What's lost is nothing to what's found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup.

To be bored to death is a form of suicide.

Laugh till you weep. Weep till there's nothing left but to laugh at your weeping. In the end it's all one.

The worst isn't the last thing about the world. It's the next to the last thing. The last thing is the best. It's the power from on high that comes down into the world, that wells up from the rock-bottom worst of the world like a hidden spring. Can you believe it? The last, best thing is the laughing deep in the hearts of the saints, sometimes our hearts even. Yes. You are terribly loved and forgiven. Yes. You are healed. All is well.

In his holy flirtation with the world, God occasionally drops a handkerchief. These handkerchiefs are called saints.

Prayers out of, very often, not the most religious part of me, but the most anxious part of me, the most desperately loving, fearing part of me.

That's five friends, one each for Jesu's wounds, and Godric bears their mark still on what's left of him as in their time they all bore his on them. What's friendship, when all's done, but the giving and taking of wounds?