The roundness of life's design may be a sign that there is a

In the gentle yet profound words of Wally Lamb, the storyteller of souls, we find this reflection: “The roundness of life’s design may be a sign that there is a presence beyond ourselves.” In this sentence lies a meditation as ancient as the stars, yet as immediate as the beating of the human heart. Lamb speaks of the roundness of life — the mysterious way in which events seem to return upon themselves, how beginnings find their endings, and how the threads of existence weave together in patterns too intricate for mere chance. His words whisper of destiny, of divine design, of the unseen hand that guides the rhythm of the universe.

When Lamb calls life “round,” he evokes the eternal symbol of the circle — the oldest emblem of unity, continuity, and completion. The ancients revered the circle as the shape of perfection: the sun that rises and sets, the moon that waxes and wanes, the seasons that repeat, and the wheel of time that turns forever. In every culture, this image of roundness has carried the same sacred truth — that life moves not in chaos but in pattern, not in fragments but in wholeness. To sense this roundness, Lamb suggests, is to glimpse the presence beyond ourselves — that quiet intelligence or spirit that shapes the seeming randomness of our lives into meaning.

The origin of this quote can be traced to Lamb’s own deep engagement with the human condition, found in his novels such as I Know This Much Is True and She’s Come Undone. His stories, woven with pain, redemption, and the cyclical nature of healing, reveal that no suffering is wasted and no joy is without its echo. To Lamb, the design of life is not linear, for linear paths lead only forward — but life, like the circle, turns upon itself. What we lose, we often find again in a different form; what we give returns to us transformed. His insight comes from the understanding that our lives are not accidents of circumstance, but movements in a greater harmony — a cosmic symmetry that invites awe and humility.

Consider the story of Helen Keller, born in darkness and silence, yet destined to bring light and sound to others. Her early years were filled with despair, her world bounded by isolation. Yet, through her teacher Anne Sullivan, she learned to touch words, to feel thought itself — and from her suffering was born wisdom that would touch millions. The circle of her life closed upon itself: the girl who could not speak became a voice for the voiceless. Here, as Lamb’s words suggest, we see the roundness of life’s design, and in that roundness, the unmistakable touch of a presence beyond mere human will — a guiding force that turns tragedy into transformation.

The roundness Lamb speaks of also dwells in the everyday lives of ordinary people. The parent who sacrifices for a child only to be cared for in return, the kindness once given that reappears years later from an unexpected hand, the dream long deferred that ripens in its own season — these are not coincidences but echoes, the rippling of a sacred geometry. The wise of old would call it karma, providence, or fate. The scientist might call it cause and effect. But beneath all these names lies the same truth: life, in its hidden symmetry, reveals a pattern too compassionate, too personal, to be entirely random.

Yet, Lamb’s words do not compel belief — they invite wonder. For to see design in life is not to deny hardship, but to believe that even hardship has purpose. The presence beyond ourselves does not always shield us from pain, but it may shape that pain into growth, just as pressure turns coal into diamond. The soul that endures loss may find, in time, that it was being refined for love; the failure that seemed final may become the doorway to wisdom. To perceive this roundness requires patience, for we stand inside the circle and cannot yet see its full form. Only in reflection — sometimes only in hindsight — do we glimpse the perfection of its design.

Therefore, O seeker of understanding, take this truth to heart: when your life seems jagged or broken, when the path ahead is unclear, remember the roundness of existence. Trust that there is a turning yet to come, a curve unseen that will complete what now feels unfinished. Live with eyes open to connection, for every action you take sends ripples across the great circle of being. Practice gratitude for the moments that return, and forgiveness for those that wound, knowing both are part of the same divine pattern.

In the end, Wally Lamb’s words are not a doctrine, but an invitation — to see life not as chaos but as choreography, not as accident but as art. The circle spins through us all, drawing us together, teaching us that every ending is but another beginning. And when we sense that roundness, when we feel the gentle intelligence that binds our stories to one another, we awaken to the sacred truth that we are never alone — that there is, indeed, a presence beyond ourselves, guiding the wheel of life toward its eternal completion.