To love someone is to see a miracle invisible to others.

We are, all of us, molded and remolded by those who have loved us, and though that love may pass, we remain none the less their work--a work that very likely they do not recognize, and which is never exactly what they intended.

The temples of those who deny the Real Presence are like corpses. The Lord was taken away and we do not know where they have laid Him.

The grandeur of man lies in song, not in thought.

Human love is often but the encounter of two weaknesses.

The man who partakes in the breaking of the bread dares to build his house on the very core of love. He becomes, as it were, Godlike, but regardless of the strength he derives from it, his free will remains. We are always free to disown this immense grace, to abuse it. The Greatest Love may be betrayed. Fed on the Living Bread, we nevertheless conceal a part of ourselves which longs for swine's food.

No love, no friendship, can cross the path of our destiny without leaving some mark on it forever.