SPONSOR : www.linkedin.com/in/jimdascenzo/ Mt 5:3 Blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.
After glancing down the other day, it occurred to me the life I’d known to that point, had ceased to exist.
There they were. Live, in technicolor and unmistakable: my Grandma's ankles.
I'm not sure why, but I remember what they looked like. Strange.
I just recall looking at my tiny Grandma one day (I bet she never weighed more than a buck and change), seeing her bony, vein-riddled ankles and thinking, "Aw, poor little old Grammi! Those must hurt!"
Turns out, she may not have been as old as I thought she was back then ... and by the by, yes; yes they do. Often.
As if that wasn't enough, I woke up two days later with a flare up of "the arth-er-it is" as Fred G. Sanford always called it. #FiftyAndFallingApart
At a certain point in a woman's life, she looks in the mirror and says to herself: “Um, have we met, Ma’am?”
‘Cause we don’t really recognize that fossil staring back at us, yo.
Sure, I'd seen the rumpled, puckered thighs on a fellow runner in the park some time ago. I was devastated for her--- while secretly, smugly thinking: thank HEAVENS I don't have those!
Fast forward (and I mean, 12 times hyper speed) a few years and sure enough: my thigh skin has fallen so hard, it is now crowding my ankles like an old lady's pantyhose.
Methinks Jane Seymour’s about to gain a follower in her “Crepe Erase” cult.
Yes, indeed, once you’re forced to slide cheaters OVER TOP of your bi-focals to read a recipe, it’s clear: Girl, you ain’t a girl no mo’.
And it bugs an old girl. Okay, this one. Apparently, we old chicks are crabby.
This brings me to some intolerances I’ve developed alongside my drooping eyelids, saggy side arms and elephant elbows. And here they are, in no particular order:
-“Do Not Reply” in the subject line. This is patently rude and guarantees that I WILL be responding to you. I will waste two days tracking you down then BOMBARD you with replies, pal. That’s how old women roll.
-CCing my boss. If you have something to say to me, I’m right here, capisce? I’m sorry, that’s Italian for “Get a spine.” Not really but grumpy gals make up our own versions of verbiage from time to time.
-"K" Look, I may be old, but not so old I don’t understand that a single letter response is shadier than ten orchards full of sugar maples in early fall, ‘K?
-Wild wild west driving in the parking lot. Are you familiar with this behavior? Where suddenly, it’s England because everyone’s on the wrong side…and pretending there are no marked lanes or parking spaces or stop signs. And for Pete’s sake, get outta the emergency lane or I will challenge you to a buggy duel to the death, hombre!
-Memento shaming. The answer to your question is YES, I DO need to keep my nearly-20-year-old’s second grade report card. Hello? Do you not see what the English teacher wrote? “He’s incredibly bright; very advanced for his age.” Like, what do you think I’m going to show the Nobel Prize people when they announce his win for Literature in 2032? Duh.
Yeah, okay, maybe I should look into some of that Ginkgo Biloba stuff when I’m ordering my triple-firming neck cream for my waddle. I might as well be a HAPPY Thanksgiving turkey.
Kimerer is a Tribune/Vindicator columnist who is FINE with being old so get off her back already. Check out her geriatric gist www.patriciakimerer.com
SPONSOR: www.linkedin.com/in/jimdascenzo/ Heb 4:12 The word of God is living and effective, able to discern reflections and thoughts of the heart.
Oscar Wilde is credited with having coined the phrase. It might have been him; he was quite a clever wordsmith, that one. Coincidentally, his birthday is tomorrow. Just an aside.
Either way, "No good deed goes unpunished" is quite the loaded little phrase, no?
Some people think it's an idiom. Others feel it could be a hyperbole. Still others believe it to be sarcasm or satire.
If you know a little about Wilde, he might have been going for the latter most. Either way.
Sadly, on many occasions, I have found it to be simply factual. Sigh.
Isn't it just the harshest when you're trying to do someone a solid and they, in turn, liquefy you? What in the???
Yeah; happened to me just the other day.
I thought I was doing a favor for a human I really like only to find out the bow I wrapped it in had morphed into the kind with arrows as accompaniment.
And they were all aimed at my head...which had no apples atop, you dig? More sighing.
