All My Knotted-Up Life: A Memoir

by Beth Moore

If God is love, then nothing is more blasphemous than hate.

All come to Jesus by faith. No one comes by formula.

Vulnerability, in and of itself, is sacred because it mirrors, if even in a glass darkly, the image of Christ.

Mental illness may be a lot of things, but there is at least one thing it is not. It is not someone’s fault.

I’ve found that walking by faith is 50 percent hanging in there until you’re far enough down the road to develop hindsight.

The downside of human closeness is that, to the degree you have loved their presence, you grieve their loss.

God appears to be robustly committed to disproving human formulas.

The trick to dealing with criticism is letting it do its good work but forbidding it to demoralize and destroy or to embitter.

Somewhere inside the balled-up, walled-up mass of tangled strands in the life of faith, the inscrutable God of heaven and earth has the loose ends tied. The ones that mean anything, anyway. Tied securely. Tied sturdily.

Every inch of this harrowing journey, in all the bruising and bleeding and sobbing and pleading, my hand has been tightly knotted, safe and warm, with the hand of Jesus. In all the letting go, he has held me fast. He will hold me still. And he will lead me home. Blest be the tie that binds.