I sit on the floor watching a sleeping child. Three months old, she is a miracle of breath, of tiny hands and feet and eyes and mouth.
How can hearts not be softened by the sight and sound and touch? Perhaps this intent was part of the divine gift. …
That a child would come into the mess of this world. That we who stopped to watch would be forever changed by the sight and touch and sounds of an infant babe.
Come, all you with hearts of stone. Come, all you with spirits of cynicism. Come and see this miracle of breath, of tiny hands and feet and eyes and mouth.
To us, this child is born.