Right now, it may be looking like there’s not a hand basket big enough to take this nation to hell. But I don’t really believe we’re quite ready for that anyway.
I ran across a poem I wrote several years ago. I will hold this thought firmly in the days to come:
Christmas yearns for the unborn,
With candles set against the darkness,
Lit for warmth as well as light,
We touch in the darkest time,
To find some shred of magic.
Some wisp of hope in the cold.
We celebrate what we may not believe,
Rubbing doubts like dull sticks into flame
Hoping in the silent night that angels fly;
Watching for feathers in Bethlehem .
Linda M. Langer