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  • “He’s here!” read the text and as surely as the magi were drawn to the stable, we set off to the hospital to welcome our promised child. There we were, a clan of mismatched pieces, imperfectly stitched together in a crazy quilt ready to swaddle Connor Allen in our love. Just as shoes are left outside a temple, we dropped our masks at the door. We brought in no ego or swagger, only hope, a hope fostered by true vulnerability. As Connor’s less than seven pounds of life was placed into my arms, I was struck not by his fragility but by how incidental his tiny body was to his spirit. Only hours old, the power of his presence seemed to find that sacred space in each of us where there is only light and in a moment of prayerful intimacy, Connor humbly offered us the gift of calling us to be his family.
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