8:18
8:18
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.
It’s as if all the most stubborn trees have decided, today’s the day.
I am standing at my artwork when the man returns.
At 8:18 tonight, I grip my knife and stare at squares.
To my eye, cemeteries have a solemn beauty. I don’t think that makes me creepy.
It’s a beautiful evening on the National Mall and Jesus keeps reminding me he’s near.
Watching the rain outside, I pray that this solution will work.