8:18
“Isn’t this landscape beautiful?” the woman asks.
At 8:18 tonight, the view from the plane window is stunning.
The clouds above us are twisted, as if the sun has wrestled them to break through.
It’s hard not to notice the mustachioed man with his shaggy shirt.
This blog started a year ago with two questions from Jesus.
The long, garden shrouds are the perfect ending my glum rule-of-three walk.
Wrapping, I realize, is just the final touch of anticipation.
I wonder how the magi made it home.
How will I ever find Jesus in this press of people?
Everyone in the concert hall, including the orchestra, waits for my daughter to play a single note.
This is not the tree we came for.
Looking around my hotel room, I’m suddenly aware of all the concentric circles.
There’s something missing in our country’s formula for a modern-day Thanksgiving.
I had no idea one house could hold so many birds.
The tiny owl sits silently on my shoulder as it decides when to fly back into the dark forest.

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