Stopping Is A Spiritual Art. It Is

I Vividly Remember The Summer Of 1964 With Its Voter Registration Drives, Boiling Racial Tensions, And The Erupting Awareness Of The Cruelty Of Racism. I Was Never The Same After That Summer.

Journal Became A Sanctuary Where I Could Pour Out In Honesty My Pain And Joy. It Recorded My Footsteps And Helped Me Understand Where I Was Standing, Where I Had Been, And Even Where God Pointed.

The Translucence That Comes When Life Hardens Into A Bead Of Such Cruel Perfection You See It With The Purest Clarity. Everything Suddenly There--life As It Truly Is, Enormous, Appalling, Devastating. You See The Great Sinkholes It Makes In People And The Harrowing Lengths To Which Love Will Go To Fill Them.

At Forty-two, I Had Never Done Anything That Took My Own Breath Away, And I Suppose Now That Was Part Of The Problem--my Chronic Inability To Astonish Myself. I Promise You, No One Judges Me More Harshly Than I Do Myself; I Caused A Brilliant Wreckage. Some Say I Fell From Grace; They're Being Kind. I Didn't Fall. I Dove.

I Learned A Long Time Ago That Some People Would Rather Die Than Forgive. It's A Strange Truth, But Forgiveness Is A Painful And Difficult Process. It's Not Something That Happens Overnight. It's An Evolution Of The Heart.