Grace arrived, like the big, loopy stitches with which a grandmotherly stranger might baste your hem temporarily.
When I was young, I used to be so jealous of other girls that it crippled me.
Writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises.
We were raised to believe in books, music, and nature.
No one can appropriate God, goodness, the Bible or Jesus. It just seems that way.
Without using the word, everyone started forgiving each other again. Just like that, from the no of all nothingness: you have a big tense mess and out of it comes some joy. It must be magic.