This is a God who is not identified with the help of a dictionary but through a relationship.

They are fruit and transport: ripening melons, prairie schooners journeying under full sail.

Like faith, marriage is a mystery. The person you're committed to spending your life with is known and yet unknown, at the same time remarkably intimate and necessarily other. The classic seven-year itch may not be a case of familiarity breeding ennui and contempt, but the shock of having someone you thought you knew all too well suddenly seem a stranger. When that happens, you are compelled to either recommit to the relationship or get the hell out. There are many such times in a marriage.

Prayer is not asking for what you think you want, but asking to be changed in ways you can't imagine.

We can't give our children the future, strive though we may to make it secure. But we can give them the present.

Spring seems far off, impossible, but it is coming. Already there is dusk instead of darkness at five in the afternoon; already hope is stirring at the edges of the day.

Any life lived attentively is disillusioning as it forces us to know us as we are.