cbolt72 @cbolt72

@FOX4 A human baby. Not fetus, c’mon be better

It's important to have that supportive spouse! 📸@emmafayerudkin

Then they laid their hands on them and they received the Holy Spirit. Acts 8:17

The World Cup has turned America into a discovery channel for the rest of the world. And they are not handling it well. In the best possible way. Here is what they are discovering: Free public restrooms. Europeans pay every time. Free water at every restaurant. Just appears. Free refills. Coffee. Sodas. Iced tea. Unlimited. Free chips and salsa before you even order. Free warm bread with dinner. Ice in drinks like civilized people. Air conditioning everywhere. Not a moral debate. A fact. Parking lots attached to the actual place you are going. Drive throughs where the food comes to the car while you sit in it. Ranch dressing by the gallon. Tex-Mex that cannot be explained only experienced. Dental care that actually works. Buccee’s. There are no words for Buccee’s. Then they found the grocery stores. Five of them within one mile. Each one the size of an aircraft hangar. Burgers. Steaks. Brisket. Ribs. Pulled pork. Lamb. Veal. Every cut of every animal ever domesticated by human civilization available in one refrigerated aisle at ten in the morning on a Tuesday. The Germans stood in the meat section for forty five minutes. In silence. Processing. They finally understand why we do not have trains. We have roads wide enough for the cars we actually drive. Parking lots the size of small European countries. Airports in every city worth visiting. Why would we need trains. The Germans are taking ranch home by the bottle. The Dutch found queso and briefly lost the ability to speak. The Japanese are photographing HEB like it is the Louvre. The Czechs are weeping in West, Texas. Welcome to America! The greatest country on earth.

USA. A breakfast counter. The waitress recommended the biscuits and gravy, and when the plate arrived, I thought something had gone wrong in the kitchen. I say this with shame. The dish looked like a construction site after rain. Pale mounds. Gray ladle-fall. Speckles I could not identify. In my land, the eye eats first. A meal is arranged like a garden. This meal was arranged like weather. "Is it… finished?" I asked, carefully. "Honey, that's what it looks like." The man beside me was already eating his. He did not look up. "Just try it." I am a man who has charged hillsides at dawn. I raised the fork. I tried it. I must now formally apologize to the biscuits, the gravy, the waitress, the kitchen, and the entire breakfast tradition of the American South. It was magnificent. Warm. Peppered. The biscuit drank the gravy the way a field drinks rain — THAT is why it is shaped like that, you fool — and every mound I had insulted was a soft fold of comfort that my homeland, in eight hundred years, never once thought to invent. "Well?" the waitress asked. "I judged it," I confessed. "By its appearance. I am ashamed." "Everybody does, hon." Everybody does. A national dish that forgives you for doubting it. It expects the doubt. It waits for you on the other side of it. Do not judge the gravy by its face. Judge yourself, for hesitating. I order it every Saturday now. I no longer see the construction site. I see only the garden. It was a garden the whole time. The eye must be trained.

This is what the love of the game looks like. For a few seconds, the score didn’t matter. The rivalry didn’t matter. Winning and losing didn’t matter. One player saw another player down and his first instinct was to make sure he was okay. That’s the beauty of sports. We compete as hard as we can, but at the end of the day we’re all part of the same game. The best athletes understand that character matters just as much as talent. Moments like this are a reminder that the plays people remember most aren’t always the ones that make the highlight reel. Sometimes they’re the ones that show who you are when nobody expects it. Respect is undefeated. ⚾❤️

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Looks like he’s thinking about reenlisting 😅

