Marvel Christmas Quotes

God travels wonderful ways with human beings, but he does not comply with the views and opinions of people. God does not go the way that people want to prescribe for him; rather, his way is beyond all comprehension, free and self-determined beyond all proof. Where reason is indignant, where our nature rebels, where our piety anxiously keeps us away: that is precisely where God loves to be. There he confounds the reason of the reasonable; there he aggravates our nature, our piety—that is where he wants to be, and no one can keep him from it. Only the humble believe him and rejoice that God is so free and so marvelous that he does wonders where people despair, that he takes what is little and lowly and makes it marvelous. And that is the wonder of all wonders, that God loves the lowly…. God is not ashamed of the lowliness of human beings. God marches right in. He chooses people as his instruments and performs his wonders where one would least expect them. God is near to lowliness; he loves the lost, the neglected, the unseemly, the excluded, the weak and broken.

(He) paused for a second and once more marveled at the speed with which one person's private business could be so thoroughly kicked around the neighborhood.

The best Christmas trees come very close to exceeding nature. If some of our great decorated trees had been grown in a remote forest area with lights that came on every evening as it grew dark, the whole world would come to look at them and marvel at the mystery of their great beauty.

One foggy night I was walking the dogs down the lane and heard the geese, very close overhead, calling, calling, their marvellous strange cry, as they flew by. I think that is what our own best prayer must sound like when we send it up to heaven.

It was Christmas night, the eve of the Boxing Day Meet. You must remember that this was in the old Merry England of Gramarye, when the rosy barons ate with their fingers, and had peacocks served before them with all their tail feathers streaming, or boars' heads with the tusks stuck in again—when there was no unemployment because there were too few people to be unemployed—when the forests rang with knights walloping each other on the helm, and the unicorns in the wintry moonlight stamped with their silver feet and snorted their noble breaths of blue upon the frozen air. Such marvels were great and comfortable ones. But in the Old England there was a greater marvel still. The weather behaved itself.

There was something about Christmas Eve, they both felt, that demanded company; one needed somebody to whisper to, during the warm beautiful dream-taut moments between hanging the empty stocking at the end of the bed, and dropping into the cosy oblivion that would flower into the marvel of Christmas morning.

And so it continued all day, wynde after wynde, from a room beyond came the whistle of a teakettle. "Now, you really must join me. I've some marvelous Darjeeling, and some delicious petits fours a friend of mine gave me for Christmas.

In addition to the smells of mince and pumpkin pies, the Sage and onions of turkey stuffing, another aroma floated in the air, the very essence of Santa Claus. Years later, when I was grown up, I still remembered that marvelous fragrance and recognized it as Scotch whisky.

Sometimes at Christmas she would slip into neighborhoods just like this one. She would walk along the streets and peer into windows at family and holiday gatherings, and marvel at the shiny gold, crimson and green decorated trees covered with tinsel and twinkling colored lights, while she wondered what it must be like to experience the beauty of such an ordinary, unattainable life.

I'll put on some Bing and we can believe for a marvelous, miraculous, glorious Christmas season.

The creek was hers now and yet she felt nothing. It had been the longest walk of her life for no one was at the end waiting for her. She slept through winter. Missed Christmas and awoke to a New Year. She felt so lost. Until the first bluebells and ramsons colored the green-brown floor of her world.

I am a bomb but I mean you no harm. That I still am here to tell this, is a miracle: I was deployed on May 15, 1957, but I didn’t go off because a British nuclear engineer, a young father, developed qualms after seeing pictures of native children marveling at the mushrooms in the sky, and sabotaged me. I could see why during that short drop before I hit the atoll: the island looks like god’s knuckles in a bathtub, the ocean is beautifully translucent, corals glow underwater, a dead city of bones, allowing a glimpse into a white netherworld. I met the water and fell a few feet into a chromatic cemetery. The longer I lie here, listening to my still functioning electronic innards, the more afraid I grow of detonating after all this time. I don’t share your gods, but I pray I shall die a silent death.

How many times had she stared up at this same sky and marveled at the view? How many more times would it take before it got old? She hoped she would never know the answer to that question. The gentle gold of Saturn's surface was ever present like a muted eternal sun. The rings, with shades varied from the same gold of the planet's to a brown so dark it might've been black, swept across the planet's fluid surface.

