We plan our lives in long, unbroken stretches that intersect our dreams the way highways connect the city dots on a road map. But in the end we learn that life is lived in the side roads, alleys, and detours.

Love never gives in or up, holding tight to lofty ideals that transcend this earth and time, while its counterfeit simply concludes it was mistaken and quickly runs off to find the next real thing.

Raising or caring for children requires sacrifice and service, which, I believe, heals us from the destructive forces of self-centeredness.

Could it be that to truly love a thing is not to desire it, but to desire happiness for it?

The further along we get on our life journey the more we wonder about those who traveled before us and paved the road.

There are far too many people for us to think about each of them during our short stay on earth—like the thousands of books in a library we haven’t time to read in an afternoon. But this is no excuse to cease browsing. For every now and then, we find that one book that reaches us deep inside and introduces us to ourselves. And, in someone else’s story, we come to understand our own.

We are all in motion. Always. Those who are not climbing toward something are descending toward nothing.