So what's your doll's name? Boo asked me.Barbie, I said. All their names are Barbie.I see, she said. Well, I'd think that would get boring, everyone having the samename.I thought about this, then said, Okay, then her name is Sabrina.Well, that's a very nice name, Boo said. I remember she was baking bread,kneading the doughbetween her thick fingers. What does she do?Do? I said.Yes. She flipped the dough over and started in on it from the other side. Whatdoes she do?She goes out with Ken, I said.And what else?She goes to parties, I said slowly. And shopping.Oh, Boo said, nodding.She can't work?She doesn't have to work, I said.Why not?Because she's Barbie.I hate to tell you, Caitlin, but somebody has to make payments on that town houseand the Corvette,Boo said cheerfully. Unless Barbie has a lot of family money.I considered this while I put on Ken's pants.Boo started pushing the dough into a pan, smoothing it with her hand over the top.You know what Ithink, Caitlin? Her voice was soft and nice, the way she always spoke to me.What?I think your Barbie can go shopping and go out with Ken and also have aproductive and satisfyingcareer of her own. She opened the oven and slid in the bread pan, adjusting itsposition on the rack.But what can she do? My mother didn't work and spent her time cleaning thehouse and going to PTA.I couldn't imagine Barbie, whose most casual outfit had sequins and go-go boots,doing s.uch things.Boo came over and plopped right down beside me. I always rememberher being on my level; she'd siton the edge of the sandbox, or lie across her bed with me and Cass as we listened tothe radio.Well, she said thoughtfully, picking up Ken and examining his perfect physique.What do you want todo when you grow up?I remember this moment so well; I can still see Boo sitting there on the floor, cross-legged, holding myKen and watching my face as she tried to make me see that between my mother'sPTA and Boo'sstrange ways there was a middle ground that began here with my Barbie, Sab-rina,and led right to me.Well, I said abruptly, I want to be in advertising. I have no idea where this camefrom.Advertising, Boo repeated, nodding. Okay. Advertising it is. So Sabrina has to goto work every day,coming up with ideas for commercialsand things like that.She works in an office, I went on. Sometimes she has to work late.Sure she does, Boo said. It's hard to get ahead. Even if you're Barbie.Because she wants to get promoted, I added. So she can pay off the town house.And the Corvette.Very responsible of her, Boo said.Can she be divorced? I asked. And famous for her commercialsand ideas?She can be anything, Boo told me and this is what I remember most, her freckledface so solemn, as ifshe knew she was the first to tell me. And so can you.
Sarah Dessen
Beginning in 1519 and continuing until the end of his life, Luther expounded a theme that the Sacrament brings and means a fellowship of love and mercy: This fellowship consists in this, that all the spiritual possessions of Christ and his saints are shared with and become the common property of him who receives this sacrament. Again all sufferings and sins also become common property; and thus love engenders love in return and [mutual love] unites . . . It is like a city where every citizen shares with all the others the city's name, honor, freedom, trade, customs, usages, help, support, protection and the like, while at the same time he shares all the dangers of fire and flood, enemies and death, losses taxes and the like. For he who would share in the profits must also share in the costs and ever recompense love with love . . . For Luther, unity with respect to the Sacrament meant both doctrinal agreement and love. When the prerequisite to church fellowship is defined merely (however important!) in terms of doctrinal fellowship, it can end in a Platonic pursuit of a frigid and rigid mental ideal. Doctrinal unity, true unity in Christ's body and blood, is also a unity of deep love and mercy. If I will not lay down my burden on Christ and the community, or take up the burdens of others who come to the Table, then I should not go to the Sacrament. Close(d) Communion is also a fellowship of love and mercy with my brother and sister in Christ as Luther taught in the previous citation.
Matthew C. Harrison
What - what - what are you doing? he demanded.I am almost six hundred years old, Magnus claimed and Ragnor snorted, since Magnus changed his age to suit himself every few weeks. Magnus swept on. It does seem about time to learn a musical instrument. He flourished his new prize, a little stringed instrument that looked like a cousin of the lute that the lute was embarrassed to be related to. It's called a charango. I am planning to become a charanguista!I wouldn't call that an instrument of music, Ragnor observed sourly. An instrument of torture, perhaps.Magnus cradled the charango in his arms as if it were an easily offended baby. It's a beautiful and very unique instrument! The sound box is made from an armadillo. Well, a dried armadillo shell.That explains the sound you're making, said Ragnor. Like a lost, hungry armadillo.You are just jealous, Magnus remarked calmly. Because you do not have the soul of a true artiste like myself.Oh, I am positively green with envy, Ragnor snapped.Come now, Ragnor. That's not fair, said Magnus. You know I love it when you make jokes about your complexion.Magnus refused to be affected by Ragnor's cruel judgments. He regarded his fellow warlock with a lofty stare of superb indifference, raised his charango and began to play again his defiant, beautiful tune.They both heard the staccato thump of frantically running feet from within the house, the swish of skirts and then Catarina came rushing out into the courtyard. Her white hair was falling loose about her shoulders and her face was the picture of alarm.Magnus, Ragnor, I heard a cat making a most unearthly noise, she exclaimed. From the sound of it, the poor creature must be direly sick. You have to help me find it!Ragnor immediately collapsed with hysterical laughter on his windowsill. Magnus stared at Catarina for a moment, until he saw her lips twitch.You are conspiring against me and my art, he declared. You are a pack of conspirators.He began to play again. Catarina stopped him by putting a hand on his arm.No, but seriously, Magnus, she said. That noise is appalling.Magnus sighed. Every warlock's a critic.Why are you doing this?I have already explained myself to Ragnor. I wish to become proficient with a musical instrument. I have decided to devote myself to the art of the charanguista and I wish to hear no more petty objections.If we are all making lists of things we wish to hear no more . . . , Ragnor murmured.Catarina, however, was smiling.I see, she said.Madam, you do not see.I do. I see it all most clearly, Catarina assured him. What is her name?I resent your implication, Magnus said. There is no woman in the case. I am married to my music!Oh, all right, Catarina said. What's his name, then?His name was Imasu Morales and he was gorgeous.
Cassandra Clare