Feast of the Angelic Doctor.
Henry James said that we were as if riding a horse at night, and couldn't see whether it was black or white. ("It's grey until dawn," mutters the German farmer in the next field.)
My devised thought is a bit more optimistic. We are on a mountain, and can't know how high we have managed to climb. We might be meters from a mountaintop grove, we might be only a few feet up the path. Choosing to climb, or choosing to fall, therefore, have unknowable consequences. But we can know what it is to climb -- as well as the other thing.
One might write a compendium of the faith and only have advanced a few steps on the mountain. One might have had a single thought and found him or herself on the mountaintop. Grace is what we have to lose, unknowing.