For a long time, I used a familiar phrase to explain life’s rough edges: “Shit happens.” It felt honest. Blunt. Even a little wise. It carried the quiet resignation that life is unpredictable, often unfair, and largely out of our control. Things go wrong. People disappoint us. Bodies fail. Plans collapse. And the phrase gave me a way to shrug and move on.
But there is another way to see it—one that doesn’t deny the experience, yet transforms its meaning entirely.
What if nothing that happens is outside the reach of love?
Not sentimental love. Not the kind that depends on conditions, outcomes, or agreement. Something deeper. Something constant. Something that does not come and go depending on whether the day went well.
If that is true, then the phrase “Shit happens” is not wrong in what it observes—but it is incomplete in what it concludes.
Because what I called “shit” was never the event itself. It was my interpretation of it.
A missed opportunity becomes failure. A harsh word becomes an attack. A diagnosis becomes a sentence. A loss becomes an ending. And from that interpretation, suffering grows. Not from the event—but from the meaning I gave it.
“I am never upset for the reason I think.” (W-5)
In that sense, what I was really saying all those years was this: “I don’t understand what this is for.”
And that is a very different statement.
Because if I don’t understand, then there is something to understand. If I misinterpret, then there is a truer interpretation available. And if there is a truer interpretation, then perhaps what is happening is not random, not meaningless, not cruel—but purposeful.
“All things are lessons God would have me learn.” (W-193)
Seen this way, every moment becomes an invitation.
Not necessarily an invitation to like what is happening. Not even an invitation to approve of it. But an invitation to look again. To question the first conclusion. To ask quietly: “What if there is something here I am not seeing?”
“I could see peace instead of this.” (W-34)
This is where the shift begins.
Because when I stop insisting that I already know what something means, I create space. And in that space, something unexpected can enter. A softer thought. A different angle. A hint of understanding that was not available before.
And sometimes, that understanding reveals something surprising:
What I thought was a setback becomes a redirection.
What I thought was rejection becomes protection.
What I thought was loss becomes release.
Not because the facts changed—but because the meaning did.
“Perception has a focus. It is this that gives consistency to what you see.” (W-181.2:1-2)
This does not happen all at once. It is not a one-time realization that permanently replaces every reaction. It is a practice. A willingness. A quiet habit of pausing before concluding.
And over time, something becomes clear.
There are no meaningless moments.
“Nothing I see means anything.” (W-1)
“I have given everything I see all the meaning that it has for me.” (W-2)
Everything that appears to happen becomes material for awakening, if I allow it. Every irritation reveals a place where I am still holding a grievance. Every fear points to a belief I have accepted without question. Every conflict offers a chance to choose peace instead of being right.
In this light, nothing is wasted.
Even the moments I once dismissed as random or unfortunate become part of a larger movement—one that is always, quietly, leading back to something stable and unchanging.
Love.
“God is but Love, and therefore so am I.” (W-171–W-188)
Not as an emotion, but as a condition. A presence that does not fluctuate with circumstance. A foundation that remains even when everything else seems uncertain.
From that perspective, it becomes possible to say something that once sounded absurd:
Only love happens.
Not because every event looks loving. But because every event can be used for love.
That is the difference.
“I will forgive, and this will disappear.”
The world may still present situations that seem chaotic or painful. That does not change overnight. But the purpose I assign to those situations can change immediately. And when the purpose shifts, the experience begins to shift with it.
What once triggered anger now becomes a chance to forgive.
What once produced fear now becomes a call for trust.
What once felt like isolation now becomes an opportunity to remember connection.
This is not denial. It is reinterpretation.
And it restores something that the old phrase quietly took away: meaning.
“Shit happens” leaves us at the mercy of events.
“Only love happens” returns us to participation.
It says that while I may not control what appears, I am not powerless in how I see it. And how I see it determines everything.
“The power of decision is my own.” (W-152)
Looking back, I can see that nothing in my life was ever outside this possibility. I just did not recognize it at the time.
“I will step back and let Him lead the way.” (W-155)
And that recognition—that simple, quiet shift—is where peace begins.