To God's messengers

Our lives are often lit by the lampsOf other people's kindness,So when hope grows dimThey kindle it afresh:Like warm, shaded lamps,Afloat in the dark poolOf an uncurtained room,They beckon us homeward.

There are no rolls of honorYou'll find their names on,No bugle call heraldsTheir passing or triumphs.

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Our first real Christmas
December 25, 1989
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