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

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.

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.

Once traveling, it's remarkable how quickly faith erodes. It starts to look like something else--ignorance, for example. Same thing happened to the Israelites. Sure it's weak, but sometimes you'd rather just have a map.

Why is it our failures only show us more clearly the people we are failing?

So thoughtlessly we sling on our destinies.

Sometimes heroism is nothing more than patience, curiosity, and a refusal to panic.