I don’t know that dreams die. I think it’s more that they are never born.

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.

If I’ve prayed, I never have to worry about being the first one to show up.

Hope waits to be discovered, begging it seems that we believe in its existence sufficiently to pursue it in order to find it to be real in the pursuing.

The greatest evidence we have that God does matter is all of the time and energy we put into telling ourselves that He doesn’t.

I want to have the eyes of an adult to see the world as it is, but I more desperately want to have the heart of a child to make certain that I never forget what it could be.

The things I’m burning daylight to figure out in my head are things God has already figured out in His. Faith then is resting in that fact, and in doing so suddenly finding out that among other things, I’m saving a whole bunch of daylight.

My faith is not some pathetic emotional escape from a reality that I am unable to cope with. Rather, my faith is the power to change that reality by changing me so that I can change it. And from that, I don’t need any escape nor do I want one.

Do we dare embrace an authentic faith stripped bare of everything that we have spoken into it and ripped entirely clean of everything that we have built upon it? And are we willing to embrace something that inexpressibly potent, that unashamedly demanding, and that shockingly unfamiliar? Yet maybe the better question is, do we dare to not do that?