She's selling CDs on the corner, fifty cents to any stoner, any homeboy with a boner. Sleet and worse - the weather's awful. Will she live? It's very doubtful. Life out here is never healthful. She puts a CD in her Sony. It's the about the pony and a pie with pepperoni and a mom with warm, clean hands who doesn't bring home guys from bands or make some sickening demands. The cold wind bites like icy snakes. She tries to move but merely shakes. Some thief leans down and simply takes. Her next CD's called Land Of Food. No one there can be tattooed or mumble things that might be crude and everything to eat is free, there's always a big Christmas tree and crystal bowls of potpourri. She's weak but still she play one more: She's on a beach with friends galore. They scamper down the sandy shore to watch the towering waves cascade and marvel at the cute mermaids who call to her and serenade. She can't resist. the water's fine. The rocks are like a kind of shrine. The foam goes down like scarlet wine. One cop stands up and says, "She's gone." The other shakes his head and yawns. It's barely 10:00, and life goes on.

Janie ran to my side, where she tugged at the book eagerly as though she'd seen it before. "Flower book," she said, pointing to the cover. "Where did you find Mummy's book?" Katherine asked, hovering near me. Cautiously, I revealed the book as I sat on the sofa. "Would you like to look at it with me?" I said, avoiding the question. Katherine nodded and the boys gathered round as I cracked the spine and thumbed through page after page of beautiful camellias, pressed and glued onto each page, with handwritten notes next to each. On the page that featured the 'Camellia reticulata,' a large, salmon-colored flower, she had written: 'Edward had this one brought in from China. It's fragile. I've given it the garden's best shade.' On the next page, near the 'Camellia sasanqua,' she wrote: 'A christmas gift from Edward and the children. This one will need extra love. It hardly survived the passage from Japan. I will spend the spring nursing it back to health.' On each page, there were meticulous notes about the care and feeding of the camellias- when she planted them, how often they were watered, fertilized, and pruned. In the right-hand corner of some pages, I noticed an unusual series of numbers. "What does that mean?" I asked the children. Nicholas shrugged. "This one was Mummy's favorite," he said, flipping to the last page in the book. I marveled at the pink-tipped white blossoms as my heart began to beat faster. The Middlebury Pink.

Each bite is a tidal wave of savory, fatty eel juices... ... made fresh and tangy by the complementary flavors of olive oil and tomato! ...! It's perfect! This dish has beautifully encapsulated the superbness of Capitone Eel!" "Capitone specifically means 'Large Female Eel'! It's exactly this kind of eel that is served during Natale season from Christmas to New Year's. Compared to normal eels, the Capitone is large, thick and juicy! In fact, it's considered a delicacy!" "Yes, I've heard of them! The Capitone is supposed to be significantly meatier than the standard Anguilla." *Anguilla is the Italian word for regular eels.* "Okay. So the Capitone is special. But is it special enough to make a dish so delicious the judges swoon?" "No. The secret to the Capitone's refined deliciousness in this dish lies with the tomatoes. You used San Marzanos, correct?" "Ha Ragione! (Exactly!) I specifically chose San Marzano tomatoes as the core of my dish!" Of the hundreds of varieties of tomato, the San Marzano Plum Tomato is one of the least juicy. Less juice means it makes a less watery and runny sauce when stewed! "Thanks to the San Marzano tomatoes, this dish's sauce remained thick and rich with a marvelously full-bodied taste. The blend of spices he used to season the sauce has done a splendid job of highlighting the eel's natural flavors as well." "You can't forget the wondrous polenta either. Crispy on the outside and creamy in the middle. There's no greater garnish for this dish." *Polenta is boiled cornmeal that is typically served as porridge or baked into cakes.* "Ah. I see. Every ingredient of his dish is intimately connected to the eel. Garlic to increase the fragrance, onion for condensed sweetness... ... and low-juice tomatoes. Those are the key ingredients.

On this side of eternity, Christmas is still a promise. Yes, the Savior has come, and with him peace on earth, but the story is not finished. Yes, there is peace in our hearts, but we long for peace in our world. Every Christmas is still a “turning of the page” until Jesus returns. Every December 25 marks another year that draws us closer to the fulfillment of the ages, that draws us closer to . . . home. When we realize that Jesus is the answer to our deepest longing, even Christmas longings, each Advent brings us closer to his glorious return to earth. When we see him as he is, King of kings and Lord of lords, that will be “Christmas” indeed! Talk about giving Christmas gifts! Just think of this abundance . . . You do not lack any spiritual gift as you eagerly wait for our Lord Jesus Christ to be revealed. (1 Cor. 1:7) And carols? You’re about to hear singing like you’ve never heard before. Listen . . . Then I heard something like the voice of a great multitude and like the sound of many waters and like the sound of mighty peals of thunder, saying, “Hallelujah! For the Lord our God, the Almighty, reigns.” (Rev. 19:6, nasb) Christmas choirs? Never was there a choir like the one about to be assembled . . . They held harps given them by God and sang . . . the song of the Lamb: “Great and marvelous are your deeds, Lord God Almighty. Just and true are your ways, King of the ages.” (Rev. 15:2–3) True, Main Street in your town may be beautifully decorated for the season, but picture this . . . The twelve gates [of the city] were twelve pearls, each gate made of a single pearl. The great street of the city was of pure gold, like transparent glass. (Rev. 21:21) Oh, and yes, we love the glow of candles on a cold winter’s night and the twinkling of Christmas lights in the dark, but can you imagine this? There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light. And they will reign for ever and ever. (Rev. 22:5) Heaven is about to happen. The celebration is about to burst on the scene. We stand tiptoe at the edge of eternity, ready to step into the new heaven and the new earth. And I can hardly wait.

