Word: soulfully
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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Maybe people aren't calling hotlines because they are run by students, by our peers. Are we more reluctant to turn to our peers for help an support? Who knows that the kid answering the phone isn't the very soul who is the root of your insecurities, answering hotlines while you languish in your room? Or maybe you know some students who staff the hotlines. Who wants to call them? They already know everyone you know, and who else would be driving you crazy? And why call peers if you have friends to talk...
...seem to acknowledge their human frailty or fallibility. They are not making Americans more cozily familial or deeply religious or keenly responsive to the needs and obligations of society. They led to a fence outside Laramie--and then, what? Is this Pat Buchanan's war for the soul of America? Manliness, perhaps? Or are the older paradigms more telling: Pogrom, Crusade, Massacre of the Innocent, crucifixion...
They hold vigils and teach-ins in Laramie, a town searching its soul, but some people climb the hill as if there is something to confront up there. They go to where a small basket of dry flowers hangs from the fence where Shepard, 21, was tied with rope, pistol-whipped and left in the cold. The visitors arrive in silence and leave in prayer, and the vigils go on--in Laramie, in Denver, in San Francisco, in Washington...
...would like to thank all those taking part for everything that they have said and done," the Pope told the show's shocked host, Bruno Vespa. Visibly moved and more than a little flummoxed, Vespa took a moment to collect himself before finally murmuring, "Even journalists have a soul every so often." Sometimes it just takes a little papal intervention to prove...
...floor. I cannot go there. Not with this woman--not my beloved Oprah. I must. I force myself to look at Oprah's scars. I thought I understood. In Roots, I cried with Kizzy and adored Chicken George. But this is different. This is someone I really know. My soul knows her well. I run my hand across her back. Although the page is smooth, my fingertips tell a different story. A story I cannot bear. I touch her hair. I want her to turn around so that I can hold her. I weep. Thank you, TIME. MILISSA GLASS Lebanon...