Personal providence
There is a certain high point in life; once we have reached that, we are, for all our freedom, once more in the greatest danger of spiritual unfreedom, and no matter how much we have faced up to the beautiful chaos of existence and denied it all providential reason and goodness, we still have to pass our hardest test. For it is only now that the idea of a personal providence confronts us with the most penetrating force, the best advocate, the evidence of our eyes, speaks for it- now that we can see how palpably always everything that happens to us turns out for the best. Every day and every hour, life seems to have no other wish than to prove this proposition again and again. Whatever it is, bad weather or good, the loss of a friend, sickness,slander, the failure of some letter to arrive, the spraining of an ankle, a glance into a shop, a counter-argument, the opening of a book, a dream, a fraud- either immediately or very soon after it proves to be something that "must not be missing"; it has a profound significance for us. Is there any more dangerous seduction that might tempt one to renounce one's faith in the gods of Epicurus who have no care and are unknown, and to believe instead in some diety who is full of care and personally knows every little hair on our head and finds nothing nauseous in the most miserable small service?
Well, I think that in spite of all this we should leave the gods in peace, as well as the genii who are ready to serve us, and rest content with the supposition that our own practical and theoretical skill in interpreting and arranging events has now reached its high point. Nor should we conceive too high an opinion of the dexterity of our wisdom when at times we are excessively surprised by the wonderful harmony created by the playing of our instrument- a harmony that sounds too good for us to dare to give credit to ourselves. Indeed, now and then someone plays with us- good old chance; now and then chance guides our hand, and the wisest providence could not think up a more beautiful music than that which our foolish hand produces then.
Nietzsche, The Gay Science, Book Four # 277