“While that mouth clearly deserves an opportunity to worship as many various bits of me and my shoe collection as I can shove in there, we're not done talking yet.”

“Usually, I avoid the topic by shoving food into my mouth then making "I'm sorry, as you can see, it would be rude for me to speak" hand signals”

“But what he said was true enough: I had recently destroyed a perfectly good set of wire braces by straightening them to pick a lock. Father had grumbled, of course, but had made another appointment to have me netted and dragged back up to London, to that third-floor ironmonger's shop in Farringdon Street, where I would be strapped to a board like Boris Karloff as various bits of ironmongery were shoved into my mouth, screwed in, and bolted to my gums.”

“If you need something to worship, then worship life - all life, every last crawling bit of it! We're all in this beauty together!”

“Except...I do. Of course I do. Because as his hands gently cup my waist, I don't make a sound. As he swivels me around to face him, I don't make a sound. I don't need to. We're still talking. Every touch he makes, every imprint of his skin is like another word, another thought, a continuation of our conversation. And we're not done yet. Not yet.”

“What's important for me now is the same thing it always was - compassion. I can't think of anything more important. I've loved my fellow citizens. I've loved my children. I'm happy with the opportunity I've had to worship the way I want to worship. I'm not worshipping somebody else's God, but I am insisting on the ability to worship my way, and be the person He would have me be.”