“We sing His birth every year, a light from the darkness, life born again where all seemed dark and lost; and we mourn His death every year, a light seemingly extinguished, but reborn against all sense. But today, for once, consider the long years He alone knew His fate, and did His best to rise to it, and must have shivered, some evenings, sitting on a hill outside Nazareth, at how achingly beautiful and sweet the world is, a gift beyond price. Consider a quiet teenager on a hill—the first wisps of a mustache shy on His lip, His feet growing bigger by the minute, His heart bursting with love for the world He would have to save by leaving it. Poor boy. Brave boy.”
~Brian Doyle
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