“But my father, a thief in many ways, had robbed me of my concentration.”

“My father moved through theys of we,singing each new leaf out of each tree,(and every child was sure that springdanced when she heard my father sing)...”

“My mother was French Protestant, and my father was Italian Catholic, and their union was an excess of God, guilt and sauce.”

“Kids chase the love that eludes them, and for me, that was my father's love. He kept it tucked away, like papers in a briefcase. And I kept trying to get in there.”

“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.”

“my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways" from the book of Isaiah”

“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.”