Orchid hunting is a mortal occupation.
Happiness isn't something that depends on our surroundings. . . It's something we make inside ourselves.
Worry is an old man with bended head, carrying a load of feathers which he thinks are lead.
Today I know that such memories are the key not to the past, but to the future. I know that the experiences of our lives, when we let God use them, become the mysterious and perfect preparation for the work He will give us to do.
There are no 'ifs' in God's Kingdom. His timing is perfect. His will is our hiding place. Lord Jesus, keep me in Your will! Don't let me go mad by poking about outside it.
Although the threads of my life have often seemed knotted, I know, by faith, that on the other side of the embroidery there is a crown.
There is no pit so deep, that God's love is not deeper still.
I would not know the thing I sought until I found it. It was both something within and something without myself. Within, it was like the buried memory of a name that will not come to the tongue for utterance.
I'm hidden in the scream when the virgin dies, I'm the ache in the belly when your baby cries, and I'm the burning sensation when the convict fries.
There is something good in men that really yearn for discipline.
What's agitating about solitude is the inner voice telling you that you should be mated to somebody, that solitude is a mistake. The inner voice doesn't care about who you find. It just keeps pestering you, tormenting you--if you happen to be me--with homecoming queens first, then girls next door, and finally anybody who might be pleased to see you now and then at the dinner table and in bed on occasion. You look up from reading the newspaper and realize that no one loves you, and no one burns for you.