It is good to stay in a peaceful poverty than to stay in a painful wealth.

Be careful who you allow into your bed and more importantly your heart.

Molitveni jezik jedini je jezik u kojem nema jezinih zabrana. Kako je ve reeno on je obuhvatniji od jezika vjere koja je sigurna u samu sebe. U jeziku molitve moe se naime rei i to da se ne moe vjerovati.

I still find my corrupt heart longing for tomorrows bread. I can make a good argument to the Lord about how effective I can be if He would supply me with enough advance funds. Its a little frightening to pray for TODAYs bread. That means I must pray again for tomorrow and believe again for tomorrow. My greedy heart is willing to be corrupted by a little bit of riches so that I see my warehouse full of loaves. I can make a good argument about how God wont have to be bothered with me every day if He would only advance me about ten years worth of bread.

At any given moment your circumstances can change. You may not be where you want to be right now. You may not even be doing what you prefer to do. But if you change your way of thinking and realize that you have all the opportunities available to you just like each one of us. You can begin to focus on what you want to achieve and make it happen

On faiths battered back calm eyes etch prayers that cool a nations hot rage.

Let today be the day you embrace your beautiful spirit and shine light for those living in the dark. Light their path so the road traveled will be seen more clearly. You never know how much a simple act of kindness is appreciated if you never try. Be that candle for someone today and shine bright.

From Les MiserablesAll at once in the midst of this profound calm a fresh sound arose a sound as celestial divine ineffable ravishing as the other had been horrible. It was a hymn which issued from the gloom a dazzling burst of prayer and harmony in the obscure and alarming silence of the night womens voices but voices composed at one and the same time of the pure accents of virgins and the innocent accent of children -- voices which are not of the earth and which resemble those that the newborn infant still hears and which the dying man hears already. This song proceeded from the gloomy edifice which towered above the garden. At the moment when the hubbub of demons retreated one would have said that a choir of angels was approaching through the gloom.Cosette and Jean Valjean fell on their knees.They knew not what it was they knew not where they were but both of them the man and the child the penitent and the innocent felt that they must kneel.These voices had this strange characteristic that they did not prevent the building from seeming to be deserted. It was a supernatural chant in an uninhabited house. While these voices were singing Jean Valjean thought of nothing. He no longer beheld the night he beheld a blue sky. It seemed to him that he felt those wings which we all have within us unfolding.The song died away. It may have lasted a long time. Jean Valjean could not have told. Hours of ecstasy are never more than a moment.

If you have a big idea or plan that you desire to execute dont depend solely on others to appreciate your efforts. You must have the ability to encourage yourself. At times seeking encouragement from others can lead to disappointment which sometimes leads you to neglect your obligation. Never build your hopes and dreams based primarily on the accolades from others. You may discover a rude awakening.

I prayed to a mystery.Sometimes I was simply aware of the mystery. I saw a flash of it during a trip to New York that David and I took before we were married. We were walking on a busy sidewalk in Manhattan. I dont remember if it was day or night. A man with a wound on his forehead came toward us. His damp ragged hair might have been clotted with blood or maybe it was only dirt. He wore deeply dirty clothes. His red swollen hands cupped in half-fists swung loosely at his sides. His eyes were focused somewhere past my right shoulder. He staggered while he walked. The sidewalk traffic flowed around him and with him. He was strange and frightening and at the same time he belonged on the Manhattan sidewalk as much as any of us. It was that paradox -- that he could be both alien and resident both brutalized and human that he could stand out in the moving mass of people like a sea monster in a school of tuna and at the same time be as much at home as any of us -- that stayed with me. I never saw him again but I remember him often and when I do I am aware of the mystery.Years later I was out on our property on the Olympic Peninsula cutting a path through the woods. This was before our house was built. After chopping through dense salal and hacking off ironwood bushes for an hour or so I stopped exhausted. I found myself standing motionless intensely aware of all of the life around me the breathing moss the chattering birds the living earth. I was as much a part of the woods as any millipede or cedar tree. At that moment too I was aware of the mystery.Sometimes I wanted to speak to this mystery directly. Out of habit I began with Dear God and ended with Amen. But I thought to myself Im not praying to that old man in the sky. Rather Im praying to this thing I cant define. It was sort of like talking into a foggy valley.Praying into a bank of fog requires alot of effort. I wanted an image to focus on when I prayed. I wanted something to pray to. but I couldnt go back to that old man. He was too closely associated with all Id left behind.