Death: The Only True Emotion Felt In

I Don't Know What It Is About Food Your Mother Makes For You, Especially When It's Something That Anyone Can Make - Pancakes, Meat Loaf, Tuna Salad - But It Carries A Certain Taste Of Memory.

No. You Can't Work Your Way Into Heaven. Anytime You Try And Justify Yourself With Works, You Disqualify Yourself With Works. What I Do Here, Every Day, For The Rest Of My Life, Is Only My Way Of Saying, 'lord, Regardless Of What Eternity Holds For Me, Let Me Give Something Back To You. I Know It Doesn't Even No Scorecard. But Let Me Make Something Of My Life Before I Go.. And Then, Lord, I'm At Your Mercy.

You Can't Substitute Material Things For Love Or For Gentleness Or For Tenderness Or For A Sense Of Comradeship

I Thought About The Days I Had Handed Over To A Bottle..the Nights I Can't Remember..the Mornings I Slept Thru..all The Time Spent Running From Myself.

Tell Me About Your Family," I Said. And So She Did. I Listened Intently As My Mother Went Through Each Branch Of The Tree. Years Later, After The Funeral, Maria Had Asked Me Questions About The Family - Who Was Related To Whom - And I Struggled. I Couldn't Remember. A Big Chunk Of Our History Had Been Buried With My Mother. You Should Never Let Your Past Disappear That Way.