My eyelids sprang open at three in the morning. Christmas morning. I was seven years old. My half brother Joel—already twelve and too cool for kid stuff—lay sleeping soundly next to me on a makeshift cot in the dining room.
|Gertrude Kasebier’s “The Manger”|
For just a moment, I stood in a place whose very air smelled of welcome. If you have ever felt another’s delight in you, then you know what the golden light was whispering wordlessly to my soul. The energy that brought all things to be and holds all things together was murmuring in the innermost chambers of my heart: “You are my child. You are enough.”
|Rembrandt’s “The Holy Family Night”|