We and the world, my children, will always be at war. Retreat is impossible. Arm yourselves.

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.

What else exhausts like sustained deception?

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.

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.

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

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