to him who
hustles while he waits.
4-year-old: “I’m not going to grow up.”
Mom: “Good. I hope you never grow up. Even when you’re old.”
4-year-old: “I’m not going to be old. I’m new.”
“You can’t conceive, nor can I,
the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God.”
This is the irrational season
Where love blooms bright and wild.
Had Mary been filled with reason
There’d have been no room for the child.
I saw a stable, low and very bare,
A little child in a manger.
The oxen knew Him, had Him in their care,
To men He was a stranger,
Mary Elizabeth Coleridge (1861-1907)
—e. e. cummings