Quotes About Hope

And the night smells like snow. Walking home for a moment you almost believe you could start again. And an intense love rushes to your heart, and hope. It's unendurable, unendurable

literature will lose, sunlight will win, don't worry.

I believe one day the distance between myself and God will / disappear.

Thank You for letting me live for a little as one of the sane; thank You for letting me know what this is like. Thank You for letting me look at your frightening blue sky without fear, and your terrible world without terror, and your loveless psychotic and hopelessly lost with this love

P.S. I close my eyes and see a seagull in the desert, high, against unbearably blue sky. There is hope in the past. I'm writing to you all the time, I am writing with both hands, day and night.

All will be forgotten, everything you perceived, thought, dreamed, hoped, remembered . . . all the past all the crawling fucking coughing chestpounding nose-picking and deathward attempts to make real some desperate desire, like standing upright for a minute in the sun. The sun that will die.

But if they were condmened to suffer this unending torment, sooner or later wouldn't they become the holy?

Auto-Lullaby Think of a sheep knitting a sweater; think of your life getting better and better. Think of your cat asleep in a tree; think of that spot where you once skinned your knee. Think of a bird that stands in your palm. Try to remember the Twenty-first Psalm. Think of a big pink horse galloping south; think of a fly, and close your mouth. If you feel thirsty, then drink from your cup. The birds will keep singing until they wake up.

What I mean is, things like that happen. They may seem might cruel and unfair, but that's how life is a part of the time. But that isn't the only way life is. A part of the time, it's mighty good. And a man can't afford to waste all the good part, worrying about the bad parts. That makes it all bad

I remember that feeling, that comfort, that sense of everything in its place, the rightness of it all, when the winter is loved and the summer is all the sun there is. When you want that specific moment, that time, that place, that situation, forever. You can't force it or wish it, and praying doesn't help. You wait, you keep going, you hope maybe it will come around again. That flawless equilibrium.

The extraordinary thing that is about to happen is matched only by the extraordinary moment just before it happens. Advent is the name of that moment.

We can know that in the beginning there was God and not just some cosmic upheaval that brought light out of darkness only when we have experienced him doing the same thing in our lives, our world--bringing light out of our darkness

Joy is a mystery because it can happen anywhere, anytime, even under the most unpromising circumstances, even in the midst of suffering, with tears in its eyes....

If you have never known the power of God's love, then maybe it is because you have never asked to know it - I mean really asked, expecting an answer.

Remember Jesus of Nazareth, staggering on broken feet out of the tomb toward the Resurrection, bearing on his body the proud insignia of the defeat which is victory, the magnificent defeat of the human soul at the hands of God.

Remember me not for the ill I've done but for the good I've dreamed.

Lord, I believe; help my unbelief' is the best any of us can do really, but thank God it is enough.

The worst isn't the last thing about the world. It's the next to the last thing. The last thing is the best. It's the power from on high that comes down into the world, that wells up from the rock-bottom worst of the world like a hidden spring. Can you believe it? The last, best thing is the laughing deep in the hearts of the saints, sometimes our hearts even. Yes. You are terribly loved and forgiven. Yes. You are healed. All is well.

Faith is stepping out into the unknown with nothing to guide us but a hand just beyond our grasp.

in the long run, there can be no joy for anybody until there is joy finally for us all

Here and there even in our world, and now and then, even in ourselves, we catch glimpeses of a New Creation, which, fleeting as those glipmses are apt to be, give us hope both for this life and for whatever life may await us later on.

Like Adam, we have all lost Paradise; and yet we carry Paradise around inside of us in the form of a longing for, almost a memory of, a blessedness that is no more, or the dream of a blessedness that may someday be again.

Our father. We have killed him, and we will kill him again, and our world will kill him. And yet he is there. It is he who listens at the door. It is he who is coming. It is our father who is about to be born. Through Jesus Christ our Lord.

What's lost is nothing to what's found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup.