83 Chapters
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Medium 9781574411836

Reasons for Being a Southern Baptist

Robert Flynn University of North Texas Press PDF

Reasons for Being a Southern Baptist j

You can believe in sole freedom however you feel about soul freedom.

You can have church by yourself, preach at yourself, or anyone else who displeases you.

You can have Communion by yourself; drink real wine if you don’t get caught buying it.

You can suspend or bar from membership anyone who disagrees with you or has skin or money of an inappropriate color.

After baptism, that’s it. No eating fish on Friday or going to confession. No trip to Mecca or praying five times a day. Giving alms is recommended but not required. You can keep the alms in your church if you want.

You can read the Bible for yourself. Written study guides are suspicious if not dangerous and studying the origin of the

Bible is discouraged and should be forbidden.

You can believe the Bible is literally true and that you are born again. That you are dust and will return to dust but that you have a soul. That you are made of clay and that if you cut yourself you will bleed. That God is your shepherd although you didn’t sleep in a pasture last night. That at the Great Judgment the sheep were surprised that they were sheep, the goats that they were goats, and be absolutely certain that you not only have a pass to heaven but also know who has a one-way ticket to hell.

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Medium 9780615928272

I’m Dreaming Of An Anne Frank Christmas

Dani Burlison Petals & Bones Press PDF

DANI BURLISON

and the infamous Peter Comes Home for Christmas Folger’s commercial falsely implied. No relatives visited. Our family never attended holiday church services. And although I have faint memories of stacking my plate with chewy slabs of ham and watching the box wine squeeze out its last drops of sour medicine for my parents, there were no formal dinners. I don’t blame my parents. They were poor with too many kids, and too tired to erupt into holiday cheer when

Christmas was likely looked at as a much needed day home from work. I blame the marketing industry.

Still, the holidays were quite simply a disappointment, with the worst factor playing out after the return to school a week or so later. Classmates flocked to an icy playground to take inventory of who wore sweet new puffy moon boots or who spent the two-week break sipping hot chocolate in between runs down snow-packed mountain slopes at various Sierra ski resorts. The schoolyard also played host to a holiday candy trade of sorts featuring hot list items, like Lifesavers

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Medium 9780615928272

Bad Feminist

Dani Burlison Petals & Bones Press PDF

DANI BURLISON

other in so many ridiculous ways. Gallery openings, protest marches, morning cafe rushes, craft fairs, fucking Tot Time with the kids at the local library. Women pick apart other women from head to toe or ignore them completely, even though they’ve met, like, seventeen times. And even though you are standing right fucking there.

“I’m married to a successful civil rights attorney and play in the New York Philharmonic. What do you do?”

“I know. We’ve met a few times. I’m a writer, remember? We met at that charity bike ride and–”

“You don’t have the body of a cyclist at all. And you don’t really look familiar. Have I read your work?”

“Probably not.” You’re too amazing and a way better person than I am. You probably don’t even need to read and just absorb knowledge and worldly wisdom through your perfectly tight pores or your extra- long eyelashes, you evil bitch. My out-of-shape body and I will just go home now and make a voodoo doll with the button I ripped off your purse while you were bragging about your perfect kids.

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Medium 9781741795240

On Safari, Only the Animals Sleep Through the Night

Lonely Planet Lonely Planet ePub

Kelly Watton has been chased by wild horses on Georgia’s Cumberland Island, stalked by a hyena in Botswana and jumped on by a monkey in the Peruvian Amazon. She has travelled near and far to see animals in the wild, but she’s starting to get the impression they’re not so happy to see her. When she’s not daydreaming about Africa, Kelly writes travel stories for newspapers in the US. She lives in Atlanta.

When I woke up it was cold and black inside the tent. It felt like I’d been asleep for hours. The sweet, charred smell of citronella incense hung in the crisp air. At first, I didn’t know whether I had heard a noise or caught the tail end of a dream. I lay still, holding my breath and listening for anything.

Before long, the sharp crack of breaking wood punctured the silence. Only this time, it didn’t stop. Limbs snapped repeatedly, as if something was walking over the fallen branches outside. I had every reason to believe that something was a lion.

