Quotes by N. D. Wilson

N. D. Wilson

My wife and I end to overgift our kids at Christmas. We laugh and feel foolish when a kid is so distracted with one toy that we must force them into opening the next, or when something grand goes completely unnoticed in a corner. How consumerist, right? How crassly American.
How like God.
We are all that overwhelmed kid, not even noticing our breathing, not even noticing that our...


God has seen and God has said. His imagination is bone-shaking and soul-shivering, and He has never groped for words to capture (and be) those things. He imagined galaxies and clogged drains and sharks and harmonies and emotions and running and villains and foes and fungus and that heavy marriage of airs that we call water that can skips rocks and light and wind, that can quench and freeze and...


The school years escalate in difficulty and multiply in temptation. Add sports and friends and hormones and petty power structures. You can now sit in huge chunks of hurtling metal, taking the lives of every one of your passengers and every passenger in every passing chunk of metal and every passing pedestrian and every passing bicyclist into your irresponsible hands. You can now make mistakes...


Don’t resent the moments simply because they cannot be frozen. Taste them. Savour them. Give thanks for that daily bread. Manna doesn’t keep overnight. More will come in the morning.


If life is a story, how shall we than live?
It isn’t complicated (just hard).
Take up your life and follow Him. Face trouble. Pursue it. Climb it. Smile at its roar like a tree planted by cool water even when your branches groan, when your golden leaves are stripped and the frost bites deep, even when your grip on this earth is torn loose and you fall among mourning ...


Time strips us. Time keeps us from turning into mini-dragons, hunkering down on our piles of whatever we use to give ourselves some sense of worth. And when we go dragonish anyway, time knocks us off, and sends moths and rust and destroyers after our stufff


Stories are the closest our words can ever come to being made flesh—gifts unwrapped in the imagination


Seventy years. Eighty if you’re strong. Less if you’re like the Messiah. Look to Him and receive more grace. Stagger on. You can do it. Only a decade more. Or two. Or four. But there is a finish line. There will be an end to the weight on your back and the ache in your skull. This place is no Tartarus, and our God is no scrooge. He gives without ceasing. Even when we fell, when our...


Time is a kindness. We need it. We need loss to appreciate gift. We need the world chanting at us like a crowd counting down seconds at the end of a shot clock. Every day brings its own urgency. Every day has periods that expire, things that count down, and breaks to collect our thoughts, sip Gatorade, and draw up plays.
The sun is up! Get up, get up! Eat. Go, go go! Eat again. Go, go...


We made ourselves filthy and corrupt, and God “cursed” us with death like a mother cursing her mud-caked children with a scalding shower. His curse swallows up our own. Time marches us to Death, and together they strip our hands. But there is a Man there, beside the grave, collecting all our grime, stripping more than hands—stripping hearts (and minds and souls). He assembles a burden like no...


Our futile struggle in time is courtesy of God’s excessive giving. Sunset after sunset make it hard to remember and hold just one. Smell after smell, laugh after laugh. A mind still thinking, a heart still beating. Imagine sticking your finger on your pulse and thanking God every time He gave you another blood-driving, brain-powering thump. We should. And we shouldn’t, because if...


Drink your wine. Laugh from your gut. Burden your moments with thankfulness. Be as empty as you can be when that clock winds down. Spend your life. And if time is a river, may you leave a wake.


One can imaginatively experience all kinds of things and still fall absolutely flat when it comes to paint those things with words.


The sun is belching flares while mountains scrape our sky while ants are milking aphids on their colonial leaves and dolphins are laughing in the surf and wheat is rippling and wind is whipping and a boy is looking into the eyes of a girl and mortals are dying.


Living is the same thing as dying. Living well is the same thing as dying for others.


Jesus was born in a motel barn. To a teenage mother still slandered to this day. To an adoptive father who many believed (and believe) to have been a cuckolded nitwit. Jesus, the Word made physical, the Man born for trouble we cannot comprehend, was placed in a trough. He would trigger (but escape) a genocide. And he was just getting started. He would experience betrayal, profound brutality,...


Even in adults, stories groom instincts, and instincts control loyalties, and loyalties shape choices. But growth is harder for adults


We are mortals. We are seeds grown and hardened for planting, intended for the ground, and for a glorious Easter harvest after. The first Reaper is a foe, rending soul from flesh, and oh, how we run from him, how we stop our breathing and cower behind locked doors in our mortal darkness. But when our Brother takes up the scythe, there will be drums and sun and sweat mixed with laughter. Then...


Nails are forged for pounding. Man is born to trouble. Man is born for trouble. Man is born to battle trouble. Man is born for the fight, to be forged and moulded—under torch and hammer and chisel—into a sharper, finer, stronger image of God.


Living means decisions. Living means writing your every word and action and thought and drool spot down in forever. It means writing your story within the Story. It means being terrible at it. It means failing and knowing that, somehow, all of our messes will still contribute, that the creative God has merely given Himself a greater challenge—drawing glory from our clumsy botching of...


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