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Miracles News,
May-August, 2026
On Receiving Everything — Not Just the Things We Like
I did not arrive at gratitude through sunsets or morning practices or lists written beside a cup of tea. I arrived at it through resentment. Through shame. Through the ordinary moments in which life refused to arrange itself in ways that made me feel secure, seen, or successful — and through the uncomfortable discovery that every form of gratitude I knew vanished the moment circumstances stopped cooperating.
There is a version of gratitude most of us recognize. It appears when things go well: When the health report comes back clear, when the relationship feels stable, when the coffee tastes right, and the future seems manageable. This gratitude is sincere, but it is also selective. It is approval disguised as spirituality — the ego quietly sorting experiences and placing a tick beside what it prefers.
“I am grateful,” it says, meaning: Life is behaving as I hoped. And when life stops behaving that way, the gratitude disappears just as quickly as it came. What I want to describe here is a different kind of gratitude altogether. One that does not wait for life to improve before it appears. One that can arise precisely in the places the ego most wants to condemn.
The Gratitude That Fails When We Need It Most
The ego operates as a sorting machine. This is pleasant. This is painful. Keep this. Remove that. Even its gratitude is conditional. It thanks life when life cooperates. Which means the gratitude most of us practice works only under favourable conditions — precisely when we need it least.
When something genuinely unwanted arrives — a diagnosis, a loss, humiliation, rejection, or the quiet ache of feeling unseen — gratitude suddenly feels artificial. Forced gratitude feels worse than no gratitude at all, because something in us recognizes the dishonesty.
The shift for me began with a distinction made in A Course in Miracles: The difference between looking and judging. Judging is what happens when we give meaning to experience — when we attach interpretation to what appears: This is good. This is bad. This means something about me. Looking is encountering the same experience without adding a story. Nothing changes externally. Only the mind’s activity changes.
That simple distinction turned out to be the difference between a gratitude that collapses under pressure and one that remains when nothing improves. I recognized this not through theory, but one ordinary afternoon.
A Café, a Plumber, and a Dead Honeysuckle Bush
A few years ago my boiler was being replaced, and a plumber had effectively taken over my house for the day. I escaped to a café with a book by Ken Wapnick on overeating — a subject that carried more quiet shame for me than I liked to admit. The book described compulsive behaviour not as weakness, but as defense: The ego attempting to cover fear it does not want exposed. Reading it, something shifted. The overeating was no longer a problem to fix or a failure to manage. It was revealing something. It was showing me a block in my mind.
Suddenly I felt gratitude. Not gratitude that the problem existed, but gratitude because the problem made the block visible. What I had condemned for years as evidence against me became evidence for healing. Without the symptom, the underlying belief would have remained hidden. The very thing I had wished away was the thing showing me where forgiveness was needed.
Nothing about the behavior had changed. The struggle was still present. But its meaning transformed completely — and with it, my relationship to myself. The shame loosened. In its place came something quieter than relief: A peace that did not depend on improvement, only on willingness to see.
Moments later my phone rang. The plumber explained he had needed access up the side of the house and had cut down a dead honeysuckle bush blocking the path. Was that alright? I laughed out loud. I had been trying for months to remove that bush. Every quote had been too expensive. It had simply remained — dead, obstructive, mildly irritating. And now it was gone. Effortlessly. Without cost. Without struggle. You may call it coincidence. I do. But I noticed something: When resistance relaxed, even briefly, life seemed to move without obstruction — as though the mind’s grip and the world’s resistance had never been separate things at all.
Looking Without Judging
A Course in Miracles uses the metaphor of a dream. When you forget you are dreaming, everything within the dream appears consequential. Threat frightens you. Pleasure reassures you. The dream dictates your emotional life because you have granted it reality. But once you recognize the dream as a dream, nothing within it can truly disturb you. The scenes continue. You still participate. Yet something fundamental has changed: You are no longer judging what you see as defining you.
Looking without judging functions in the same way. The content of experience may remain exactly as it was, but its authority dissolves when meaning is withdrawn. Gratitude, in this deeper sense, is not a practice we perform. It is what remains when condemnation ends.
The Grievance I Wanted to Keep
The second moment that clarified this was less charming. I attended a workshop led by an ACIM teacher I respected enormously. At some point I noticed he seemed to give more attention to others than to me. The resentment appeared instantly. I had made the effort to be there. I wanted acknowledgement. The ego assembled its case with impressive efficiency — and, if I am honest, I did not want to release it. The grievance felt justified. Protective. almost necessary.
My mind rehearsed arguments, replayed interactions, gathered evidence. Being overlooked felt personal, meaningful, real. Eventually I stopped trying to fix the feeling and simply looked at it. Not suppressing it. Not spiritualizing it. Just noticing the interpretation I had attached. The belief revealed itself plainly: I thought I needed recognition in order to be at peace. The teacher had not created that belief. He had exposed it. Seeing this was uncomfortable — and deeply relieving.
Again, gratitude appeared. Not because the situation improved, but because a hidden block had become visible. The resentment had been a teacher, pointing precisely to where I still sought validation from the world. The moment the grievance lost its purpose, something softened. The distance I had perceived disappeared. This teacher became a close friend and has remained one.
To Forgive Is to Make Holy
Proust’s painter Elstir tells the young Marcel that no wise person has escaped the ridiculous or odious incarnations that precede wisdom — and that they should not be regretted, because they were the path. It is a generous idea. But it is still essentially backward-looking: The past redeemed in hindsight, the wound accepted after it has healed.
What A Course in Miracles points to is something more immediate and more radical. Not the forgiveness that makes peace with what we once were, but the forgiveness that transforms what is here now.
“The holiest of all the spots on earth is where an ancient hatred has become a present love. And They come quickly to the living temple, where a home for Them has been set up. There is no place in Heaven holier. And They have come to dwell within the temple offered Them, to be Their resting place as well as yours. What hatred has released to love becomes the brightest light in Heaven’s radiance. And all the lights in Heaven brighter grow, in gratitude for what has been restored.” (T-26.IX.6)
Hatred is not neutralised. It is not managed or resolved or put away. It is transmuted into the brightest available light. The ancient grievance, forgiven, becomes holier than anything that was never a grievance at all.
My relationship with that teacher could only become what it became because he pulled from me a small but real hatred — and I forgave it. The Course makes no distinction in truth between a tiny irritation and a murderous rage. Both are the same block, scaled differently. The content is identical; only the intensity varies. This means those who provoke us most are not our most difficult relationships. They are our holiest ones in potential. Every grievance is an invitation. Every irritation, however minor, is the raw material of a temple.
Proust understood that the odious incarnations were necessary. The Course goes further: They were not just necessary. Forgiven, they become luminous. To forgive is not to excuse. It is not to manage or minimise or forget. It is to make holy.
Nothing Is Unusable
There is a line from Paul’s letter to the Romans that returns to me often: All things work together for good. The ego cannot accept this. Its identity depends on dividing experience into gain and loss, success and failure, approval and rejection. If everything can serve healing, the ego’s role as judge becomes unnecessary — and it will resist that conclusion fiercely.
This does not mean events themselves are good. Pain still hurts. Loss still grieves. It means nothing is unusable. Illness, addiction, embarrassment, resentment — each can reveal the mistaken beliefs the mind has been protecting. The symptom points to the block. The block, once seen, can be forgiven. And what is forgiven becomes, in the language of the Course, the brightest light.
Nothing needs to be excluded from healing. Nothing needs to be excluded from gratitude. This is not passive acceptance. It does not deny feeling. In both stories, the emotions were real and fully experienced. What changed was not the feeling but the refusal to turn feeling into a verdict. The ego uses feeling as evidence. Forgiveness allows feeling without condemnation.
The Gratitude the Ego Cannot Fake
Overeating remains part of my learning. The honeysuckle bush is gone. The teacher is a friend.
None of that is the point. The point is a moment when something long condemned revealed itself as a doorway instead. When shame became instruction. When a small grievance, looked at honestly and released, became the foundation of one of the closest relationships in my life. What I had wanted to abolish became what made healing possible.
This is the gratitude the ego cannot fake, because the ego cannot survive it. It requires the willingness to look at exactly what we most want to condemn — in our circumstances, in others, in ourselves — and to recognize it not as evidence against us, but as the place where the light gets in. The Course calls it the holiest spot on earth: “Where an ancient hatred has become a present love.”
Gratitude of this kind is not a feeling we cultivate. It is what arises when we stop fighting what is here — and see, perhaps for the first time, that it was never the obstacle. Not gratitude for pleasant outcomes. Not gratitude in spite of difficulty. Gratitude for whatever reveals the block — because the moment the mind is willing to see, the work of healing has already begun. And what hatred releases to Love becomes, in ways the ego cannot measure, the brightest Light available.
Kirsty Randle is a Pathways of Light minister living in Dorset, 2UK. Email: .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address).
© 2026, Pathways of Light. https://www.pathwaysoflight.org
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