On this cold November Sunday morning, with the temperature down to 28 degrees, I feel a kinship with the Kentucky farmer poet, Wendell Berry, who imagines himself going out into the cold of his farm, opening a stall, and finding inside a family breathing.

There is the Child, bedded in straw, the mother kneeling over Him, the father standing in belief.

He imagines standing with one hand on the door, looking into another world and writes

we are here
as we have never been before
sighted as never before, our place
Holy, although we knew it not.

He makes me wonder, what would it be like today, for me, to have my eyes opened to some unexpected, holy place?

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