So rare the still point.
We must come back
to the same place in tiny
stolen moments to see
how grace grows in spite of us.
Infinitesimal changes
slowed and tardied by our
senseless flurry
yet growing all the same.
The child gift grew with Mary’s Yes;
may I be quick to slow to You,
to give my Yes to Your life in me.
The Consolations of Writing 