There Is Always Something Particularly Delightful About

[i]f You Believe In God Omnipresent, Then You Must Believe Everything That Comes Into Your Life, Person Or Event, Must Have Something Of God In It To Be Experienced And Loved; Not Hated.

...the Simple Little Words Came Easily, Fitting Themselves To The Tune That Had Come Out Of The Harpsichord. It Didn't Seem To Her That She Made Them Up At All. It Seemed To Her That They Flew In From The Rose-garden, Through The Open Window, Like A Lot Of Butterflies, Poised Themselves On The Point Of Her Pen, And Fell Off It On To The Paper.

Jean Was Visited By One Of Her Rare Moments Of Happiness, One Of Those Moments When The Goodness Of God Was So Real To Her That It Was Like Taste And Scent; The Rough Strong Taste Of Honey In The Comb And The Scent Of Water. Her Thoughts Of God Had A Homeliness That At Times Seemed Shocking, In Spite Of Their Power, Which Could Rescue Her From Terror Or Evil With An Ease That Astonished Her.

Don't Waste Hate On Pink Geranium.

There Was A Good Deal To Be Said, Hilary Decided, For Middle Age And Infirmity. The Years In Which One Demanded Much Of Life Were Left Behind, Together With The Bitterness Of Not Getting What One Wanted. One's Values, Too, Were Altered. Gifts That Once One Took For Granted, Sunshine And Birdsong, Freedom From Pain, Sleep And One's Daily Bread, Seemed Now So Extraordinarily Precious.