There is a certain point in a paper writing process when, all of a sudden, you feel as if you do not know anything at all about what you are writing about. Despair grips you to the point where you actually believe that you did not learn anything all semester. Going to class, doing the readings, writing about the readings, doing assignments on the readings—somehow, you scrape through all these learning opportunities without acquiring one valid piece of knowledge.

If we were to envision what happens, we might say that the writer is happily, earnestly climbing up a mountain—he is eager to synthesize his knowledge and research into some distinctive position, and he enjoys some success. However, right when he gets to the top of the mountain (when he is confident enough to articulate his bold and creative thesis), the force of flinging himself on top of the mountain flings him right off of the precipice.

All of a sudden, a few new considerations reveal that everything you know and think might be wrong. Here I sincerely think to myself: “I know nothing of Aquinas—I do not understand him at all. How can I write?” I acquiesce to the falling, and watch as the cliff’s top becomes further away from me as I descend into the rugged valley. “I think I’ll just stay here. Lie here for awhile.” “Let’s forget Aquinas ever happened. Can we tell that to the registrar?”

Happily, there is strength to overcome such despair. Upon finishing the paper I realize that my despair—though likely an inescapable part of the paper-writing process—is wrong. “I guess I know one or two things about Aquinas,” I concede to myself: “At least, much more than I knew four months ago.” And what more can I ask for?

My whole life, particularly as a student, I have had a hard time holding on to writing utensils. Buying lead refills was always in vain: I would almost always lose the pencil before it required a refill.

Why would this happen? I expect that I so objectified each pencil, as an instrument for my own use, a mere means to an end, that I would not care for the pencil itself, in any regard.

This made me realize that if, as Avicenna contends, the body is merely a tool for the soul, I would probably not care a bit for my body. Also, I would consequently quickly lose my body.

He giveth more grace when the burdens grow greater,
He sendeth more strength when the labors increase,
To added affliction He addeth His mercy,
To multiplied trials, His multiplied peace.

When we have exhausted our store of endurance,
When our strength has failed ere the day is half-done,
When we reach the end of our hoarded resources,
Our Father’s full giving is only begun.

His love has no limit, His grace has no measure,
His power no boundary known unto men,
For out of His infinite riches in Jesus,
He giveth and giveth and giveth again.

Annie Johnson Flint (1866-1932)