For twenty years I have ached to go back home, when there was nobody there to whom I could return.

I am going to notice the lights of the earth, the sun and the moon and the stars, the lights of our candles as we march, the lights with which spring teases us, the light that is already present.

We are not here to see through one another, but to see one another through.

Perfection is shallow, unreal, and fatally uninteresting.

You have to keep taking the next necessary stitch, and the next one, and the next. Without stitches, you just have rags. And we are not rags.

I do not at all understand the mystery of grace - only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.

if you want to know how God feels about money, look at whom she gives it to.