I have some questions for you.” Serious, indeed. He brushed her hair back from her forehead with his thumb. “I will answer to the best of my ability.” “You know about changing nappies.” “I do.” “You know about feeding babies.” “Generally, yes.” “You know about bathing them.” “It isn’t complicated.” She fell silent, and Vim’s curiosity grew when Sophie rolled to her back to regard him almost solemnly. “I asked Papa to procure us a special license.” He’d wondered why the banns hadn’t been cried but hadn’t questioned Sophie’s decision. “I assumed that was to allow your brothers to attend the ceremony.” “Them? Yes, I suppose.” She was in a quiet, Sophie-style taking over something, so he slid his arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. “Tell me, my love. If I can explain my youthful blunders to you over a glass of eggnog, then you can confide to me whatever is bothering you.” She ducked her face against his shoulder. “Do you know the signs a woman is carrying?” He tried to view it as a mere question, a factual inquiry. “Her menses likely cease, for one thing.” Sophie took Vim’s hand and settled it over the wonderful fullness of her breast then shifted, arching into his touch. “What else?” He thought back to his stepmother’s confinements, to what he’d learned on his travels. “From the outset, she might be tired at odd times,” he said slowly. “Her breasts might be tender, and she might have a need to visit the necessary more often than usual.” She tucked her face against his chest and hooked her leg over his hips. “You are a very observant man, Mr. Charpentier.” With a jolt of something like alarm—but not simply alarm—Vim thought back to Sophie’s dozing in church, her marvelously sensitive breasts, her abrupt departure from the room when they’d first gathered for dinner. “And,” he said slowly, “some women are a bit queasy in the early weeks.” She moved his hand, bringing it to her mouth to kiss his knuckles, then settling it low on her abdomen, over her womb. “A New Year’s wedding will serve quite nicely if we schedule it for the middle of the day. I’m told the queasiness passes in a few weeks, beloved.” To Vim’s ears, there was a peculiar, awed quality to that single, soft endearment. The feeling that came over him then was indescribable. Profound peace, profound awe, and profound gratitude coalesced into something so transcendent as to make “love”—even mad, passionate love—an inadequate description. “If you are happy about this, Sophie, one tenth as happy about it as I am, then this will have been the best Christmas season anybody ever had, anywhere, at any time. I vow this to you as the father of your children, your affianced husband, and the man who loves you with his whole heart.” She

I first met Brother Booker at the House of Peace, while delivering donated Christmas trees and lights during the holidays. I had no grasp of the depth of the man's character, or the quality of the individuals he surrounded himself with. But I remember walking away amazed by the man, and marveling at the chaos that swirled around him...having researched his life and talked with many of his nearest and dearest, I am even more amazed today.

26 In which we say goodbye to Ophelia Jane Worthington-Whittard After the hospital, where Mr. Whittard had his arm bandaged, they went in a taxi to the hotel. They drove through the streets of the city, where it no longer snowed. Alice folded all the clothes the museum curator had given her and left them neatly on her bed. She re-dressed herself, the way she had always dressed, in jeans and a T-shirt. She applied blood-red lipstick, which was way too grown-up for her. The sun was just up. It shone everywhere on the snow and on the glistening white trees and on all the windows. Behind each window there were people waking up to Christmas Day. They would no doubt open their presents, eat, and ice-skate. They would not set a time limit; they would skate into the night, and their cheeks would burn bright, and they would smile. Somewhere a man would take a violin out and begin to play. At the airport the family’s three suitcases were checked and the large, unusually shaped package was checked as well. The unusually shaped package went through the X-ray machine, and security looked very surprised until Ophelia’s father produced his card, which read: MALCOLM WHITTARD LEADING INTERNATIONAL EXPERT ON SWORDS They took their seats and rested, waiting for takeoff. Ophelia felt for Alice’s hand, and Alice squeezed in return until they were high in the air. Ophelia looked at her watch. They would be home within a few hours. She went to calculate … and stopped. Be brave, her mother whispered in her ear, and then was gone. From the airplane window Ophelia could see the city below. All the small and winding gray cobblestone streets, all the shining silver buildings and bridges, the museum, getting smaller and smaller until it was lost. She caught just a glimpse of the vast and fabled sea before the clouds covered this world. In that tiny moment she fancied she saw blue water, perfect blue water, the whitecaps breaking. Then that view was gone, swallowed up by the whitest clouds she’d ever seen. Ophelia Jane Worthington-Whittard, brave, curious girl, closed her eyes and smiled. THE END.