Sure, it's not the first time my consideration backfired on me like a catalytic converter on crack. Hmpf.
But you know what? It won't be the last, either. Because I'd rather wind up disappointed and downtrodden than to not do the right thing.
I'm a sucker for the other earth-dwellers, what can I say?
So, I'll keep shooting for the moon...as I shop for an astronaut suit online. Those are fire-resistant, right?
#NeverStopBeingKind #Forgive #DoTheRightThing #Pray #Peace
SPONSOR: www.linkedin.com/in/jimdascenzo/ Thes 5:18 In all circumstances, give thanks, for this is the will of God for you in Christ Jesus.
My friend’s second grader isn’t learning it yet – but I guess that’s not odd since my other pal’s kids didn’t hear about it from their teachers until the third grade.
But even then, the entire lesson lasted for the equivalent of like, oh, I don’t know, three periods or so. Um, out of the entire school year. Grrr.
My sister really started this whole conversation a few weeks ago by casually mentioning that she is teaching her nephew (on her husband’s side) to write in cursive.
It’d have been an adorable story … if he was four. He’s fourteen. He’s a freshman in high school for crying out loud!
“Wait…what?” I said, the writer in me about to flip out higher than the loops in John Hancock’s signature on the Declaration of Independence.
As a writer, blogger, and Catholic grade school graduate, I was not only deeply offended by these revelations, I was absolutely flummoxed. If you don’t know what flummoxed means, you probs aren’t from my penmanship era.
Sure, I knew that society was moving away from my beloved cursive script. I read the articles circa 2010 stating that the Common Core standards of education were all but eradicating it from existence; though I think I sufficiently deleted them from my mental card catalog. Yes, I am old.
I think I had blocked out that regulatory tragedy in total until Gina’s innocent remark set me off like a congregation of cuckoos at a calligraphy convention.
Sure, pen and paper have been sufficiently sidelined by e-mail and texting and snap chats, oh my. Don’t even get me started on the cataclysm that is instant messaging. The grammar gods weep.
Naturally, I’m all for efficient communication, not to mention being a great advocate for STEM education, especially in encouraging girls to be scientists and researchers and astronauts and … ah, another time, another column. Back to the basics.
Which is all I’m saying. Guess which common denominator is an important part of all communication, education, business, entertainment, and you know, life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?
Grammar. Language. Syntax. Semantics. Um, hello, where does all conversation begin and end? WORDS, people. (And non-verbals, sure, but try to build an entire civilization on ‘em…no can do.)
And it all starts with being able to read, write, and sign your own flippity flipping name, for Pete’s sake!
I am happy to report that the Buckeye state is leading the charge in returning cursive writing to its proper place of importance in American grade schools.
According to an article published in the New York Times in April:
“Last month, a law went into effect in Ohio providing funding for materials to help students learn cursive by fifth grade.” Yeah, that’s right. We’re trendsetters, yo.
Because, shortly thereafter, in an effort not to be messed with, Texas enacted legislation ensuring that by fall “second graders in Texas will learn cursive and will be required to know how to write it legibly by third grade.”
Don’t just take it from me that learning longhand is beneficial, that same Times article explains that cursive should make a comeback for its positive results on brain development, motor skills, comprehension, and memory. So there.
I can hear the heavenly chorus of nuns who taught the multitude of school children across the nation for centuries echoing the joyous strains of “Oh Handwriting, Oh Handwriting, how lovely are thy letters! …And stop slouching!”
Kimerer is a Trib/Vindy columnist who likes good, old-fashioned penmanship but reluctantly communicates for this age via this blog.
SPONSOR www.linkedin.com/in/jimdascenzo/ Lk 11: Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed by Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.
It happens every year.
I always wind up with chills, a low grade fever, achiness, and usually some sort of, er, tummy trauma. #ItHappens
It's minor. It only lasts a day. It doesn't interrupt my life too terribly, if at all. Frequent bathroom trips not withstanding. I thankfully digress.
But believe me you, if it wards off the flu for another year; it's SO worth it, yo.
I never used to get the flu shot. I mean, I really don't recall such media buildup and the constant plugging of it by physicians, hospitals, pharmacies, um, butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers et al, when I was a kid.
Look, I have never been one to follow along with what everyone's doing just because it's been cleverly advertised, is popular with the cool kids or is considered politically correct. I don't believe the hype. Period.
