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Eva,
brought him down to earth.
“Oh, don’t be like that, Joanne,” counseled Beatrice. “You’ll have a lovely time. Nothing bad has actually happened. Just think: if the plane had been scheduled to leave eight hours later, you would’ve been doing the same thing as you’re doing now—waiting, except at home.”
And so the conversation went on. Beatrice and Peter got into rhythm, perfectly united in purpose. They’d done this hundreds of times before. Conversation, genuine unforced conversation, but with the potential to become something much more significant if the moment arose when it was right to mention Jesus. Maybe that moment would come; maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe they would just say “God bless you” in parting and that would be it. Not every encounter could be transformative. Some conversations were just amiable exchanges of breath.
bereaved him like a sacrifice.
vintage sounds of A Flock of Seagulls warbled out.
He stirred them into a warm compromise.
Science, he said, is not some mysterious larger-than-life force, it’s just the name we give to the bright ideas that individual guys have when they’re lying in bed at night,
There was a red button on the wall labeled EMERGENCY, but no button labeled BEWILDERMENT.
Atmosphere, in his experience, had always been an absence. The air here was a presence,
on the planet that was supposed to be his home. Sleepless and wandering the streets of shabby British towns at two, three in the morning, he would find himself at a bus shelter in Stockport, a woebegone shopping mall in Reading, or the empty husks of Camden market in the hours before dawn—and it was at those times, in those places, that he was struck by a vision of human insignificance in all its unbearable pathos.
“But my mission is a priority?” Peter had said, still scarcely able to believe it. “We would classify it ‘urgent,’ ” the interviewer said.
He smiled. In one sentence, she’d flushed thousands of years of written communication briskly down the toilet, having already discarded a century and a half of telephone use in the previous dump. The “hope this helps” chaser was a cute touch, too. Chutzpah of a kind.
A politically correct missionary!
The occasional muffled clank or clunk, suggesting routine struggles with domestic objects.
Where the “s”s should have been, there was a noise like a ripe fruit being thumbed into two halves.
“The GoSpel?” The words hung in the whispering air for a second before Peter was able to take them in. He couldn’t believe he’d heard correctly. Then he noticed that the Oasan’s gloved hands had been pressed together in a steeple shape. “Yes!” Peter cried, dizzy with elation. “Praise Jesus!” The Oasan turned to Grainger again. His gloved hands were trembling against the tub he held. “We have waiPed long for the man PePer,” he said. “Thank you, Grainger.” And without further explanation he hurried through the doorway, leaving the crystalline beads swinging in his wake.
continue to be conspicuously absent from the supermarket shelves (even the horrid but serviceable “lo-fat” rollettes have been out of stock for days!) so I’ve been forced into the arms of
im wondering if therez some menacibg global warming ebd timescatstrophe around the corber or on the edges of the pages just barely not making it into the characters perceptions
But I feel certain Jesus didn’t see it that way. It was He who talked of two lovers becoming one flesh. It was He who showed compassion to prostitutes and adulterers. If He could feel that way toward people who misused sexual desire, why would He be disappointed if they were happily married instead? It’s significant that the only miracle He ever performed for “non-emergency” reasons, but just because He wanted to cheer people up, was at a wedding. We even know He had no problem with being caressed by a female, or He wouldn’t have allowed the woman in Luke 7 to kiss His feet and wipe them with
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“They want something with class, something that’s stood the test of time.” “I’m all for that,” he said.
It gave him a crocodilian appearance.