how the king comes

Not through your accomplishments in the closing year, nor your lofty goals for the one to come. Not in the good I’ve done nor in the rightful place I’ve created. And thank heaven for that.

Not in the packages, not in the perfection, as if we know what is.

He comes, in holding the person’s hand next to you until it’s comfortable. In the stolen moments of still. The time between order and delivery. The graciousness of the red light, the pause before responding. The holding of breath. The airport delay and resulting wait and the smile of the child across the row in the arms of her father, who doesn’t believe she’s waiting for anything at all because she’s already gotten to the only place she knows.

He comes as the child. He comes as the father. He comes when you most expect Him.

He comes when you least expect Him.

He comes.

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