“She opened her heart and her home to her Purpose, and waited for it to come in.”

“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa”—my fault, my fault, my most grievous fault—as she pounded her fist to her chest three times as if pounding shut a door to keep her guilt from escaping.”

“Please God, please God, can you please tell me why? I ask this of you, yet in my heart, I know.”

“She did not believe in random. God does not deal in random.”

“The could never have explained Bonaventure anyway because there is no scientific word for miraculous.”

“Their hands never touched, not even in an accidental brushing, and that was a good thing, for real intimacy has a dawn.”

“Before long the formed into a circle, and neither of them could imagine being a straight line again, caught in the loneliness of blunt severed ends.”