Miracles and Other Reasonable Things - A story of unlearning and relearning God

How much do I want to read more? 6/10

A car accident, a personal story about her relationship with God?
What intrigues me is that "intimate and weird" touch this book seems to be about. It reads well. Nothing special for now.

We’re all stories, in the end. Just make it a good one, eh?

—- The Doctor

FOREWORD - Shauna Niequist

I cried when it was over, like saying good-bye to someone I love after having had the pleasure of being on a long journey together, because that’s exactly what this book is like: walking shoulder to shoulder through wild terrain.

In friendship, you have to be willing to go first.
the best writers go first: they say the unsaid and unspoken, the secret truths we all feel but can’t quite speak aloud.
Sarah’s willingness to go first in all sorts of ways is a sacred gift, a permission slip, a key unlocking doors long closed.

This beautiful book about miracles is a miracle itself: an honest account of hoping and losing hope, longing and waiting, screwing up the courage to believe again.


This is a very different book than I’ve ever given to you. It’s much more personal. (It’s also much weirder—don’t say I didn’t warn you.)


Spirituality is always eventually about what you do with your pain.

—- Fr. Richard Rohr


For twenty years now, I’ve watched my husband make friends everywhere he goes.
By the time I returned with a jug of milk in my hands, the cashier was wiping her eyes with a tissue and he was nodding sympathetically as she said, “And, of course, that just brought up all the feelings of when my dad left us.…”
People trust him almost immediately. he liked almost everyone, and they loved him for his unfussy genuine interest.

I have heard from other people who have been in traumatic car crashes that time can feel like it slows down in that moment, like your senses are heightened and you notice everything, see everything, hear everything—your mind kicks into another plane of awareness for what is happening in that moment and even for what has come before.
I remember sucking air into my lungs, like I was about to jump into a cold lake, pulling as much breath in as I could and then holding it.
There was this sickening awareness of inevitability; I remember that. I couldn’t stop this, and I knew it already. I knew that we would crash, and the instant sweep of drowning powerlessness hit me long before our vehicles collided.
this was happening no matter what I did next. The inescapability of this, the impossibility of any other outcome, gave rise to the only conscious thought that I can remember of that moment even now: So this is how I die.
And then we crashed.