Three-thirty am. An accidental poisoning, and a night of PTSD flashbacks.
Heck of a way to start Christmas.
Or maybe not, because there's no Currier and Ives moment, not gift, that would make this OK.
The carols fall flat, and I dread the morning of PBS music specials. I just can't face them right now. Where's that convoy escort job in Helmand when you need it?
But even nihilism has its limits. You might live through the work you hope will kill you.
On the other side of the darkness, then...what?
A baby, in a bed of straw, in a place far away and long ago...and here, and this very morning.
God, caring enough to come back for us.
Not as some awesome giant heaven-king, blinding us with white-gold fire. A baby, that we can pick up and hold.
A God we can protect.
And in so doing, we save our souls.
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