And so to tame Christmas we spin myths to temper the story, we create our own caricatures to speak our own lines into the script, we gift ourselves to enhance an adventure now lagging, and we think we’re on a grand adventure when we’ve completely forgotten what an adventure is.

Each day hands me a clean sheet of paper upon which to write. Therefore, I would be wise to write without ever having the need to erase.

We are living out the drama of a pathetic story whose pages are smeared with our own handwriting.

We have yet to understand that a loss never remains a loss, for life is too ingenious in design and persistent in intent to let any death be the end of any story.

The story of who you were will be told by the things that you accomplished. However, the greater story will be told by what you refused to accomplish.

The songs of the birds are the ballad of the forest. And while we still might have the forest without the songs, we would have lost the story. Therefore, at the point that we lose our song we have likewise lost our story.

When I read the ghastly lines of tragedy darkly penned into my life, I turn and notice that the pen in my hand is wet.

To recklessly excuse a failure is to believe that I’ve effectively erased it from the story of my life, when I’ve actually imprinted it in indelible ink.

We have the power of the pen to write the next chapter, and the privilege to author the page in whatever fashion we choose. Yet, seldom do we understand the power of the pen and the privilege of the page.