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

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.

So thoughtlessly we sling on our destinies.

You can embark on new and steeper versions of your old sins, you know, and cry tears while doing it that are genuine as any.

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

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

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.