I remember it as October days are always remembered, cloudless, maple-flavored, the air gold and so clean it quivers.

Is there a single person on whom I can press belief? No sir. All I can do is say, Here's how it went. Here's what I saw. I've been there and am going back. Make of it what you will.

Many a night I woke to the murmer of paper and knew (Dad) was up, sitting in the kitchen with frayed King James - oh, but he worked that book; he held to it like a rope ladder.

Hope is like yeast, you know, rising under warmth.

I prayed the Lord would sort (my prayers) out and answer as needed. Above all that he would hurry.

Love is a strange fact - it hopes all things, believes all things, endures all things. It makes no sense at all.

It is one thing to be sick of your own infirmities and another to understand that the people you love most are sick of them also. You are very near then to being friendless in the world.