Yesterday after arriving in Botswana, my husband, West, and I had flown into the Okavango Delta, where southern Africa’s Okavango River empties into the flat sands of the Kalahari Desert. Supplying much-needed nourishment, the Delta draws Africa’s magnificent wildlife into this untamed and unfenced region. We were visiting during the dry season, when the streams that spill out from the river would be dried up, and those animals would stay close to the few remaining waterholes.

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Medium 9781741795240

The Prince and I

Lonely Planet Lonely Planet ePub

At the age of nine, Kathie Kertesz started dreaming about international travel – and saving her money. By the time she was fourteen she was able to pay for her first trip to Europe. Now a happy grandmother of six, in the past year she has had essays published dealing with her major passions: travel and dancing. In her professional life she coaches people in high performance and joie de vivre. Visit her website at http://home.earthlink.net/~kkertesz.

It never occurred to me that I would meet a prince looking like this: dressed in blue jeans, slightly damp from spilled sparkling water, and carrying a long Hungarian sausage under my arm. I am half-Hungarian – which means that I was brought up with a strong romantic streak. I learned the Viennese waltz when I was five. When I was a girl my favourite fantasy was of attending a ball and meeting Prince Charming. I would, of course, be dressed in a beautiful long gown. He would be wearing a formal tuxedo and tails, or possibly the dress uniform of his country. It would all be very proper and formal, and I would fall madly in love.

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Medium 9781741795240

A Matter of Trust

Lonely Planet Lonely Planet ePub

Michelle Witton is an Australian actor/writer, currently based in London. She studied law in Australia and at Cambridge University, where she wrote and acted with the Footlights comedy revue. A well-travelled backpacker, Michelle’s travel stories and satire have been published in TNT Magazine, the Sydney Morning Herald and Backpacker Essentials. This is the first time her work has appeared in book form. This story is dedicated to the man who assured her, ‘It never hurts to kick your toe on the moon’ – her father, Bill Witton (1932–2004).

My watchband, already old when I started travelling, had served me well in the three months I’d been on the road, but it finally chose the Italian town of Lucca in which to end its short, though eventful, life. Luckily, I’d planned to stay a while in Lucca, visiting my friend Elizabetta and tending to necessary chores such as mending my dog-eared guidebook and spending quality time with a washing machine. Now I added finding a new watchband to the list.

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Medium 9780615928272

Go Big, Go Redwood

Dani Burlison Petals & Bones Press PDF

DANI BURLISON

In the early and mid nineties, I became loosely involved with some regional environmental activism. I attended

Earthfirst! meetings, read Green Anarchy literature, traveled hours to block logging roads, listened to Judi Bari speak and read my first-born The Lorax at least twenty times a day. I boycotted companies that owned stock in Pacific Lumber. I used cloth diapers that I washed myself. I switched my focus from psychology to environmental studies in community college. I started hanging out with a lot of pagans, anarchists and tree sitters. I left nasty notes on business’s garbage bins if I saw recyclables piling over. I wasn’t your typical treehugger, though; I usually sat out of the contact-love, opting instead to observe the misguided hippies embracing trees in the pouring rain, their large paper-mâché tree spirit puppets dissolving at their feet. Through it all, something about threatened old- growth redwoods, my role as a new parent and my disgust with the global corporate entity gave me a sense of purpose: to dismantle the whole system and, of course, to commune with the trees.

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Medium 9781741795240

An Award-Winning Performance

Lonely Planet Lonely Planet ePub

Deborah Steg took her first transatlantic trip when she was two months old. Since then she has been smitten with a passion to travel. She lives in New York City.

As I was walking along the Croisette towards the far end of the Bay of Cannes, I noticed a large crowd in the distance resembling a beehive surrounded by worker bees. It was a balmy spring afternoon at the height of the Cannes Film Festival, and the sun was just starting to set. The sky was a deep cerulean blue with ribbons of white clouds streaked across the horizon. This location seemed too far from the centre of town for a photo shoot or celebrity interview, and as I approached I realised that it was just locals and tourists dressed casually and gathered curiously around the aftermath of an accident. Rather than styled and coiffed celebrities, there were several policemen on the scene and a large tow truck that was blocking the lane that led back to the centre of town.