He felt none of that numinous awe born of emptiness and the echo of plainsong on the silent air that ancient churches could evoke. Nevertheless, he found himself closing the door more quietly than he would have done, and marvelled, as he often did, how deep-seated and lasting were the influences of his childhood, when, for a priest’s son, the year had been divided not by school terms, holidays or months, but by the church calendar: Advent, Christmas, Pentecost, the seemingly interminable Sundays after Trinity.

it struck me yet again how marvelous children are. They accept everyone openly and with trust. It’s only after adults begin to cram outdated ideas into their glorious loving minds do we witness the birth of hate and mistrust.

I’m the luckiest devil alive,” he muttered, his eyes dazed as if he couldn’t comprehend the extent of his good fortune. In that magical moment, Campion Parnell, poor, neglected, unloved, felt herself blossom into a woman capable of commanding nations with the merest hint of a smile. She drew herself up to her full height and extended her hand toward him. “I believe Lady Winterson has achieved another Christmas miracle in us, my lord.” “My darling, I—” She’d never seen him at a loss for words. That perilous lump of emotion lodged in her throat again, even as she told herself that she couldn’t cry here in public on the happiest night of her life. When Lachlan drew Campion aside, he attracted even more curious stares than he had arriving hand in hand with an unknown lady. “I want the world to know you’re mine.” “I am,” she murmured for his ears alone. The hand that he slid into his jacket wasn’t quite steady. He withdrew something small and glittering. “Say you’ll wear this tonight. And forever. Please.” The “please” touched her. But not quite as much as the sight of this supremely confident man regarding her with such agonized yearning in his green eyes. He extended the sparkling diamond ring toward her. “You’re certainly prepared,” she said huskily, staring at the ring without shifting forward. Tonight had been so packed with surprises. She became inured to marvels. “I intended to give it to you this afternoon,” he said in an undertone. “But you took to your heels before I had a chance.” Feeling as if a flaming torch burned inside her, she held her hand out in consent. “In future, I promise to stay and listen whenever you offer me diamonds.” “I’ll remember that.” His face alight with love, he slid the ring onto her finger. His shaking urgency made her realize anew that she wasn’t dreaming.

I have a solution. You should wed one of my daughters. I like you, and I would give you my blessing.” Both Rose and Lily’s expressions were aghast, and he suppressed a laugh. They were horrified at the idea, which should have been insulting, except that he knew their reasons. “If either of your daughters would consent to being my wife, I would not refuse. I like your eldest, in particular.” He winked at Rose, who shook her head with exasperation. “Excellent.” Lady Penford smiled brightly. “That’s settled then. The wedding can be held within a few weeks.” Rose coughed, nearly spewing her wine over the table. “Really, Mother. Why are you so eager to be rid of me?” Iain leaned back in his chair, rather enjoying the entertainment of Lady Penford’s conversation. It was quite possible that she’d taken a tonic before supper and was quite pickled. Lady Penford’s expression turned wistful. “I like weddings. Weddings lead to babies, and I should quite like grandchildren.” Rose glanced at Lily and said, “I am beginning to think I should take a tray in my room. This is not a conversation I wish to pursue any further.” Iain was rather intrigued. The women were speaking freely, as if he weren’t there at all. He reached for his wineglass, only to find that Calvert hadn’t filled it. When he lifted it and motioned for the footman, he received a furious glare for his trouble. “Grandbabies are marvelous,” Lady Castledon agreed. “My stepdaughter, Christine, just gave birth to a new son last Christmas. He is the most perfect child I’ve ever seen.” “Rubbish,” Lady Wolcroft pronounced. “You say that about every grandchild.” Lady Castledon only smiled. “There is no such thing as an imperfect grandchild. You already know this.” She glanced over at Lily and Rose, nodding to each of them.

