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Among the words that the teacher has consistently spoken, there was this: “Even though fruits receive nourishment from the same tree, some are sweet, some are sour, some are bitter, and some are rotten. Likewise, just because they are here doesn’t mean they all bear the same fruit.” This teaching came to mind as I read the various writings about truth this time. Living under the same roof with my family, I’ve come to know, to some extent, the appearances and behaviors we show one another. I believe it’s the same for others as well. And seeing how those appearances and forms are inevitably reflected in the style of each person’s writing, I think I understand why the teacher said, “They wrote according to their own level.” I’m not sure if writing this might come across as somewhat arrogant, but there were some writings that even I felt were off the mark, some that were so complex I couldn’t keep up, some that I could tell who wrote them even without a name, some that exuded earnestness, and others that felt so vivid, as if the writer were speaking right in front of me. I cautiously share what I’ve felt. What’s certain is that the writings of those with grace feel distinctly different.
The first piece I read was by Sella, and what struck me most was how alive the writing felt. Though it was just text, for a moment, I genuinely mistook it as Sella explaining her writing to me in person. Reading such a fluent and clear explanation of their feelings, so vividly expressed, along with Dame’s writing—sometimes gentle, sometimes calm, but always heartfelt—and the director’s piece, detailing numerous miracles and why they believe 120% that the teacher is Moses, I realized that the writings of those with grace don’t feel like they were merely squeezed out of their heads. Instead, they seem to flow naturally from deep, heartfelt experiences—written softly, fluently, with care, and full of life. There’s a unique, tender, and finite quality to their writing, a difference in perspective and observation that shines through unmistakably. When I looked back at my own writing after reading theirs, the best way to describe it is “dead.” It felt empty, like an hollow shell. Even when describing the same feelings about tongues or explaining truths felt in life, those with grace express it intricately, delicately, and eloquently, while I couldn’t. No, I wasn’t even capable of it. This made me realize once again that the power of grace is beyond comparison to human wisdom or perspective, and that without that power, my own limitations cannot change. It became a time for me to feel those limits deeply.
On the other hand, I started to think:
“What is the problem with me?”
Complacency.
Living in this truth, unlike the days when I lived with that woman, I’m no longer anxious but comfortable—simply because it’s easy. I know in my head that receiving grace is what brings change, but I lack the desperation for it. Today, I see myself settling here, and even if I say I believe, I wonder if I truly long for it, if I’m really trying to follow with my heart. This has become an opportunity for me to reflect on myself once more.
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