Somehow I knew I would find my mother in the mêlée – and there she was, chatting to a very distressed looking Claudia Schiffer doppelganger. She didn’t even notice me come up behind her. From what I could piece together from overhearing the eyewitnesses’ accounts to the police, a car had come careening down the Croisette too fast and hit one of the parked cars, a white Mercedes-Benz that was now parked kerbside and looked like its driver’s side had been used in a crash test. The other vehicle, a Fiat, had not fared as well. The car had flipped over upon impact and looked like a large sardine can.

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Medium 9781574411836

The Church Softball League

Robert Flynn University of North Texas Press PDF

The Church Softball League j

My wife and I visited an aunt and uncle in a West Texas town that is best left unidentified. It was big enough to have two

Baptist churches as well as Methodist, Church of Christ, Assembly of God, Bible, and El Sendero churches. It was big enough to have a church softball league, requiring only two churches from neighboring communities.

My uncle, whom I will call Roland to protect the innocent, played first base for Second Baptist Church, that loved all people and all churches, and their softball teams, except First Baptist that they hated worse than sin. And they hated First Baptist softball team worse than they hated sin that someone else got away with.

First Baptist had brick walls, artificial stained glass, an electric organ, and a steeple with a cross that revolved like a windmill. When the wind blew. And the wind always blew. Their team had real uniforms with First Baptist Church on the front.

Second Baptist had clapboard, venetian blinds, and an upright piano. Their team wore blue jeans and tee-shirts with “’round

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Medium 9781741795240

Faeces Foot

Lonely Planet Lonely Planet ePub

Tim Cahill is the author of nine books, including Hold the Enlightenment, Jaguars Ripped My Flesh and Lost in My Own Backyard. He writes for many national magazines and is the co-writer of three IMAX films, including Everest. Tim lives in Montana with his wife, Linnea, two dogs and two cats.

On expeditions to remote and difficult areas, when conditions can become uncomfortable, if not to say actually agonising, it is customary to restructure the pain by irritating and annoying one’s companions. In such situations, a person fully expects to be taunted, mocked, ragged and generally made the butt of some profoundly grating ongoing jibe. Those of us who do this sort of thing for a living assume that giving the other girl or guy a daily ration of humiliation raises their tolerance level and helps them endure physical pain. We get our poop in a pile and fling it in the faces of our companions for their own good. No one derives any pleasure out of this. (Okay, I lied. It’s really fun – unless, of course, you are the person becoming exasperated beyond measure.) Expedition members generally take turns at being the brunt of the joke.

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Medium 9780615928272

The Geography Of Uncool:Public Transportation

Dani Burlison Petals & Bones Press PDF

DANI BURLISON

possibility; romance, adventure and a microscopic carbon footprint. A winning situation for me and the entire world.

To psych myself up, I thought back to several years ago when I watched Amelie every single night for an entire month in an attempt to revive my faith in love. I figured that if I watched the film often and with the naïvely optimistic, rose-tinted eyes of someone far enough away from the obliteration of heartbreak, that I’d somehow manifest some osmotic boot- knocking. Or something like that. Of course, what made the movie a complete romantic masterpiece wasn’t solely the onscreen presence of the lovely miss

Audrey Tautou or hottie Mathieu Kassovitz and their muchanticipated kiss on her doorstep, but the element of mystery, adventure and hip-quotient that Paris’ public transportation system and its depots seem to exude.

The idea of a chance encounter with a potential mate in the middle of criss-crossing strangers at a bus or train station or while daydreaming out the window, rolling swiftly toward a destination is one that I’d argue most of us have entertained at least once in our lifetimes.

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Medium 9781935362593

Frustrations

Julia Icenogle Kansas City Star Quilts ePub

Even though Mrs. Bobbins loves to quilt, it does have its frustratingly funny moments.

