Best 1284 quotes in «christmas quotes» category

It's a part of life. You never know what you are going to get; you just have to be strong enough to deal with it. Keep a positive attitude and have a little faith.

It’s been my experience that most folk who ride trains could care less where they’re going. For them it’s the journey itself and the people they meet along the way. You see, at every stop this train makes, a little bit of America, a little bit of your country, gets on and says hello. That’s why trains are so popular at Christmas. People get on to meet their country over the holidays. They’re looking for some friendship, a warm body to talk to. People don’t rush on a train, because that’s not what trains are for. How do you put a dollar value on that? What accounting line does that go on?

It’s Christmas Day!” said Scrooge to himself. “I haven’t missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can.

It’s Christmas, and no matter what historical usage you choose to assign to “mass” be it mission or Lord’s Supper, Christ’s Mass refers to WHY he came, not THAT he came. Christ’s mission was to be a sacrifice.

It's easy to forget that life is the greatest gift of all

It's funny to think that Christmas — a time known for its joyful togetherness — can be the loneliest time of the year for some.

It's just sex, Blake. Isn't that what you said to me the last time? No emotions. Just sex.” “I'll only end up hurting you,” I say to the wall. “Worse than I did before.” He moves from the back of the sofa and comes to stand directly in front of me. His dick is mere inches from my mouth. I have to swallow several times to keep from using my tongue on it. I close my eyes. “I can't, Seth. If I take you now I'll be rough and I'll end up hurting you in other ways.” “Being rough wasn't a concern of yours before.” “I'm not the same person I was before.

It's like pretending to be Santa and then stabbing someone with a candy cane!

[It's Not About You, Mr. Santa Claus,] is a fun read and a twist on Christmas, because it does involve Santa Claus and Jesus, and it doesn’t say that Santa Claus is bad, but it’s the child explaining to Santa Claus the true reason for the season is Jesus.

It's nuclear winter, Mormo's robe is blood red. With a sack full of weapons and a missile for a sled.

It's supposed to be jolly, with mistletoe and holly... and other things ending in olly.

It’s the season. We share what we’ve got.

It still feels weird to spend money on Christmas trees. Back when Mom was alive, we’d go out “tree hunting.” That’s what she called it, anyway. I think other people might use the word “trespassing.

It takes a long long time, and a lot of wisdom to discover the true Spirit of Christmas.

It was a Game called Yes and No, where Scrooge’s nephew had to think of something, and the rest must find out what; he only answering to their questions yes or no, as the case was. The brisk fire of questioning to which he was exposed, elicited from him that he was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in London, and walked about the streets, and wasn’t made a show of, and wasn’t led by anybody, and didn’t live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow, or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At every fresh question that was put to him, this nephew burst into a fresh roar of laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that he was obliged to get up off the sofa and stamp. At last the plump sister, falling into a similar state, cried out: “I have found it out! I know what it is, Fred! I know what it is!” “What is it?” cried Fred. “It’s your Uncle Scro-o-o-o-oge!” Which it certainly was. Admiration was the universal sentiment, though some objected that the reply to “Is it a bear?” ought to have been “Yes;” inasmuch as an answer in the negative was sufficient to have diverted their thoughts from Mr. Scrooge, supposing they had ever had any tendency that way.

It was a pretty sight, and a seasonable one, that met their eyes when they flung the door open. In the fore-court, lit by the dim rays of a horn lantern, some eight or ten little field-mice stood in a semicircle, red worsted comforters round their throats, their fore-paws thrust deep into their pockets, their feet jigging for warmth. With bright beady eyes they glanced shyly at each other, sniggering a little, sniffing and applying coat-sleeves a good deal. As the door opened, one of the elder ones that carried the lantern was just saying, "Now then, one, two, three!" and forthwith their shrill little voices uprose on the air, singing one of the old-time carols that their forefathers composed in fields that were fallow and held by frost, or when snow-bound in chimney corners, and handed down to be sung in the miry street to lamp-lit windows at Yule-time.

It was dusk and the light had an ultra-violet quality to it, a final burst of pigmentation as night and day rushed at each other in a clash of colour prisms before darkness finnaly, inevitably won out.

It was December in the cold state of Michigan. Twinkling lights and Christmas carolers lined the busy sidewalks. The bare trees shivered in the wind, already anxious for Spring's arrival. Grey clouds filled the sky, promising the season's first snowfall. As the end of the year approached, Hadley held a bittersweet feeling in her heart. This year had brought the best and the worst of things, things that altered her life forever.

It was eleven days before Christmas and an orange-tailed carp swam in the bathtub, opening and closing the slick tunnel of its mouth.

