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On feeling guilty about lack of 'productivity': "In a time of infirmity, the illness IS one's work. Taking care of all the disciplines that our health problems require IS the other part of the small daily fidelity to which we are called, beside the faithfulness of being attentive to God. We can be well simply by our diligence in being who we are at the moment." --Marva Dawn, Being Well When We're Ill pg 137 ↗
A strong, vague persuasion that it was better to go forward than backward, and that I could go forward— that a way, however narrow and difficult, would in time open— predominated over other feelings: its influence hushed them so far, that at last I became sufficiently tranquil to be able to say my prayers and seek my couch. I had just extinguished my candle and lain down, when a deep, low, mighty tone swung through the night. At first I knew it not; but it was uttered twelve times, and at the twelfth colossal hum and trembling knell, I said: “I lie in the shadow of St. Paul’s. ↗
I twisted my body, suddenly unable to stand his hands on me. “Do you really think I give a damn what you are? That anything else matters to me more than you, yourself? I don’t want you to stay because you think I need a protector, Daniel. I’ve been looking after myself for a very long time now, and I’ve done just fine. Dammit, have some faith in me.” “If I didn’t have faith in you, Sarah, I wouldn’t feel this way. ↗
Levi," Maria called. "Come back. We're not finished yet." He paused "What, Maria?" "You asked me what I believe in? I believed in you." He nodded his head sadly. "Yes, you did. And before you met me, you believed in nothing. But that's the thing with belief, Maria. It's easy to believe in something when it doesn't require anything from you. It's much harder, though, when the object of your belief requires something of you or asks for something you don't want to give. That's when real belief occurs. ↗
Sophie Bach from The Maker: You’re a human being with a personality and a will, and you make choices and think and create. Is there no meaning to you, Adrien Bach? And what about us? Is the way we feel about each other just simulated emotions from some biological process—nothing more? ↗
