Joy is contagious, just as sorrow is. I have a friend who radiates joy, not because his life is easy, but because he habitually recognizes God’s presence in the midst of all human suffering, his own as well as others’. Wherever he goes, whomever he meets, he is able to see and hear something beautiful, something for which to be grateful. He doesn’t deny the great sorrow that surrounds him nor is he blind or deaf to the agonizing sights and sounds of his fellow human beings, but his spirit gravitates toward the light in the darkness and the prayers in the midst of the cries of despair. His eyes are gentle; his voice is soft. There is nothing sentimental about him. He is a realist, but his deep faith allows him to know that hope is more real than despair, faith more real than distrust, and love more real than fear. It is this spiritual realism that makes him such a joyful man.
Whenever I meet him, I am tempted to draw his attention to the wars between nations, the starvation among children, the corruption in politics, and the deceit among people, thus trying to impress him with the ultimate brokenness of the human race. But every time I try something like this, he looks at me with his gentle and compassionate eyes and says: “I saw two children sharing their bread with one another, and I heard a woman say ‘thank you’ and smile when someone covered her with a blanket. These simple poor people gave me new courage to live my life.”
My friend’s joy is contagious. The more I am with him, the more I catch glimpses of the sun shining through the clouds. Yes, I know there is a sun, even though the skies are covered with clouds. While my friend always spoke about the sun, I kept speaking about the clouds, until one day I realized that it was the sun that allowed me to see the clouds.
Those who keep speaking about the sun while walking under a cloudy sky are messengers of hope, the true saints of our day.
-Henri Nouwen, Here and Now
In his essay, The Path of Living and Dying, Henri Nouwen asked “Who was Jesus?”
“There was that voice, that incredible voice: ‘You are my beloved son and on you my favor rests.’ That’s the voice at the Jordan River, where Jesus heard and believed that he was the beloved of God on whom God’s favor rests. It was as the beloved that Jesus lived his life even in front of the demon. The evil spirit said to him, “Prove that you are the beloved by changing the stones to bread and becoming relevant. Prove that you are the beloved by being spectacular and throwing yourself down from the Temple to be saved by God’s angels. You’ll be in the news and on TV so everyone can see how wonderful you are! Prove that you are the beloved by having power and influence so you can control the situation.’ But Jesus answered, ‘I don’t have to prove anything. I am the beloved because that’s the voice I heard at the Jordan River. I know that I am the beloved. I have heard the words, “You are my beloved. You are my beloved.”‘ Jesus believed the words and he knew who he was. He lived his whole life as the beloved of God. He was imbued with Love.”
Nouwen goes on to ask “Who are you?”
“This vision is not just about Jesus. It is also about you and me. Jesus came to share his identity with you and to tell you that you are the beloved sons and daughters of God. Just for a moment try to enter this enormous mystery, that you, like Jesus, are the beloved daughter or the beloved son of God. This is the truth.”
The beauty is in the walking;
we are betrayed by destinations.
Beauty, is above all, a manifestation of grace, of abundance and generosity. It’s the reason why God placed flowers on the earth: to have little voices calling to us constantly about grace.-Dallas Willard
If we cultivate the art of inner quiet and develop habits to nurture the mind’s green fields, we will hear the melodies of heaven. – Suzanne Rhodes
Each life is a fresh canvas on which [God] uses lines and colors, shades and lights, textures and proportions that he has never used before.–Eugene Peterson, Run with the Horses
Culture is not a territory to be won or lost but a resource we are called to steward with care. Culture is a garden to be cultivated.–Makoto Fujimura
Poets do not go mad; but chess-players do. Mathematicians go mad, and cashiers; but creative artists very seldom. I am not, as will be seen, in any sense attacking logic: I only say that this danger does lie in logic, not in imagination…
Poetry is sane because it floats easily in an infinite sea; reason seeks to cross the infinite sea, and so make it finite. The result is mental exhaustion…
The poet only desires exaltation and expansion, a world to stretch himself in. The poet only asks to get his head into the heavens. It is the logician who seeks to get the heavens into his head. And it is his head that splits.
There’s an unspoken message that the only stories worth telling are the stories that end up in history books. This is not true. Every story matters. -Viola Davis