there's a world after this. After life. After earth, and before the end. Eternity is constant, but that too will end. It will change. Many mortals believe that eternity will be stagnant and that nothing will change.
This is foolish. Things will not be perfect. There shall be violence. Bloodshed. Wars. Progression. Evolution. To believe that we will all play harps or burn in flame is unintelligent, not to mention simple minded. Stories make us who we are. I have transcended that. I speak to people of legends old and new, I tell tales of grand proportions, and of the smallest scale. Every story has value, and having realized this, I am going to tel you a story I feel needs to be shared. It is not a story that has happened yet, and it may never happen in the reality we know. But by telling this story, we create a reality where this story is the truth. Where every word, letter, paragraph serves as the blueprint for the very fabric of that universe. As I write this story, as you write yours, as you create and live your story, remember one thing. To witness stories is to observe those realities. To tell stories is to alter and expand those realities. To create stories is to create realities. 2 Nephi 21: 14-16 - But, behold, Zion hath said: The Lord hath forsaken me, and my Lord hath forgotten me—but he will show that he hath not. For can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee, O house of Israel. Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me.
Gospel of Skyler version: We cry to our God, "Where are you!? Have you forgotten me?" A woman can forget her precious baby, but God cannot forget us. The scars of his Sacrifice for us, his Atonement, are engraven on the palms of his hands. Our limitations and our weaknesses are constantly on his mind because he has felt them, and transcended them. Only he knows how. Audience, he has not forgotten you. He cannot forget you. Pray that he reveals himself to you, and he shall. Eventually. everything changes and everyone leaves. lost myself in my own sea. thoughts swirling always tormenting me. voices inside my head come to me. there's usually three, sometimes two. are they me, or are they something else? does it matter? The trees turn brown and off fall the leaves
Floating away to the eternal sea Thoughts in my head may meticulously shape me Voices of friends and enemies speak to me Sometimes, three, sometimes two But no matter what, I will always be If not for me, then for you. The results of the contest were inconclusive. A man had programmed his PC to call the Joker Wins number every ninety seconds for eight hours. Thus, Robin died... How could we do this? We are no better than the Joker himself.
Welcome, shrek comersYour future awaits youread about the llama on a couch boat -linkPlease look hard at donkeywe made his costume the bestest This tale starts and ends in the small town of Beverly on the coast of Massachusetts. Standing regally in the middle of the town is Snake Hill, the place where the whole town went, on cool Sunday mornings in 1718, to let the children play and to talk to the neighbors. One of these mornings Anne Morgan Ober was missing from the group on Snake Hill. Nobody was concerned. She was 9 months pregnant and could do things like miss a Sunday morning get together. The baby was being born, her sixth child, to be named Thomas. She knew as soon as she saw him that his life would be hard, but that he would leave a legacy for the world. Thomas Ober had seven siblings, including the twins Johannah and Johathan. He was married at 22 to the beautiful Abigail Pitman, who was born in the town adjacent to Beverly, in 1740. Thomas and Abigail had twelve children. They named one Hezekiah after Thomas's father and brother. And another Andrew, meaning a strong man, after the brother of Simon Peter, the Apostle of the Lord. The story of Andrew is the tragic one. Born in 1754, in Beverly, married in 1797 to Susanna Gale, and had a beautiful child Lydia Ober in 1801, right after the turn of the century. Nothing could be better. Until Lydia got sick. At just 5 years old, Lydia died quietly on a cold day in April of 1806. Five months before the death of their beloved child, they had another. They named her Lydia as well, in an effort to carry on the life and soul of the child they had lost. Lydia met an honest and good man named Col. Ezra Batchelder. He loved her instantly and pursued her in such a beautiful romance that it could only have been the hand of the Master himself. They were married on Snake Hill on the 20th of June, 1826. Their four children were everything they wanted and more. Unfortunately, the sickness that took Lydia's sister of the same name latched onto Ezra's Lydia at the age of 36 and ended her life. Colonel Ezra was heartbroken. Shattered. His children thought he was going to waste away in sadness. Until he met Elizabeth Smith, who helped him heal and showed him that he didn't have to be alone. He married her at the urging of his children, feeling that Lydia wouldn't want him to be alone. They were a perfect couple. But tragedy stroke again. Elizabeth was killed in an accident. Everyone I love dies! Ezra must have thought. Seven years later, he married again, to Harriet Etheridge who stayed with him until he died in 1876, in Beverly Massachusetts, where his grave can be found today. |
dont understand don't understand
youre in my head you're in my head should feel nothing fo-or you If you're going to be rude enough to take up residency in my mind at least have the decency to show up in reality Like us on Facebook! If I don't get 120 likes by December 25, 2017, then I'm gonna club this baby seal!
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