Should we bury our memory barbs to keep them from piercing budding hearts? No doubt they will encounter their own tragedies in due time. Or should we warn our children that the world is harsh and men can be wicked?

Whether we’re standing on the shores of the Pacific or the Atlantic, the water is the same. Love.

She felt a budding loneliness, and with it came the familiar emptiness that once threatened to swallow her whole.

Tears were misunderstood, she thought, and used inappropriately most often. They were designed as a private response of being. Because sometimes life filled you to the brim and spilled over. Tears were the body’s way of cleansing the overflow of emotions, from sorrow to joy and so many others that couldn’t be described.

We can’t force life to do what we want when we want it. We can’t change yesterday or control tomorrow. We can only live today as best we can. And it just might turn out better than expected.

Her father had proven to them all: when a beating heart stopped, there was no black or white, only blood-red.

I’ve never been fooled by the romantic, grand gestures. Love is all about the little things, the everyday considerations, kindnesses, and pardons.

It’s our duty to love the poor, the orphaned, the weary and burdened. Matthew 11:28. Love can be its own kind of war.

So where are you headed if you’re already home?” Jane smiled. “Just ’cause you’re born in a place don’t make it home.

Nothing secret about a recipe. It’s how you put it together that makes it yours.