, in the secret place most of us keep hidden. Warthrop was Warthrop down to the marrow of his bones, for his demons defined him; they breathed the breath of life into him; and without them, he would go down, as most of us do, into the purgatorial fog of a life unrealized.
You should be dead," he said, his voice full of wonder. "How is it that you're still alive?" Jaw clenched, I worked at his grip on me, trying to get my fingers between him and my wrist. "I work hard at it.
When you drive a car, either you manage it and feel it with the grip of the car, or, like me, you fix it on visual speed. If you do it through the grip, you lose it very quickly - because when the track changes, you can have scares. I do it visually, so if I am going too fast I fight to get the car back, but I do not do it by feeling the grip.
I want you." Feeling the grip of his hand in mine, the brush of skin on mine, seeing the way he moved in front of me, equal parts human and wolf, and remembering his smell - I ached with wanting to kiss him.
There is no doubt that someone who tries to throw a curve or pitch at any early age before he's developed, before his hand is big enough to grip the ball correctly, will damage his arm.
He himself will go into the drain and take his boy in his own lap. He will clean his dress, clean his clothes, clean his body; and afterward he will say, "My boy, you should walk carefully."
Elvis Presley - his music, his movies, his photos. I come across a new image of him every day and try to imagine what he was thinking, what inspired him. His talent and beauty were just incredible, and his passion for life, family, and friends inspires me.
Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form
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