What were the odds that she'd turn away at the same instant the ball came flying her way? And that she'd be holding a soda in a crowd at a volleyball game she didn't even want to watch, in a place she didn't want to be? In a million years, the same thing should probably never happen again. With odds like that, she should have bought a lottery ticket.

Not everything," he said. "Not the important things. My kids are safe. You're safe. That's all I really care about. This" - he said motioning - "is just stuff. Most of it can be replaced. It just takes time.

What was it, he wondered for the hundredth time, that enabled Pastor Harris to hear the answers in his heart? What did he mean when he said he felt God’s presence? Steve supposed he could ask Pastor Harris directly, but he doubted that would do any good. How could anyone explain such a thing? It would be like describing colors to someone blind from birth: The words might be understood, but the concept would remain mysterious and private.

Wait. Let me guess. You’re giving me the cold shoulder, right?” With that, she sighed. “Shouldn’t you be with your friends, staring at yourselves in the mirror?” He laughed. “That’s funny. I’ll have to remember that.” “I’m not being funny. I’m being serious.” “Oh, because we’re so good-looking

I call it God Light, because it reminds me of heaven.

God, he suddenly understood, was love in its purest form, and in these last months with his children, he had felt His touch as surely as he had heard the music spilling from Ronnie's hands.

Love, after all, always said more about those who felt it than it did about the ones they loved.