“Shoot, I think I’ve quilted in the tablecloth again.”

“When you’re finished, I need you to shave this old quilt…it’s bearding, too.”

“The moths that eat my wool quilts get appliquéd over the holes they make.”

“I’m telling you, Edith, carpal-tunnel just proves that I deserve a big blue ribbon!”

“Here’s a little something to help my quilt get to the top of the queue…and no questions asked.”

Mrs. Bobbins learns the hard way always to buy extra fabric for the binding.

Overnight guests at the Bobbins’ may not be able to breathe, but they are never cold.

“It is a little bit late for Christmas peppermints. Let’s say they’re beach balls.”

A little microquilting goes a long… actually, it only goes a little way.

“I’ve been fighting this windmill so long I feel like Don Quixote.”

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Medium 9780615928272

Pasty Little Inner Mutt

Dani Burlison Petals & Bones Press PDF

DANI BURLISON

my best-case daydream, the members host women-positive pagan rituals, drink mead from viking ship-engraved chalices and throw runes to foresee the future. Pelts of Nordic reindeer would cover hand-carved benches crafted from

Norwegian spruce and maple. Maybe some of the members were even in Norwegian Black Metal bands and hosted hardcore events, complete with slide shows of burning churches, a la Until the Light Takes Us. At the very least, I fully expected lessons on how to hammer out my own functioning bronze helmet and to embroider hand spun wool with the pre-Christian symbols of my roots.

As I have recently committed to further exploring and sharing my own heritage with my children, I decided to do some research on this tiny little building and the people who gather in it. The simple website informed me that the venue holds many events, including traditional Norwegian dance performances and language and art classes for youth.

Aside from the gnarly lutefisk dinners, Sons of Norway appeared to be a decent enough organization. The only thing holding me back from immediately signing on as a member was the idea of explaining to my peers why I’d be spending my weekends in a secret clubhouse with hoards of old white men.

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Medium 9781741795240

Dutch Toilet

Lonely Planet Lonely Planet ePub

Doug Lansky has spent ten years travelling in over one hundred countries. He is the author of Last Trout in Venice and Up the Amazon Without a Paddle, and penned a nationally syndicated travel-humour column in North America for five years. He currently contributes to National Geographic Adventure and Esquire, and makes his home in Stockholm, Sweden, where he has not been trapped in any toilet stalls.

The most reliable, though least utilised, traveller’s oasis in any city is the library. In a foreign land, you may not be able to read the books or even get a library card, but it usually has three crucial ingredients: free high-speed Internet access, free international newspapers and free toilets. On an April morning in the town of Maastricht, Holland, I went in search of this traveller’s trinity.

There was nothing remarkable about the public library I found; no soul-moving architecture or rare-archive collection that would attract the attention of guidebook writers. It was on the small side, with a low ceiling, and like any sanctuary of literature it was warmed with those hallowed hushed whispers that you could easily mistake for prayers.

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Medium 9781574411836

Next Year in Oberammergau

Robert Flynn University of North Texas Press PDF

Next Year in Oberammergau j

Winnie Wofford accompanied high school friends to Oklahoma to see the Easter Pageant that began at midnight and ended at dawn, and Winnie was so offended she never went to Oklahoma again. It had gotten bitterly cold in the hours between the baptism of Jesus and his arrest, and Millard Moore offered to share his blanket with her. She accepted because Millard went to the Chillicothe Baptist Church the same as she did.

However, crossing the state line had deranged Millard’s mind and he wanted to cross another line right when Judas betrayed

Jesus to torch-bearing Roman soldiers who arrested him. Jesus, that is.

She arrested Millard, or at least his intention. She told everyone in the car, she told her parents, she told the pastor, she told everyone in school that she had arrested Millard.

When they said she didn’t “arrest” him she went to college and returned to Chillicothe as an English teacher to prove that she did “arrest” him. And when Millard ran for the school board, and the city council, and when he was nominated as a deacon in the Baptist Church she told them again. Her only regret was that she didn’t have the police arrest him.

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