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

Be careful whom you choose to hate. The small and the vulnerable own a protection great enough, if you could but see it, to melt you into jelly. Beware those who reside beneath the shadow of the Wings.

So thoughtlessly we sling on our destinies.

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.

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.

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

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.