The miracle of Christmas is that the creator of galaxies and stars and planets and oceans and land and living creatures and you and me, was so moved by love, that he became a baby in a feed trough.
Hands were meant to grasp, fingers to intertwine, eyes to be seen, feet to walk, mouths to speak, and there are no exceptions. That means you, you refugee.
“Do you know what makes a treasure?” I asked her. She looked up in curiosity.
“The person who finds it.”
When sin flipped the world on its’ head, he answered in kind. Instead of sending a valiant, conquering messiah with regal pronouncements, he became a soft-skinned baby, a weakling, to turn the world upright again.