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“You make it sound like 1.0 was the better model.” “No way. 2.0 likes chocolate pudding and God, so 2.0’s obviously the better model.
“I know that God has a soft spot for those of us who feel like we’ve been thrown onto the garage sale pile. A giant soft spot for us. He’s never closer to us than when we’re beaten up, unloved, betrayed.” “Then why, back then, did He seem so far away?” “I don’t know. Sometimes the way things seem isn’t the way they are.”
“Answers to prayer don’t always look the way you expect them to. My sadness isn’t gone but it’s much better, you know. Because you’re here, Remy. And now I have company.”
“I’ve learned in my eighty years,” Wendell said, “that seasons of emotional hardship are like storm fronts. Powerful, yes. Damaging, yes. Scary when they’re on top of you. But also passing.”
I’d go to every sad place in the world if it meant you were next to me.
“Why are you here?” “Because this is where you are.” He looked her straight in the face while gently extracting an inch-long curl of wood from her topknot. “If this is where you are, then this is the only place I want to be.”
I don’t bring perfection and I’m not asking you to bring perfection.”
Love had to be given without the assurance of reciprocity or a lifetime of security under its umbrella.
“God has a soft spot for those of us who feel like we’ve been thrown onto the garage sale pile. A giant soft spot for us,” Wendell had said to her that day at his kitchen table. “He’s never closer to us than when we’re beaten up, unloved, betrayed.”
They were very different, but they were also made for each other. It was as if God had known exactly what He was doing when he’d placed Jeremiah in the water outside her cottage in range of her binoculars.
“For the mountains may move and the hills disappear, but even then my faithful love for you will remain.” Isaiah 54:10
