Penny Thoughts

What they do not tell you about quantitative easing is that it results in qualitative easing.

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When late to church…

…the peace of Sabbath rest is far more elusive.

…normally kind parents put stumbling blocks of frustration before young worshipers.

the command to treat others (i.e. fellow drivers) as you want to be treated is easily forgotten.

…the desire to see others changes into the desire not to be seen by others.

…warm greetings become embarrassing smiles.

…the latest announcements turn into missed opportunities.

God’s special call to worship and to know Him is not heard by you.

…praises around His throne are lacking your voice.

…confession of sin is not made or assurance of pardon received by you.

Can we really afford to be late to church?

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We must go through the school of prayer, or we shall never be fit for the holiday of praise.”

–J.C. Ryle

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We now understand more about cimex lectularius than we ever hoped to know. That’s the fancy name for a fierce little critter you would call a bed bug, which invaded our home following a conference this summer.  As we still have people asking how our battle against them is going, we would publicly like to declare victory.  But it came with a big price –  vigilant examinations, vigorous cleaning for weeks, the loss of a mattress and box springs, too much money spent on foggers, sprays and plastic bags, and the ending of one of our common nighttime sayings (For who can joke about such a thing anymore?).  

It did have one positive effect.  It served as a good reminder of how thorough our battle with sin must be.  

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Sad to see a nation work so hard to give other countries the freedom to burn our flag like our own citizens then act so surprised when they actually do it.

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I know now what the D in D-Day stands for.  Dentist.  They even use a form of water torture to extract confessions.  

Recently the sweetest of technicians, a little gal no more than five feet tall, put on a mask to hide her diabolical smile.  As I lay under the spotlight, she proceeded to put both her rubber glove-covered hands into my mouth along with a mini-pressure washer that she called a “sonic tartar remover.”  As I lay there with water pooling on the top of my epiglottis, my gulping trying to keep me from gagging, a little “vacuum tube” was hooked on the corner of my lip to help remove the water supposedly.  Yet I know it was just part of her method, the gross sucking sound it made on the inside of my cheek trying to make me crack.  But I resisted sitting up and crying out, “Alright, I admit I’ve been eating candy without flossing!”  She’ll never get it out of me.

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The Christian can look at life through rose-colored glasses only because he has a blood-covered soul.

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