All the wickedness in the world begins with an act of forgetting.

This is the love of God, an alchemy that can turn enemies into children.

God gave us laughter, I think, as a balm to wash the wounds of our own blunders, as a splint to mend the bones we break in our rashness or vanity.

All the wickedness in the world begins with an act of forgetting.

Physical sickness we usually defy. Soul sickness we often resign ourselves to.

Here lies the basic flaw of all doubt. It can never really be satisfied. No evidence is ever fully, finally enough. Doubt wants always to consume, never to consummate. It clamors endlessly for an answer and so drowns out any answer that might be given it.

Most of the things we need to be most fully alive never come in busyness. They grow in rest.