On Writing a Book Amidst Advent, Death, and a New Baby

He is here, not crashing in with light that makes our tear-sore eyes ache, or with demands that we believe in a list of assertions, he is here, like a star whose tender light cannot be dimmed by a legion of darkness. He is here, like the swell of new buds after winter. He is here like a lullaby sung in the night to a fretful child. He is here… like the stir and stretch of a child in the womb…

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