May God be merciful to us and bless us,
show us the light of the holy countenance and come to us.
Psalm 67:1

When I first look out the window, I do not notice the sleet. Then it becomes heavier, the blobs of almost-ice easily seen against the gray sky. Not clear drops of rain, not soft flakes of snow. I wonder briefly about the number of variations along the continuum from water to ice. Infinite.

The Word is about to become flesh. How many variations of gene combinations are possible for humanity? Infinite. And for the eternally begotten Light from Light become truly human in a particular place and time? Perhaps the finite of the infinite.

The Holy Mystery persists, always beyond my grasp and ready to gather me up in loving arms. Who waits for whom?