"Let me tell you a story while you're still in love with me. My mother had a son who died on the day he was born. They buried him at the door of my father's church. I was born one year later to the day. I used to read his gravestone every Sunday.

His name was the same as mine. 'Vincent van Gogh, died March 30th, 1852.' I'd stand and read until they pulled me in to hear my father preach the sermon. Then I'd think about the amazing fact that I'd been born, and buried, and born all over again. That God had given me all my second chances rolled into one."