Lord, Let Me Heed The Angels You

It Seems To Me That There Are Two Great Enemies Of Peace - Fear And Selfishness.

He May Not Have Been Born With Guts, But He Didn't Have To Die Without Them.

Still, I Kept Writing. I Had No Guarantee That I Would Someday Win Awards For Writing. Heavens, The Only Person During That Time Who Seemed To Think I Could Write Something Worth Publishing Was My Loyal Husband. But I Always Remembered The Professor From Graduate School Who Urged Me To Write And Who Recommended Me For That First Writing Assignment In 1964. When I Protested To Sara Little That I Didn't Want To Add Another Mediocre Writer To The World, She Gently Reminded Me That If I Didn't Dare Mediocrity, I Would Never Write Anything At All.

A Good Story Is Alive, Ever Changing And Growing As It Meets Each Listener Or Reader In A Spirited And Unique Encounter, While The Moralistic Tale Is Not Only Dead On Arrival, It's Already Been Embalmed. It's Safer That Way. When A Lively Story Goes Dancing Out To Meet The Imagination Of A Child, The Teller Loses Control Over Meaning. The Child Gets To Decide What The Story Means.

My Heart Is Heavy, She Thought. It’s Not Just A Saying. It Is What Is—heavy, A Great Stone Lodged In My Breast, Pressing Down My Whole Being. How Can I Even Stand Straight And Look Out Upon The World? I Am Doubled Over Into Myself And, For All The Weight, Find Only Emptiness.