"...he was the sort of man who noticed the absence of encouragement and drew conclusions from it."
And:
"For her, church was an airy white room with tall windows looking out on God's good world, with God's good sunlight pouring in through the windows and falling across the pulpit where her father stood, straight and strong, parsing the broken heart of humankind and praising the loving heart of Christ. That was church."
To read Marilynne Robinson is to read a prayer that throws all human emotion into relief.
There's the joy of the father at the return of a prodigal son; the perseverance of the saints; the profound sorrow of ruined relationships; the beauty of worship and sacrifice, the tragedy of sin, and wonder at a beautiful, sad world.
If I could write a page of prose half as lovely as her pages, I would be well content.
