The Coming Again

This is miracle – that he comes again.

Now, even while I am running, he comes out of the warm house,
door flung open, running after me,
bare feet, short sleeves in the cold night.
He is smiling, white teeth flashing in the dark, eyes sparkling,
lit up with a strange joy,
all the more shocking when I realize it is joy to see me.

But how can this be?
How can he come again even when the No has just escaped my lips, and I am still escaping him?
How can he be standing here on the icy ground with that grin, stopping me in my tracks with that light in his eyes?
How can grace be so ridiculous?

His feet must be freezing. And the cold squeezing my chest begins to melt.
He is here – no matter where I run, he just keeps running too.
He just keeps coming.
Here, to me, with me.

This is the miracle of Christmas. That he comes again and again.


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