"Are you sure you know what goodness is?"
She looked at him curiously. "What is it, then?"
He paused, and thoughts flew through his mind -- mountains, trees swaying in the wind, his father kissing his mother, sitting around the supper table with his brothers and sisters, Mass -- the beautiful statues, the lovely paintings in the church, the glory of stained-glass windows, the harmony of the liturgy, the haunting of music, the poetry of the human body --
Using phrases he had learned in theology class and read in books, he attempted to articulate what goodness was -- its power, its concreteness, above all, its beauty -- theology and poetry and philosophy and mathematics and order and the romp of playfulness -- new babies and bulbs shooting from the earth and creases on the hands of an elderly lady who had spent her life in service to others --
He knew he wasn't an orator, or a particularly good communicator. He spoke haltingly, rambling, then, gaining certainty from the truth of what he was saying, grew effusive, quoting the saints and poets and prophets, recalling sayings of the popes and philosophers, trying to paint a verbal portrait of what goodness was, and why loving it was so critical.
And Rachel smiled, listened to him, and looked up at the sky. He noticed it was getting dark. The moon would soon be rising.

FROM "The Midnight Dancers: a fairy tale retold"
by Regina Doman