USA. A backyard. One man guarding a grill for four hours. He never left it once. Everyone else drifted and drank and laughed. But one man stood alone before the flames, turning meat with a long fork, immovable. I knew him at once. The keeper of the sacred fire. I took my place beside him and said nothing. After a while, he spoke. "Low and slow," he said, eyes on the coals. "You can't rush it. Rush it, you ruin it." I bowed my head. A blade, a tea, a life. None can be rushed. I had crossed four thousand miles to hear my grandfather's words from a man in a "KISS THE COOK" apron. "Everything worth doing is slow," I agreed. He glanced at me. Something passed between us. "My wife says just use the oven." He shook his head at the fire. "She doesn't get it." "They never do," I said. And this is where it turned. For the first time in years, this man had been understood. And he rose to meet it. His back straightened. His voice dropped low. A teenager reached for the grill and the man lifted one hand without even looking. "Not yet." The boy retreated. He was becoming what I already believed him to be. A woman asked when the food would be done. "It's ready when it's ready," he told the flames. Three people approached. Three were turned away with a single word. By the fourth hour, no one questioned him. The whole party had arranged itself around the man and his fire, the way a village arranges itself around a shrine. Then he handed me the fork. "Watch it a sec. I gotta pee." I have been trusted with castles. I have never been more honored. He served everyone before himself, and ate last, standing, still watching the coals. We never traded names. We did not need to. He believed he had finally met a man who took his cooking seriously. I believed I had finally met America's last samurai. Neither of us will ever correct the other. So tell me, America. Who is the man at your gathering who will not leave the grill? Have you ever once asked him why? I think he is still standing there. Guarding the fire. Waiting for one person to understand.

USA. Summer. It is 95 degrees outside, and I am shivering inside a sandwich shop. I have discovered how Americans forge strong souls. Outside, the sun is trying to kill everyone. Inside this small restaurant, it is winter. My breath does not fog, but it is thinking about it. A man near me is eating a cold sandwich while wearing a jacket. In summer. Indoors. In Japan we would simply turn it down. Americans do not turn it down. And now I understand them better than they understand themselves. This cold is not an accident. This cold is a gift. The owner has built, inside his shop, a second season. He invites you in from the brutal heat and hands you the one thing the sun has denied you all day: a reason to be cold. To endure it is to be tempered. You walk in soft and sweating. You walk out sharp and clear, a slightly stronger person than you were. So I did not complain. I removed my outer layer and offered it to the woman at the next table, who was hugging herself. She said, "Oh, no, I'm fine, thank you." She was not fine. Her lips were blue. But she, too, understood the training. She would not break first. I respected her deeply. The owner asked if everything was okay. "It is perfect," I said, through my teeth, which were chattering. "Thank you for the winter." He said, "...I can turn the AC down if you want?" I told him no. A man does not ask the mountain to be shorter. I stayed two hours. I ordered a hot coffee to survive. Then a second one, to hold. By the end I could no longer feel my hands, but my spirit had never been clearer. So now, on the hottest days, I seek out the coldest rooms. I sit. I shiver. I sharpen. And when I finally step back out into the summer heat, and it wraps around me like a warm bath, I feel it. Reborn. A man who has survived the winter, in August, indoors, for the price of a sandwich.

Post your Friday fit

Goodness. What a prophetic quote from 44 years ago.

Since I’m going to be hearing this for the next 6 months as a Texas voter, let me answer the question: “You would vote for an adulterer over James Talarico? That’s not very Christian.” Here’s the truth: I would rather vote for almost anyone else who is going to at least advocate for conservative *policies* over a literal heretic who wears my faith like a skin suit, advocates for policies that harm children, endorses immorality and generally harm society. Ken Paxton has personal baggage. I don’t deny that. But Talarico has plenty too — and he openly mocks God’s law and treats Jesus as a political mascot all while pushing a radical far-left agenda that would be a disaster for my state. You see, I’m an adult. I do not expect those who are seeking political office to be my moral superiors or even trustworthy. They are tools to be used to do the least amount of damage via policy. I wish more pastors and men who live godly lives were running. I really do. But the options we get are what they are. Paxton supports secure borders, law enforcement, lower taxes, unleashing American energy, the Second Amendment, just to name a few. Talarico supports unlimited abortion, trans-ing children, higher taxes, government-run “healthcare,” and is incredibly comfortable blaspheming the word of God. I’m not voting for a priest. I’m voting for an imperfect person to represent my interests. That’s how it works. You’re not going to guilt trip Texans into supporting a looney tunes candidate like Talarico. Paxton will win by 5+. It’s about policy, not personality.

"Beto but gayer."

Democrats @TheDemocrats

2 months ago

Fired up. Ready to go. It’s time to take back Texas.

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NEW: Country music star and U.S. Marine Corps veteran Jamey Johnson performed “In Color” during the National Memorial Day Concert. I didn’t realize he served. RESPECT. 🇺🇸 This song gets me everytime. Both of grandpa’s funeral videos featured this song.

On this day in 2016, Rougned Odor landed a right hook on Jose Bautista in Texas.

Dust on our Bibles