One of the holiday gifts his parents gave the boy was a blow gun, which he loved. It was not a toy for small children, to be sure.
Jenny brought me her little pink calculator held to her ear and said, “Mommy, it’s Regan callin’.”
I too have turned my child over to hard things, and I too have let him cry into his pillow, and sometimes I hate myself for that.
We have been ferried up, up, up the excruciating climb, full of dread and horror. Now we creep over the edge and hang poised.
The point of Christmas is that Christ entered. Here. He is the last person in the world to be upset with a mess, or rattled by the unforeseen. He is acquainted with grief.