But I DO believe the Centers for Disease Control's flu statistics relative to this matter in these here parts of the third rock. They state that 80,000 earthlings living in the U.S. succumbed to the flu last winter. It was the highest rate in 40 years. Horrendous.
Oh, and like I need ANOTHER reason to hate winter. Grr....
Look, I know there's no guarantee I won't still get the flu. And, truth be told, I didn't even start getting an annual flu shot until I worked in hospital PR and THEY MADE ME.
But I'm grateful they did because I am acutely aware that this ain't my Grandad's influenza. It's a fact that modern strains of the flu are like, mutating and multiplying and morphing and pretty much scaring the poo poo pee do outta peeps like me--- more and more EVERY SINGLE YEAR.
Hey, I saw "Contagion," dude! #Terrifying And yeah, I get it; this debate has been raging since --- well, since it WAS my Grandad's influenza.
But every sports fan knows the best defense is a good offense. So, stop putting it off. Deal with any minor side effects like a sore arm and what not. And, unless you know for a fact that you cannot tolerate it, suck it up, buttercup. At the very least, it offers SOME protection to you...and the homosapiens you hang with, Capisce?
Get the flu shot. It's good for what (hopefully doesn't!) ail you.
Besides, I KNOW your Mom told you to. I listened to mine! #FluShot #PreventativeCare #Pray #Peace
SPONSOR: www.linkedin.com/in/jimdascenzo/ Jn 13:34 I give you a new commandment: love one another as I have loved you.
Do you remember The Fixx? They were a London-based new-wave band –-well, new back in the early 1980s, anyway.
Oh, and when I say new-wave, I’m not necessarily referring to their hair, although I could be, clearly. Those boys had bangs you could land a 747 on, I tell ya.
In fact, only Mike Score of fellow punk/sci-fi/alternative band A Flock of Seagulls had more tempestuous tresses. His mixed-up mullet, which hung headlong down the front of his face, was the obvious inspiration for the band’s name since an entire herd of bird could easily nest there undetected for an entire transcontinental flight.
Man, “A Flock and A Fixx,” as original MTV veejay Martha Quinn always referred to the collective Brits, had some really scary 80s hair.
Either way, The Fixx racked up several Top 40 hits in Europe and across the pond here in the U.S., too.
I loved ‘em.
Lanky of looks and hauntingly techno of beat, you could really “jam” to them on the dance floor. Look, back then, we be jammin’. I digress.
The Fixx still tours with their almost original lineup, playing their biggest hits “Red Skies,” “Saved by Zero,” “Are We Ourselves?” and my personal favorite: “One Thing Leads to Another.”
It’s lyrics remain relatable:
“…Why don't they do what they say; say what they mean? One thing leads to another. But when the wrong word goes in the right ear…It's getting rough, off the cuff I've got to say enough's enough!”
Okay, I didn’t say the songwriters were on par with Bowie or Dylan or …any of the Beatles (except Ringo), all right? But I do share their pondering of why things don’t always sound like their meanings?
Take some ordinary English words and phrases, for instance.
Why is it that “gruntled” gives sort of an angry and huffy impression when its definition is “pleased, satisfied, and contented”? Or why is someone described as “woebegone” super sad…isn’t the woe, like, outta here?
And, if we call it heartburn when fiery sensations flare in our chests…or a hangover when a drinking binge presumably leads to said position in the lavatory the next morning; then how come:
-A screen can either be something that lets in air, light, and sound or completely blocks out any and all outside elements?
-Fast can either mean extra quick or to go completely without?
-Dust refers to both the act of cleaning or that which needs cleaned?
-If it’s a cold sore, why does it sting?
-If the house always wins, why don’t we all just move into condos?
Yeah, it’s a frightening place, inside the mind of PK –which also wonders why in God’s name people like to watch “Dr. Pimple Popper?” Speaking of, where exactly did she perfect this skill, Acne U.?
How’s there so much unemployment if we’re all so busy we must shop online, eat lunch at our desks, and marry at drive through windows?
While we’re at it, where do all the lightning bugs go---like suddenly, all at once? And what is the deal with winter windowsill flies? Are they dead and if so, how are they miraculously reborn on the first sunny day in spring?