It was true what Doc had said, that Christmas succeeds Christmas rather than the days it follows. That had become apparent to Smoky in the last few days. Not because of the repeated ritual, the tree sledded home, the antique ornaments lovingly brought out, the Druid greenery hung on the lintels. It was only since last Christmas that all that had become imbued for him with dense emotion, an emotion having nothing to do with Yuletide, a day which for him as a child had nothing like the fascination of Hallowe'en, when he went masked and recognizable (pirate, clown) in the burnt and smoky night. Yet he saw that it was an emotion that would cover him now, as with snow, each time the season came. She was the cause, not he to whom he wrote. "Any," he began again, "my desires this year are a little clouded. I would like one of those instruments you use to sharpen the blades of an old-fashioned lawn mower. I would like the missing volume of Gibbon (Vol. II) which somebody's apparently taken out to use as a doorstop or something and lost." He thought of listing publisher and date, but a feeling of futility and silence came over him, drifting deep. "Santa," he wrote, "I would like to be one person only, not a whole crowd of them, half of them always trying to turn their backs and run whenever somebody" - Sophie, he meant, Alice, Cloud, Doc, Mother; Alice most of all - "looks at me. I want to be brave and honest and shoulder my burdens. I don't want to leave myself out while a bunch of slyboots figments do my living for me." He stopped, seeing he was growing unintelligible. He hesitated over the complimentary close; he thought of using "Yours as ever," but thought that might sound ironic or sneering, and at last wrote only "Yours &c.," as his father always had, which then seemed ambiguous and cool; what the hell anyway; and he signed it: Evan. S. Barnable.

I’ve always told you that home is wherever you hang your Christmas stocking, You’ll know in your heart when you’ve found the right place, or the right person.

I want you to give me a chance.” “A chance at what?” Shifting so that he could press his forehead to hers, he said one word. “You.” Her breath caught. “Sean,” she breathed. “Because you’ve got me,” he said. “All of me.

... I've never met a magical creature before. All I know is what I've heard in stories. Father Christmas, for instance, with the elves who make the toys." Tergil was impassive. "We relate a similar tale," he replied. "It is called Santa Clause and his slave workforce". "Oh," said Thorpe. "It is an ancient story," said the elf, "about the perils of trusting strangers. It does have a happy ending, though. The evil Clause is beaten to death with hunks of reindeer meat.

I’ve always loved catching snow on my eyelashes.

I’ve realized is that every time you get something cool for your birthday or for Christmas, within a week it’s being used against you. (We'll be taking this away until your English grade improves)

I was just thinking about how Christmas is right around the corner, but no matter how you choose to celebrate the holidays, books in general make great gifts!

I wish you a blessed Christmas and a wonderful New Year.

I was that kind of tired you feel when you’ve spent a day in a hospital while a loved one undergoes surgery and comes through all right, the loved one, of course, being myself, and Christmas being the surgical procedure.

I will meet you at Christmas with eyes of love.

I wish we could put up some of the Christmas spirit in jars and open a jar of it every month.

I wish for magic this season, laughter and fun. I wish for mistletoe kisses- those sparkly ones.

I wish you the magic of Christmas. Let it fill your hearts and minds with love, joy, peace, and happiness.

I wish you a blessed beautiful Christmas with the fullness of grace.

I wish you a Merry Christmas sparkle with endless love, gladness and goodwill.

I wonder if he practices making awkward and nerdy look sort of cool. Like he fills his house with furniture that is the wrong scale for his tall body and buys plaid shirts in bulk and tells his barber to leave crazy, too-long pieces of hair mixed in with the regularly cut hair so everything always looks messy. Then he runs his hands through his hair and puts on his plaid shirts and uses mirrors to watch himself sit in uncomfortable furniture until comfortable furniture looks like it's the one with the problem.

I wish you a joyful Christmas and a miraculous New Year.

I wish you a joyful time at Christmas and throughout the New Year.

Look toward the Soul's guidance, which is not just ready to be shared - but, awaits you acceptance.

Life is short. Jingle your bells.

Like a sparkle of a thousand pearls; an angel touched my lips.

Little with love is better than much without love.

Live every day in the full expression of God’s grace in this coming year.

Look up.

Love and loss come in equal measure.

Love is a word that can truly change any atmosphere. Love is at the very root of having a positive attitude. To love is to give hope to even the darkest atmosphere. That is why I am so much in Harry Moon’s corner. He really does want to bring light to the darkness.

Love isn’t a curse, Lucas, it’s a gift.

Lucas,” she started again. “You may release me now.” “And if I refuse?” “Then we shall be found in short order in a position most scandalous by my servants.” “And we do not want that to happen?” This time, it was a question, not a statement. Pippa wanted nothing less than to be released. “Surely, the wisest decision would be that.” “Are you a wise woman, Pippa?” he asked, his breath fanning her face. “Because, I assure you, at this very moment, I do not feel like a wise man.

Love with a kind heart is what we can give to each other.

Luke, meet Willy,” Micah says from behind him, his voice sounding strained. “Randy’s elf and all around pain in the ass.” “Speak for yourself, nurse boy,” Willy comes back at him with a loud laugh. “And Randy says the pain’s not so bad anymore, so ha! You know that stuff takes a lot of practice for it not to hurt every time.” Surely he’s not saying what it sounds like he’s saying? “And a lot of lube,” the elf continues. “I mean, when you’re as big as I am and all, even if Randy is a big man, he still has a tight-” Oh, he’s definitely saying it. Micah slaps his hands over his ears. “Stop it!” Willy smirks at him. “I bet you won’t call me a pain in the ass in front of somebody again.

Mama Lo can get a bit nasty whenever I play with the cubs. She thinks I'm going to eat one, but they're not to my taste. Too hairy. Now if she'd let me skin one, I might be interested." (Simi) He laughed in spite of himself. "Are you joking about that?" (Gallagher) "Oh no. I never joke about hairy food. It's disgusting." (Simi)