Agnes Giberne was a Victorian novelist who blended her religious sentiment with her stories. Giberne also studied the particularities and mysteries of galaxies, with the help of a well-known Oxford professor of Astronomy, and recorded what she learned on wood-block print.

As you look at Giberne’s shooting-stars you might imagine farther back, to the Magi, as they crested hills on thin trails and slipped through cities, towards a manger, guided by a star, in a time where no electric light muffled the stars—obscuring the night.

When we left the hospital I half-expected someone in a uniform to wave at me, saying “Excuse me sir. Could you show me your child certification?!” But, no one did. We walked right out the hospital sliding doors, infant-parents with a heart-beating, breathing, cooing and crying little infant of our own–our daughter, Zoey.

When we got home and attempted to settle into this new rhythm of mother and father and child we discovered, small as she was, she could run the place. Unable to latch and constantly hungry, she’d scream at 2am, 10pm, and whatever other times suited her. Her needs, more exhaustive than the Library of Congress, kept us swirling in circles of fatigue and wonder.

But, at one point, six weeks in, she got the knack of how to get milk to meet the tongue. So, predictably—to those who know how this all works—she swelled up big like the Michelen man. And when we wrapped her up in diapers and jumpers she was as immobile as a fat starfish. She needed our arms. She needed our minds. She needed our love, that sense (is that what it is?) that cannot be traced to a particular part of the body. An infant’s vulnerability is tender, it is frightening. And how the world just goes on betting that the parent’s covering and warming instincts will emerge, from parts unknown, and find the way towards the child–a sheer and wild miracle.

A human child, you could argue, is the most vulnerable living thing in this whole expansive world. Even a fresh green tendril on some forest floor can turn a ray of light into food. A newborn puppy is born able to crawl, tracing out, on its own, the path towards its mother. But a human baby can only cry and let out its waste, on its own.

It’s on my mind because of Christmas, the feast of the incarnation, where through some mystery that evades understanding, God became, a child. We dress the scene up with haloes and harps; but in preserving the hallowed we miss the human. God, the Christian believes, entered as a holy immigrant into the land of infancy, fully adopting the customs and language of our fragile flesh.

It is not irreverent to wonder what things the Creator knew only as a concept but learned, in a new way, through touch. The twisting knot of hunger. The corresponding discovery of how salt, and fat, and the mellow sweet coating of milk all join with the taste buds–the mouth’s own orchestra. He’d learn about rocks in the sandals and how distraction becomes the cat burglar of attention. There would be the warming love of friendship and the cold rain of loneliness. And, at what age would his mission open in his mind, seeing how, in himself, in a thousand ways, death and life would join together?

Augustine tells us that in the incarnation God did not lose his divinity but added to it humanity. It is good theology. I happily believe it. But, it is also an answer to a puzzle that only makes more puzzles. There is a place where even Augustine’s answers dare not tread.

And there, Mary's belly swells. Magi’s heads crane over and into a makeshift cradle. Here, there is only wonder. Wonder at how God, in reaching so far towards us, became himself, one of us. Wonder at how, because of that, we might become, mysteriously, more and more, like him.

Buscadero Motorcycles are what I think I’d ride around some red dust trail in Idaho in late Spring. But, that would only be if injuries were fiction and money and time poured out of faucets. Jake, you’ve ignited an heretofore unknown urge, Kandice (my wife) thanks you.

The Coastal Goat makes chainstitch corduroy hats that you will wish you knew about a month ago so you could buy one for a friend or spouse or kid for Christmas. Have no fear, there is always… next year.

Have a bunch more to share but ran out of time this week. Looking forward to being with you next Thursday. Hoping you have a great Christmas.