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.

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.

My sister, Swede, who often sees to the nub, offered this: People fear miracles because they fear being changed--though ignoring them will change you also. Swede said another thing, too, and it rang in me like a bell: No miracle happens without a witness. Someone to declare, Here's what I saw. Here's how it went. Make of it what you will.

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

When a person dies, the earth is generally unwilling to cough him back up. A miracle contradicts the will of earth.

Real miracles bother people, like strange sudden pains unknown in medical literature.