These are the things that keep me up at night.
Well, that and the worry that Kyle is inching along a high-wire between two skyscrapers (sans net) while juggling flaming machetes as his friends encourage cartwheels. What, you don’t have a kid in college?
Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle & Vindicator columnist with a nature that is nervous, just like it sounds. Check out her bewildered blog www.patriciakimerer.com
SPONSOR: www.linkedin.com/in/jimdascenzo/ PS 95:8 If today you hear his voice, harden not your hearts.
I know this guy. Well, I used to know him, sorta. That is to say, he used to be very important to a human I love very much. But, truth be told, I never really knew him all that well.
As it turns out, unfortunately, neither of us did--and probably most everyone else in his orbit, too. Yep, he morphed into some kinda cretin none of us recognized. Hurt a bunch of peeps special to me.
The big jerkface.
I know. These things happen all the time. Deep sigh.
Sure, we're all a little defective in one way or another. Then again, some of us need minor corrective tweaks while others require a massive recall to practically implode the current model and start from scratch, you dig?
In other words, some mistakes are bigger than others, yo.
I'm no faultless earthling, mind you. PK mistakes have been made aplenty--and then some. And sadly, will be again. I am sure I'm a huge jerkface myself at times. But I'll tell you this: I never intentionally hurt the other humans, period.
Anywho, that whole sitch happened long ago but one thing has never stopped irking me. As he was going about his nastiness, he claimed God was telling him to.
Um, dude, you kiss your mother with that deceiving pie hole? #Liar #Spineless
At least have the constitution to claim your own crap, butthead. You screwed up. Big time. Repeatedly. Again, to varying degrees, we all do.
But it's then that we ask the Big Guy to cut us slack because we're sorry; not toss Him under a stupid little bus because we're cowards. GRRRR.
Look, I err. You err. We all err. We a buncha errors, Capisce?
But, if we're really contrite and we wanna do better --and I believe most of the humans do-- it's never too late to try again. We can all be forgiven if we're really truly remorseful...thank heavens! We just need to:
Step one: Own our own bad behavior.
Step two: Show that we really regret it; apologize.
Step three: Correct things the best we can -- and don't do that stuff no mo'.
Oh, and do not blame others for our own stupid, reckless and/or selfish decisions. Especially not the One who gave us EVERYTHING in life.
Got that, jackwagon? #Integrity #Remorse Forgiveness #Pray #Peace
SPONSOR: www.linkedin.com/in/jimdascenzo/ Mk 1:15 The Kingdom of God is at hand; repent and believe in the Gospel.
I have this flaw.
Oh hex, who am I kidding? I've got a boat load of 'em. Like, the QEII size of boat, know what I'm sayin? #NoOnesPerfect
But one of my more prevalent faults is being overly sensitive. That is to say, I can't hear a troubling story on the evening news, listen to a heart-wrenching song on the radio, or even catch a glimpse of a mushy Hallmark card commercial without welling up. #ImACryer
By the same token --hey, why does that phrase mean the same thing as 'on the flip side'? See Sunday's column for more on stuff that doesn't sound like what it really means. I digress.
Anyway, correspondingly, no one will be happier for you in your victories, proud of you in your achievements, or loyal to you in your tribulations than old PK. I totally love the other humans; they are my favorite two-legged peeps on the third rock. #DogPerson
I make no apologies for being hyper empathetic or way true blue; except to say, I'm sorry if it bugs any of the humans -- or canines.
What I refuse to lament is how I feel toward those homosapiens who wantonly, knowingly, and with full malice opt for hurting other earth-dwellers JUST BECAUSE THEY CAN.
I don't like that. Knock it off, as my Pop would say when we got too rowdy in the backseat of the station wagon on a long trip.
Not only is it mean but also, it will cause extra wrinkles, higher BP, and more age spots (and sooner!) than your kinder counterparts. Fine I might've made all that up but it COULD be true! Oh, and one more thing: NONE of it goes unnoticed.
Sure, down here on earth, it may just be some poor, lowly schlub like PK who observes your blatant disregard for the feelings of others. But believe me when I tell you that my girl Karma is also watching.
More importantly, so is the Big Guy of like, you know, everything. ALL. THE. TIME.
