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

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

Fresh peach pie can lift a bullying reprobate into apologetic courtesy; I have watched it happen.

Let me say something about that word: miracle. For too long it's been used to characterize things or events that, though pleasant, are entirely normal. Peeping chicks at Easter time, spring generally, a clear sunrise after an overcast week--a miracle, people say, as if they've been educated from greeting cards.

We see a newborn moth unwrapping itself and announce, Look, children, a miracle! But let an irreversible wound be knit back to seamlessness? We won't even see it, though we look at it every day.

Of all facial expressions, which is the worst to have aimed at you? Wouldn't you agree it's disgust?

Fair is whatever God wants to do.