We may find it hard to understand that letting others “sink or swim” as they choose is love. But it is. The difficulty is that sometimes others don’t end up “swimming,” and then we have to remember that everyone has their own journey and their own Higher Power. Our assignment is to witness, to pray, and to hope, but never to do for someone else what he or she needs to do.
— Karen Casey, Let Go Now, p. 205
How terribly, then, have the theologians misrepresented God in the measures of the low and showy, not the lofty and simple humanities! Nearly all of them represent him as a great King on a grand throne, thinking how grand he is, and making it the business of his being and the end of his universe to keep up his glory, wielding the bolts of a Jupiter against them that take his name in vain. They would not allow this, but follow out what they say, and it comes much to this. Brothers, have you found our king? There he is, kissing little children and saying they are like God. There he is at table with the head of a fisherman lying on his bosom, and somewhat heavy at heart that even he, the beloved disciple, cannot yet understand him well. The simplest peasant who loves his children and his sheep were — no, not a truer, for the other is false, but — a true type of our God beside that monstrosity of a monarch.
The God who is ever uttering himself in the changeful profusions of nature; who takes millions of years to form a soul that shall understand him and be blessed; who never needs to be, and never is, in haste; who welcomes the simplest thought of truth or beauty as the return for seed he has sown upon the old fallows of eternity; who rejoices in the response of a faltering moment to the age-long cry of his wisdom in the streets; the God of music, of painting, of building, the Lord of Hosts, the God of mountains and oceans; whose laws go forth from one unseen point of wisdom, and thither return without an atom of loss; the God of history working in time unto Christianity; this God is the God of little children, and he alone can be perfectly, abandonedly simple and devoted. The deepest, purest love of a woman has its well-spring in him. Our longing desires can no more exhaust the fullness of the treasures of the Godhead, than our imagination can touch their measure. Of him not a thought, not a joy, not a hope of one of his creatures can pass unseen; and while one of them remains unsatisfied, he is not Lord over all.
— George MacDonald, Unspoken Sermons, First Series, p. 22-24
There are moments when I feel, suddenly, lucky and thankful and shocked at how happy I am. I have called this the hardest season in my adult life, which it is, and it is not what I had planned in the least, but it is also a secretly beautiful, special season at the same time. It’s hard, because some relationships still feel broken, and because we have a lot less money, and because I am afraid, sometimes, about the future, but at the same time, I surprise myself with how okay it is and how okay I am with not knowing exactly what will come next.
— Shauna Niequist, Cold Tangerines, p. 206
Detaching from members of one’s family certainly does not imply a lack of love. On the contrary, it generally means a measure of honest affection. It is a demonstration of trust that the loved one will listen to his or her Higher Power and make the decisions that are right for their own path. None of us can hear the Higher Power of another. Therefore, we can’t know what’s truly best for someone else. We can know what we think is best, but that generally reflects our own specific desire for their life.
— Karen Casey, Let Go Now, p. 175
When you can invest yourself deeply and unremittingly in the life that surrounds you instead of declaring yourself out of the game once and for all, because what’s happened to you is too bad, too deep, too ugly for anyone to expect you to move on from, that’s that good, rich place. That’s the place where the things that looked for all intents and purposes like curses start to stand up and shimmer and dance, and you realize with a gasp that they may have been blessings all along. Or maybe not. Maybe they were curses, in fact, but the force of your belief and your hope and your desperate love for life as it is actually unfolding, has brought a blessing from a curse, like water from a stone, like life from a tomb, like the actual story of God over and over.
I would never try to tell you that every bad thing is really a good thing, just waiting to be gazed at with pretty new eyes, just waiting to be shined up and — ta da! — discovered as fantastic. But what I know is that for me, and for my friend Jon, and for a lot of the people I love, we’re discovering that lots of times, not every time, maybe, but more often than not, there is something just past the heartbreak, just past the curse, just past the despair, and that thing is beautiful. You don’t want it to be beautiful, at first. You want to stay in the pain and the blackness because it feels familiar, and because you’re not done feeling victimized and smashed up. But one day you’ll wake up surprised and humbled, staring at something you thought for sure was a curse and has revealed itself to be a blessing — a beautiful, delicate blessing.
— Shauna Niequist, Cold Tangerines, p. 178-179
In the biblical pattern of faith, believing comes last. Indeed, this pattern repeats in both the Hebrew Bible and the Christian New Testament. From the calling of Abraham and Sarah through the great prophets and heroes of Israel to Jesus and the early church, those who walked with faith started by following, by becoming part of God’s community, by enacting the practices of God’s way, and finally by recognizing and proclaiming the glory of God.
— Diana Butler Bass, Christianity After Religion, p. 209
To give up control is a peaceful decision. Everyone is blessed by it. But no one more than you.
— Karen Casey, Let Go Now
But the only person who decided my life had turned to dust was me. The only person who is still deeply troubled about what I’ve lost, even in the face of what I’ve gained, is me. I would never have wanted it this way, but something bright and beautiful has been given to me, and I’m in grave danger of losing it, squandering it, becoming a person who cannot find the goodness that’s right in front of her because of the sadness that she chooses to let obscure it.
— Shauna Niequist, Cold Tangerines, p. 177
Lending books to other people is merely a shrewd form of housecleaning.
— Joe Queenan, One for the Books, p.19
If we really could control others, our burdens would be heavy. Our work would never, ever, be finished. Why then do we think we want the power to control others? For years I pondered this. I think it’s because we think that if others do as we ask, it’s a sign of love, and love is what we fear losing most of all. When others give in to our way of thinking, it’s because they love us unconditionally — or so we tell ourselves. Only then can we rest and feel secure.
The fallacy of this runs so deep. Others doing our will has nothing to do with love. They simply may be tired of the battle. How much more serene our lives would be if we gave up the battle too. Deciding to detach is our invitation to live lives of ease. Someone else may not give up the battle, but let’s do it ourselves.
— Karen Casey, Let Go Now, p. 166