SO --- "You better watch whaddayou say. You better watch whaddaya do ta me!" as Tom Petty and the Hearbreakers always advised. #YaBigCreep
Be warned, big stupid mean heads. You may think you're just fryin' a few small fish ... but you might just be the one who ends up outside the pan when it's all said and done, Capisce? #BeKind #LoveOneAnother #HaveEmpathy #Pray #Peace
SPONSOR: www.linkedin.com/in/joseph-joe-ledford-03407421/ Lk 9: "...and anyone who welcomes me, welcomes the one who sent me. The least among you all is the one who is the greatest."
It's a funny thing, how you hear your own voice, isn't it?
I mean, in my head and with the two sound receptacles on either sides of my face, I hear a gal speaking at a given pitch with a designated tone (situationally-dictated, of course) , whose words move along a certain cadence and which sound a particular way.
This is NOT AT ALL the same sound I encounter whenever my likeness/voice are recorded and played back to me.
"E-GADS! Is that how I really talk???" I invariably remark upon hearing myself utter words and stuff.
I know you know of what I speak. I mean, you sound all wonky to YOU, too, right?
I think it's a little bit that way with your psyche, as well.
Heck, I had NO idea this was happening, but I think I am sending off more than just irritating pitches. As in, the other humans in my immediate orbit are actually impacted by my sense of being.
To put it simply: when I'm in a funk, it brings my peeps down, Capisce? Makes sense to me, since seeing my loved ones sad or hurting is like a knife to my own heart.
How we act --and more importantly react-- in the face of life's ups and downs has a domino effect. All. The. Time.
This I was gently reminded of recently as my friend remarked that her day seemed a little less bright because ... I wasn't smiling like I usually do.
Oh man! I pride myself on making other homosapiens smile not frown --or worse. Crud!
That's when it dawned on me that this little light 'o mine isn't really MINE. In fact, it is here on loan ... to be shone and shown, you dig?
So, I'm sorry for letting some meanie pants steal my smile. I promise to try harder to do better at picking myself up -- and hopefully, my friends, colleagues and all the rest of God's creatures great and smile whom I encounter along the way, too.
After all, we're in this thing together, fellow earth dwellers.
And oh yes, thanks for the reminder, Diane. I love you, too. #BeHappy #SpreadJoy #LifeIsAGift #Gratitude #Pray #Peace
SPONSOR: https://www.linkedin.com/in/joseph-joe-ledford-03407421/ Lk 9: "...For the one who is least among all of you is the one who is the greatest."
I’ve been called many things in my life.
Several of which are unfit to print … or even post to social media … or speak in front of your priest.
But that was mostly when I was little and sparring with my sister, Gina. Okay fine, when I was getting whooped on by her, whatever. Poh-TAY-toh, poh-TOT-toh.
And during those sessions it wasn’t anything completely vile so much as it was, kid mean. You know, the typical silly-fight name-calling type of thing: jerk face; dummy; dog breath; piff brain; air head.
Yes, though my given name is Patricia I’ve beheld many nicknames in my five decades around the sun. Among them:
Patty. Pats. PK. P. Pat. Pitter Patter (that last one is Ma, natch). Daughter. Sister. Baby girl (that would be Pop).
Trish. Tricky. Patrizia. Patrishka, the Dancing Bear (a former colleague).
Little sis (the world’s best big bro). Little buckaroo (that’s one Gina and I share for one another; don’t ask me why). Peep (my girlfriend Chris; see Gina explanation).
Aunt Patty -sometimes shortened to just AP. Mama Kimerer or Mama K – this from my son’s pals.
Sista Girlfriend – that’s my sis-in-law-and-life, Kim.
Kiddo – usage reserved for my Momma and my doc---both of whom I adore.
Little Marinuch; Little Manuch; Little One. Mouse. These are all from childhood friends.
The Good One. The Nice One. The Smart One. These were tossed about as I was getting picked over for Prom dates, BT dubs.
Idiot! Stupid! Moron! These I’ve heard yelled at me as I’m being passed on the freeway.
Um, let’s see: Pal. Friend. Buddy. Girlfriend. Ex-Girlfriend. Hmpf.
