Loss takes up inside of everything sooner or later and eats right through it.

If someone should ask me, 'What does the soul do?' I would say, It does two things. It loves. And it creates. Those are its primary acts.

I don't remember what they said, only the fury of their words, how the air turned raw and full of welts. Later it would remind me of birds trapped inside a closed room, flinging themselves against the windows and the walls, against each other.

Something deep in all of us yearns for God's beauty, and we can find it no matter where we are.

I can't think of anything I'd rather have more than somebody lovin' me.

Place a beehive on my grave And let the honey soak through. When I'm dead and gone, That's what I want from you. The streets of heaven are gold and sunny, But I'll stick with my plot and a pot of honey. Place a beehive on my grave And let the honey soak through.

Just to be is holy, just to live is a gift.