Her words spoke powerfully to me, as though the book has been waiting for me all night to open it. On romance and retelling her love story with Peter, she begins the chapter with recollections from her journal where she writes,
Tonight I feel compelled to write until my hand is tired and exhausted. I am restless and unhappy these days because I am neither right with myself nor with God. Why this dissatisfaction with myself? I am driven on and on by an overwhelming sense of some destiny, of some task to be done which I must do. I can never be peaceful and happy and enjoy life until I learn why I am here and where I am going.
It’s as if my soul is frozen and hard, and when there comes some mellow influence which melts it, my soul strains against these walls like a turbulent mountain stream whose course has been newly freed from encumbering rubbish. And I don’t think it too dramatic to say that my life is just as barren and dry as the rocky steam-bed, parched through being deprived of the life-giving water.
I am tired of knowing and not doing, tired of thinking and not being. I despise myself because I am simply lazy in my religion. It is easier not to bother. Yet I know that I can never find God by not bothering.
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