There are the “usuals”: Babe, Hon – used only by my husband and my sister-from-another-mister Michelle. He’s been with me through ---oh man, like a crap ton; she’s been by my side since I was five. That’s what I said. Take that, all you “Facebook Friends for Two Years” celebrators. Ahem.
There are the unusuals: Bone (Pop again; his way of telling me to mangia!); Pat the Brat who Eats No Fat (Gina again—guess that’s HER way of telling me to mangia?).
And then, there’s the one without which I’d have none of the others: Catholic.
But, I’ve also held down some other neat titles in my day:
Student. Leader. Lecturer. Graduate. Alumnus. Miss. Mrs.
Cashier. Waitress. Line Worker.
Programming Secretary (then Assistant and eventually MANAGER; BAM!).
Marketing Coordinator; PR Specialist; Freelance Writer; Foundation Chair; Communications Manager. Blogger. Columnist. Communications Director. Board Member.
Here are a few I’ve never heard to describe me: Pulitzer Prize Winner; Olympian; Direction Guru. Math Whiz. I’m holding out hope for the first one, yo.
And after I accidentally deleted my e-mail accounts 47 times (and my husband from the family?) as I upgraded cell phone models last week, I will not ever in my lifetime hope to catch even a whisper of a reference as Tech Expert or Computer Whiz. That guy on the freeway was right. #IAmAMoron
How the heck do I know what the Incoming Mail Server is called? What does my POP have to do with setting it up? Aren’t my name and email address description enough; why is that even a thing??
Oh well. Doesn’t matter. As long as there’s that one kid out there calling me by my absolute, unabashed, all-time beloved moniker of MOM – the rest of the humans and androids may call me what they please, even Cool Chick, if they wanna? Yeah, I s’pose not.
Kimerer is a Trib/Vindy columnist who’s hoping her kiddo can fix her phone…and repair her psyche. Visit her virtually www.patriciakimerer.com
SPONSOR: www.linkedin.com/in/joseph-joe-ledford-03407421/ Lk 11:28 Blessed are those who hear the word of God and observe it. Lk 9:22 He said, 'The Son of man is destined to suffer grievously, to be rejected by the elders and chief priests and scribes and to be put to death, and to be raised up on the third day.'
I was watching a re-run of "Below Deck Mediterranean" the other day. It was titled "The Beautiful Thing about Sub Par"--which intrigued me so much, I had to watch the entire episode.
And then, like, five more. Apparently, there was a marathon of that and it's parent program "Below Deck" all last week?
For those of you who may not be avid viewers of the Bravo network like yours truly; here's Wikipedia's description of the show:
"'Below Deck' chronicles the lives of the crew members who work and reside aboard a mega-yacht (more than 100 to 150-foot) during the Caribbean charter season. It shows the crew as they deal with their personal issues in order to make their professional careers work. Each episode features a different group of guests."
The Med version is, you know, same concept but set in the Mediterranean, duh.
Any who, the episode featured the parting antics of deckhand Danny Zureikat, a Floridian who (from what I gathered) quickly became a fan and crew favorite. Um, to hate, that is.
Arrogant and rude, he broke some pretty carnal, er, I mean cardinal rules about not fraternizing with the charter guests. Plus, it seems like he was just kind of a big stupid head to his co-workers most of the time.
So, not shockingly, he got booted off the boat (and series). As the captain handed Danny his walking papers, he remarked that the deckhand's work was "sub par" pretty much from the start.
Most of us would take that as a tremendous insult. Not Danny. He said the beautiful thing about being sub par was that there was room for improvement. Like, enough room for Sicily to fit in that space, Capsice? (Hey, it's the biggest island in the Med, plus, I'm Italian, a'ight?)
Either way, delusional Dan has a point. Sometimes, as much as it hurts to hear someone tell you about a shortcoming; that's the most surefire way for you to start turning it into an attribute.
Or, it can serve as the inspiration for finding the line of work in which you aren't sub par -- but SUPERB, you dig?
And, hey, it could just be that your critic was wrong about you stinking at your job et al. No matter since, at the very least, you know where you stand with a human once he hands you a blow that big. And that's a pretty empowering starting point for your big comeback.
So you go, Danny! Find your mad skills! Be you! Just like, please do it far, far away from one of my new favorite Bravo shows, 'kay?
#NeverGiveUp #KeepTrying #YouGotMadSkills #Pray #Peace