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

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

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

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 torched by truth...a little thing like faith is easy.

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.

Of all facial expressions, which is the worst to have aimed at you? Wouldn't you agree it's disgust?