A true work of art is shaped by the hands of another, and if in shaping us that ‘other’ is anything other than God, the piece will never touch the remotest periphery of its potential.

Our experiences are the building blocks of the future hewn out of the granite of the present.

We are not made for a mold to which we all mindlessly adhere. Rather, we are made to be molded into something for which no mold exists.

Pain is the perfecting of our souls, for it cuts in order to create, it hurts in order to hone, and it knocks us down with great force so that our resolve to get up becomes unimaginably greater than the force that knocked us down. And although we have come to know it differently, such is the spirit of pain.