It’s baffling to me that something tiny enough to fit in my closed fist already carries everything it needs to become a massive oak. It too much to take in, an entire galaxy in the pin point prick of a star. And yet all the greatest achievements were at first only a speck, a wish, a dream. A bird growing inside the egg, waiting with tight, folded wings.
Merry Christmas anyway. Even though there are no sugarplums dancing over your head, or the sinful, heady scent of rolls rising.
I like to believe, one day there will be again.
I’ve been thinking a lot about those who share, and share, and share, even though they know it’s not enough, it will never be enough. They take what they have, asking that it will be enough, that it will rise and stretch, that the yeast will grow and that all the hungry mouths will be fed.