In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.
I miss Saturday morning, rolling out of bed, not shaving, getting into my car with my girls, driving to the supermarket, squeezing the fruit, getting my car washed, taking walks.
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I miss Saturday morning, rolling out of bed, not shaving, getting into my car with my girls, driving to the supermarket, squeezing the fruit, getting my car washed, taking walks.
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Grace is the fruit of gratitude.
Life is like a fondue: the best fruit ain__ the best till it__ been through some goo.
Uh, got into a fight with the kitchen or something?_ he asked, smirking. I ran my hands through my hair and felt remains of the fruit as I did and cringed. Well, this must be attractive. I motioned for him to come into the living room and shut the door behind him.__omething like that,_ I replied coolly. He walked past me and went to the kitchen, probably to get a better look. __ell, I see you won. The fruit won__ be going anywhere anytime soon. Maybe the apples. Those look like they need some more killing.