When a man who is cruelly wounded in his body or his spirit preserves a
cheerful faith and never ceases to be the master of his misfortune, I
say that he has grace.
When a true man is able, for an hour, to contemplate without uneasiness
his own thoughts and actions, I say that he is touched with grace, and
I hope that hour may last a day and that day an entire life.
Like a sailing-vessel that stretches through the air its slender,
vibrant cables, probes the sky with its strong and supple masts, offers
to the wind, at ever-varying angles, the white resistance of its sails
and marvelously dominates all the forces of the air while seeming to
obey them, the man who possesses grace enjoys a communion that is
profound, perfect, exquisite, not only with whatever in the world is
perceptible to us, but above all with what is unknown.
That man weighs much in the baskets of the winnower. That man does not
see only within the limits of his own flesh. He fills in his own self
almost the whole universe, participates gloriously in the infinite.
I know that it often happens that the beautiful ship sees its sails
sinking in distress and no longer feels its ropes trembling in the
wind. The time comes when it stops painfully in the stupor and
indifference of noon.
The time comes when the rich man suddenly finds himself on Job’s
dung-heap. The time comes when, without reason, grace deserts the heart.
Wait expectantly, with sails spread like an ear, with rigging firm, and
perhaps, where others less trustful would find themselves abandoned,
you will perceive a certain relenting breeze.
You must never lose contact with the universe if you wish to live in
the state of grace.