If we were to tally all of the potential that was never unleashed throughout the history of mankind, and if that tally was somehow held up in front of us, I would hope against all hope that it would horrify us to a point of such despair that we would be driven to insure that such a tragedy would never be given any shred of space anywhere in our own lives nor in the lives of any life that we might touch for the rest of our lives.

We can be seized with panic of the fall, or inspired by the potential that lies within the fall.

To realize your potential you must look beyond the end of yourself, realizing that where you end is most likely where you actually begin.

There is that gnawing feeling that we are far more than what we believe ourselves to be. Maybe it’s time to believe the gnawing.

The art of becoming an adult is creating a place for child, for the former without the latter leaves us being less than half of what we could be and none of what we were supposed to be.

To be ‘one’ in one’s own hands is to be ‘one.’ To be ‘one’ in the hands of God is to be ‘one’ that is far too vast to be counted.

A life is a precious gift carefully wrapped. But if we never see it as a gift or worse yet we engage it as a troublesome burden, we won't believe that there is anything to unwrap. And I doubt that there are few things worse than living life but never embracing the gift of life.

Maybe true beauty is when something quite ‘simple’ exercises whatever bit of faith it holds, and in the exercising it suddenly discovers that the ‘simple thing’ that it always thought itself to be only served to hide the ‘great thing’ that it always was.

There is a point to which we alone can take ourselves. And while we think that to be the pinnacle of our existence, with God it is the point of departure for our existence.