Miracles happen quietly every day - in an operating room, on a stormy sea, in the sudden appearance of a road side stranger. They are rarely tallied. No one keeps score.

Lost love is still love.

We all know how to be a child. It's inside all of us. For me, it's just remembering how to enjoy it.

This is how you start to get respect, by offering something that you have.

It is no coincidence that the words 'trying' and 'dying' are only a few letters apart.

My father moved through theys of we, singing each new leaf out of each tree, (and every child was sure that spring danced when she heard my father sing).

A book with the genuine power to stir and comfort its readers.