Gilead II

I am a little obsessed right now. I’ll try not to make a habit of this sort of thing, but this passage kicked like a mule:

On taking confession:

When people come to speak to me, whatever they say, I am struck by a kind of incandescence in them, the “I” whose predicate can be “love” or “fear” or “want,” and whose object can be “someone” or “nothing” and it won’t really matter, because the loveliness is just in that presence, shaped around “I” like a flame on a wick, emanating itself in grief and guilt and joy and whatever else. But quick, and avid, and resourceful. To see this aspect of life is a privilege of the ministry which is seldom mentioned.

To live in perpetual wonder at the miracle of existence. That's the real trick, isn't it?