Ninety-five percent of our wool is going to China.

Missionaries are very human folks, simply a bunch of nobodies trying to exalt somebody.

It's hard to steer a parked car.

Lord, give me firmness without hardness, steadfastness without dogmatism, love without weakness.

Grieve not, then, if your sons seem to desert you, but rejoice, rather, seeing the will of God done gladly.

If we are the sheep of His pasture, remember that sheep are headed for the altar.

Father, let me be weak that I might loose my clutch on everything temporal. My life, my reputation, my possessions, Lord, let me loose the tension of the grasping hand. Even, Father, would I lose the love of fondling. How often I have released a grasp only to retain what I prized by 'harmless' longing, the fondling touch. Rather, open my hand to received the nail of Calvary, as Christ's was opened- that I, releasing all, might be released, unleashed from all that binds me now. He thought Heaven, yea, equality with God, not a thing to be clutched at. So let me release my grasp.