I Knew That, When Needed,

Unless We Are Willing To Escape Into Sentimentality Or Fantasy, Often The Best We Can Do With Catastrophes, Even Our Own, Is To Find Out Exactly What Happened And Restore Some Of The Missing Parts.

One Of Life's Quiet Excitements Is To Stand Somewhat Apart From Yourself And Watch Yourself Softly Becoming The Author Of Something Beautiful Even If It Is Only A Floating Ash.

At The Time I Did Not Know That Stories Of Life Are Often More Like Rivers Than Books.

I Had As Yet No Notion That Life Every Now And Then Becomes Literature—not For Long, Of Course, But Long Enough To Be What We Best Remember, And Often Enough So That What We Eventually Come To Mean By Life Are Those Moments When Life, Instead Of Going Sideways, Backwards, Forward, Or Nowhere At All, Lines Out Straight, Tense And Inevitable, With A Complication, Climax, And, Given Some Luck, A Purgation, As If Life Had Been Made And Not Happened.

Each One Of Us Here Today Will At One Time In Our Lives Look Upon A Loved One Who Is In Need And Ask The Same Question: We Are Willing To Help, Lord, But What, If Anything, Is Needed? For It Is True We Can Seldom Help Those Closest To Us. Either We Don't Know What Part Of Ourselves To Give Or, More Often Than Not, The Part We Have To Give Is Not Wanted. And So It Is Those We Live With And Should Know Who Elude Us. But We Can Still Love Them - We Can Love Completely Without Complete Understanding.