We know you have a great mind and all, Mother, but you don’t have much sense.

Because you're not what I would have you be, I blind myself to who, in truth, you are.

God promised to make you free. He never promised to make you independent.

To create a work of art, great or small, is work, hard work, and work requires discipline and order.

Rather than feeling lost and unimportant and meaningless, set against galaxies which go beyond the reach of the furthest telescopes, I feel that my life has meaning. Perhaps I should feel insignificant, but instead I feel a soaring in my heart that the God who could create all this — and out of nothing — can still count the hairs of my head.

The unending paradox is that we do learn through pain.

I am not some kind of computer. Only machines have glib answers for everything.