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

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

Fresh peach pie can lift a bullying reprobate into apologetic courtesy; I have watched it happen.

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.

Hope is like yeast, you know, rising under warmth.

Fair is whatever God wants to do.

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