All endings are also beginnings. We just don't know it at a time.

Every life has one true-love snapshot.

No story sits by itself. Sometimes stories meet at corners and sometimes they cover one another completely. Like stones beneath a river.

Take one story, viewed from two different angles. It is the same day, the same moment, but one angle ends happily.

Young men go to war. Sometimes because they want to. Always, they feel they are supposed to. This comes from the sad, layered stories of life, which over the centuries have seen courage confused with picking up arms, and cowardice confused with laying them down.

There are five people you meet in heaven. Each of us was in your life for a reason. You may not have known the reason at the time, and that is what heaven is for. For understanding your life on earth.

People think of heaven as a paradise garden, a place where they can float on clouds and laze in rivers and mountains. But scenery without solace is meaningless.

This is the greatest gift God can give you: to understand what happened in your life. To have it explained. It is the peace you have been searching for.

I am your first person, Edward. When I died, my life was illuminated by five others, and then I came here to wait for you, to stand in your line, to tell you my story, which becomes part of yours. There will be others for you, too. Some you knew, maybe some you didn't. But they all crossed your path before they died. And they altered it forever.

That there are no random acts. That we are all connected. That you can no more separate one life form another than you can separate a breeze from the wind.

It is because the human spirit knows, deep down that all lives intersect. That death doesn't just take someone, it misses someone else, and in the small distance between taken and being missed, lives are changed.

No life is a waste� the only time we waste is the time we spend thinking we are alone. - Blue Man

Time is not what you think. Dying? Not the end of everything. We think it is. But what happens on earth is only the beginning. (The Captain)

I figure it's like in the Bible, the Adam and Eve deal? Adam's first night on earth? When he lay down to sleep? He thinks it's all over, right? He doesn't know what sleep is. His eyes are closing and he thinks he's leaving this world, right? Only he isn't. He wakes up the next morning and he has a fresh new world to work with, but he has something else too. He has yesterday. (The Captain)

Sacrifice. You made one. I made one. We all make them. But you were angry over yours. You kept thinking about what you lost. You didn't get it. Sacrifice is part of life. It's something to aspire to. Little sacrifices. Big sacrifices. A mother works so her son can go to school. A daughter moves home to take care of her sick father.

Sometimes when you sacrifice something precious, you're not really losing it. You're just passing it to someone else.

All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of the handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.

Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them. They move on. They move away. The moments that used to define them - a mother's approval, a father's nod - are covered by moments of their own accomplishments. It is not much later, as the skin sags and heart weakens, that children understand; their stories, and all their accomplishments, sit atop the stories of their mothers and fathers, stories upon stones, beneath the waters of their lives.

They don't (die because of loyalty)? Religion? Government? Are we not loyal to such things, sometimes to death? Better to be loyal to one another. (Ruby)

Holding anger is a poison. It eats you from inside. We think that hating is a weapon that attacks the person who harmed us. But hatred is a curved blade. And the harm we do, we do to ourselves.

People say they find "love" as if it were an object hidden by a rock. But love takes many forms, and it is never the same for any man and woman. What people find then is certain love.

Love, like rain can nourish from above, drenching couples with a soaking joy. But sometimes, under the angry heat of life, love dries on the surface and must nourish from below, tending to its roots, keeping itself alive.

Lost love is still love� It takes a different form, that's all. You can't see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when these senses weaken, another heightens. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it.

Life has to end. Love doesn't. (Marguerrette)