Since the world was broken, can I trust beauty — or am I Eve? Do I pronounce the pasture-scape “good” just because it is? Or am I Eve, I say; am I forgetting, in the instant act of seeing, something mysterious that God told me to do when He first woke me?
November sings carols again for my 52nd time. For my 52nd time I am preached the gospel of the coming Child by the spitting snow and the huddled hawk. Do I sing along with abandon, or do I refuse to be distracted by the signs in the stars, distracted from my twilit watch for some ghostly and stern pilgrim, who will turn in passing and scold me: “I go to Jerusalem, to be crucified.”