Donna Woolfolk Cross Quotes

There was always a way, when one knew what one wanted.

Shattered by the cumulative effect of so much horror and death, Joan was again afflicted by a crisis of faith. How could a good and benevolent God let such a thing happen? How could He so terribly afflict even children and babies, who were not guilty of any sin?

Why, she wondered, do we always reserve our worst hatred for our own?

But she had known, better than anyone else, what demons he had faced, had known how hard he had fought to free himself from them. That he had lost the fight in the end made the struggle no less honorable.

Is it not lack of faith that leads men to fear the scrutiny of reason? If the destination is doubtful, than the path must be fraught with fear. A robust faith need not fear, for if God exists, then reason cannot help but lead us to Him. Cogito, ergo Deus est,'says St. Augustine, I think, therefore God is.

Pope Joan was an excellent read.

She had discovered that her love of knowing was not unnatural or sinful but the direct consequence of a God-given ability to reason.

Who was to know what went on in a person's heart? A wise woman kept her own counsel.

When law enforcers are shown to have such unswerving integrity, only the most churlish among us would question the methods they use to "get their man." Constitutional guarantees are regarded as bothersome "technicalities" that impede honest law enforcers in the performance of their duties.

Thunder sounded, very near, and the child woke.

The bud of a rose grows in darkness. It knows nothing of the sun, yet it pushes at the darkness that confines it until at last the walls give way and the rose bursts forth, spreading its petals into the light. I love him.

Strange the workings of the heart. One could go on for years, habituated to loss, reconciled to it, and then, in a moments unwary thought, the pain resurfaced, sharp and raw as a fresh wound.

She did not care about anything very much. Hope was gone. She existed that was all.

primicerius? He was young, it was

Truly Virgil was right: love was a form of sickness. It altered people, made them behave in strange and irrational ways.

What is life? The joy of the blessed, the sorrow of the sad, and a search for death. And what is death? An inevitable happening, an uncertain pilgrimage, the tears of the living, the thief of man.

It was a child's awareness, never spoken or even fully acknowledged, but deeply felt.