"Everything in New Orleans is a good idea. Bijou temple-type cottages and lyric cathedrals side by side. Houses and mansions, structures of wild grace. Italianate, Gothic, Romanesque, Greek Revival standing in a long line in the rain. Roman Catholic art. Sweeping front porches, turrets, cast-iron balconies, colonnades- 30-foot columns, gloriously beautiful- double pitched roofs, all the architecture of the whole wide world and it doesn’t move. All that and a town square where public executions took place. In New Orleans you could almost see other dimensions. There’s only one day at a time here, then it’s tonight and then tomorrow will be today again." —Bob Dylan #nola #neworleans #bobdylan
And, a video.
Ok…what?! I’m sorry, but this just horrifies me… I get the no germs thing, but as an Extraordinary Minister…this is just…no. Just, no. (and also, as someone who receives on the tongue, just how would that work?)
Also, is it just me or is the collector standing right next to the minister, waiting for everyone’s donations…? Because that just seems so wrong “here’s the Body of Christ now pay up”.
The collector is the guy distributing the wine (or grape juice). My housemate and I are still laughing about this.
*How* is the wine distributed? In little paper cups?
Lol, usually they’re glass or plastic, and you can choose between wine and grape juice. They’re probably putting the cups back on a tray.
You know what’s even more fun? These things.
You know, in case there’s a “large outbreak” of disease or something.
I think I saw one people refer to these as Communion Lunchables.
Remember the Agony in the Garden? This was at least 5% of Jesus’ anguish.
I used to have a roommate who was Nazerene and she said some people called them “Jesus shots”.
reblogging for the Jesus shots comment
I’d honestly rather catch the disease and die.
Today, thanks to Romanian photographer Remus Tiplea, we learned that Damselflies enjoy playing peekaboo, or at least they do in his backyard in Negreşti-Oaş, Romania. We had no idea that these delicate insects are also adorably shy.
Visit Remus Tiplea’s National Geographic profile to check out more of his photographs.
[via Faith is Torment]
“It should be easy,
but breathing has never been easy.
lovers grip my lungs
in white-knuckled desperation
as often as the asthma
and no amount of words
can make the atmosphere stay.
there’s no oxygen in poetry,
but the chatter of my keyboard
sounds enough like finches
to remind me of home.
home was never a place—it was an age
when stanzas were too young to be written;
it was learning to measure riches in movie nights
and new friends; it was waking up to my mother’s
clock radio and “Good morning, Minerva”; it was
releasing thirteen years of angry tide when a
blue-eyed man damned her in my company.
(She is Jupiter—she bore me alone,
and I’ll have no one question her gospel)
it was spurring on a horse too much
and fighting to stay saddled; it was
my first crush on another girl in the first grade;
it was all the memories that became the lessons
I want to remember, but can’t when I’m without a pen—
but can’t when I’m denied the air.
with age came curfews on creativity and adults on the blacktop.
with age came words stringing themselves together
in my veins and infectious smiles eager to belay them.
they must know how my legs ache.
they must know I would run and keep running.
I walked into a classroom where some young Tibetan students were practicing their chants, and all the kids suddenly grew very focused and well-behaved on account of the visitor. Except for this guy, who started laughing at me. Then he started laughing at himself laughing. Then he started laughing that he couldn’t stop laughing at himself laughing.
okay but why don’t more people talk about Night at the Museum like
poc characters and people being portrayed by poc people
this movie is so good
and it has one of the funniest, best, most ridiculous friendships in movie history
and you have Robin Williams as Teddy Roosevelt I mean
and if all that didn’t convince you there’s also a t-Rex skeleton that plays fetch with one of its own ribs
"What’s your greatest struggle right now?"
"I adopted a son about six months ago. He’s 3.5 years old, and we’ve been having difficulty with his behavior. If he was here right now, he’d be running around, pulling up plants, and hitting things with sticks. He’s spent all his life in an orphanage, and was deprived of adult attention. The psychologist tells us that’s the reason he’s acting out."
"What’s been your happiest moment with your son?"
"One morning I was standing in the kitchen, and he hugged me without me asking."
"When he first came to us, he wasn’t talking. He was about four years old, but we knew nothing else about him. Occasionally, he’d imitate the other children, but he’d express no thoughts of his own. He couldn’t tell us anything about his home, his family, or where he came from. To make matters worse, aid workers had further confused him by suggesting hometowns to him— which he had readily agreed to. So we started with a completely blank slate. We drew a house on a piece of paper, and we said: ‘Is this your home?’ And he said: ‘No! You forgot the gate!’ So we drew a gate. And he said: ‘But you forgot the tree!’ So we drew a tree.
Piece by piece, day by day, we filled in a picture of his home. He was still very reserved and traumatized, so the process took over a month. But we met in the safety of my office every day, and we figured it out. It was like putting together a puzzle. The saddest moment was when we drew his father. ‘You have to draw him laying down,’ the boy said. ‘I tried to get him to come with me, but he wouldn’t.’
When we eventually used the drawings to identify the boy’s hometown and find his mother, she confirmed our fears. The boy had disappeared after seeing his father get shot.”
(Juba, South Sudan)