Gratitude's not a natural posture. The prince of darkness is ultimately a spoiled ingrate, and I've spent most of my life as kin to the fist-shaker.

Whatever I'm writing comes organically out of my life.

Eucharisteo—thanksgiving—always precedes the miracle.

Losses do that. One life-loss can infect the whole of a life. Like a rash that wears through our days, our sight becomes peppered with black voids. Now everywhere we look, we only see all that isn’t: holes, lack, deficiency.

Gratitude for the seemingly insignificant—a seed—this plants the giant miracle.

I have had the most spoiled golfing life.