“What did you work at?” Colum asked, shifting a bit on the bench to look more directly at me.“I was in service,” I said quietly, more quietly than I intended. I wondered if maybe the answer had gotten lost in the rumble of the engines. It didn’t.“Honest work,” Colum said. I knew that that was what people say about work they consider beneath them. Hauling and scrubbing and digging are “honest work.” Grubbing and mucking? “Honest work.” Tell someone you’re a doctor or a mill owner, and they never say “honest work.”

“When Americans find out I grew up in the tenements, the question they invariably ask me is “how did you end up there?” Americans, it seems, find comfort in reasons and explanations. They honestly believe that if they can find the reason for someone else’s misfortune, they can avoid that misfortune themselves. If they could find out how I ended up in the tenements, they could assure themselves that it could never have happened to them.”

“I can honestly say that I'm not the best person in the world but I'm working on it.”

“It is easier to find guides, someone to tell you what to do, than someone to be with you in a discerning, prayerful companionship as you work it out yourself. This is what spiritual direction is.”

“Of all men, Christians should work especially hard, giving more than an honest day's work for a day's wage.”

“Honestly, I don't understand why people get so worked up about a little murder!”

“We’re all works in progress, honey. And believe me when I tell you that I’ve had to work harder than most.”