Sir Joseph, good morning,” Louisa replied. “My compliments to your horse. That’s the same one you had at the Christmas meet, isn’t it?” “The selfsame. Sonnet, say good morning to the ladies.” The horse tucked a foreleg back and bowed his glossy head without any visible cue from the rider. Jenny’s smile could not have been brighter. “How marvelous! Louisa, we must expand your list to include Sonnet. He’s tall, dark, and handsome, and possessed of both good manners and the ability to dance.” “A list?” Sir Joseph petted his horse again, but this time it seemed to Louisa to be more of a caress down the gelding’s crest. “Are you looking for a new mount, Lady Louisa?” Jenny snorted, the wretch, then turned it into a coughing fit. “I am not. Genevieve, we’ve had our gallop, so why don’t you rescue His Grace from Lord Mannering? I’ll catch up in a moment.” Jenny

I have not danced the waltz in several years, and what memories I have of it are few and dim. Perhaps you’d take pity on a lame soldier and see whether he can recall it?” He expected her to laugh. On his bad days he was lame, and most days he was at least unsound, as an old horse might be unsound. He had not danced the waltz since being injured, had never hoped to again because it required grace, balance, and a little derring-do. Also a willing partner. Louisa put her bare hand in his and rose. “The pleasure would be mine.” Her lips quirked as she stood, but she didn’t drop his hand. “You must not allow me to lead.” He’d watched a hundred couples dancing a hundred waltzes, and had enjoyed the dance himself when it was first becoming popular on the Continent. The steps were simple. What was not simple at all was the feel of Louisa Windham, matter-of-factly stepping quite close, clasping his palm to her own. “I like to just listen for a moment,” she said, “to feel the music inside, feel the way it wants to move you, to lift your steps and infuse you with lightness.” She slipped in closer, so close her hair tickled Joseph’s jaw. Her hand settled on his shoulder, and he felt her swaying minutely as the orchestra launched into the opening bars. She moved with the rhythm of the music, let it shift her even as she stood virtually in his embrace. What he felt inside was a marvelous sense of privilege, to be holding Louisa Windham close to his body, to have the warm, female shape of her there beneath his hands. Her scent, clean and a little spicy, was sweeter when she was this close. She wasn’t as tall in his embrace as she was in his imagination. Against his body, she fit… perfectly. And with the sense of privilege and wonder, there lurked a current of arousal. Louisa Windham was lovely, dear, smart, and brave, but she was also a grown woman whom Joseph had found desirable from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He waited until the phrasing felt right, closed his fingers gently around hers, then moved off with his partner. She shifted with him, the embodiment of grace, as weightless as sunshine, as fluid as laughter. “You lead well,” she whispered, her eyes half closed. “You’re a natural.” He was a man plagued by a bad knee and a questionable hip, but with Louisa Windham for a partner and the music of an eighteen-piece orchestra to buoy him, Joseph Carrington danced. The longer they moved together, the better they danced. Louisa let him lead, let him guide her this way and that, let him decide how much sweep to give the turns and how closely to enfold her. She gave herself up to the music, and thus a little to him, as well, and yet, she anchored him too. Dancing with a woman who enjoyed the waltz this much gave a man some bodily confidence. He brought her closer, wonderfully closer, and realized what gave him such joy was not simply the physical pleasure of holding her but the warmth in his heart generated by her trust. She was dancing with a lame soldier, with a pig farmer, and enjoying it. All too soon, the music wound to a sweet final cadence, but Louisa did not sink into the closing curtsy. She instead stood in the circle of Joseph’s arms and dropped her forehead to his shoulder. “Sir Joseph, thank you.” What

If you stay in there any longer, the water will be cold, and so will you, Husband. I am not inclined to share a bed with a block of ice.” He remained leaning back against the rim, eyes closed. “Maybe cold water is a good idea, Louisa. Next week isn’t here yet.” “Next week…?” She paused in the middle of folding his clothes into a tidy pile. “What does next week…? Oh.” He rose from the water, climbed out, and stood dripping on the bricks before the hearth. “Next week, when I swive you until we’re neither of us able to walk.” He faced the fire, so Louisa had a marvelous opportunity to admire the wet musculature of his back, legs, and yes, of his taut male fundament. She would not be able to walk? “Surely, you exaggerate.” Or did he? He glanced over his shoulder, as if to make sure he had her attention, then turned to face her. He had not exaggerated. With firelight limning his wet skin in rosy gold, Joseph stood six feet away from Louisa in a condition clearly conducive to procreation. She’d read about this, but nothing in any language could have prepared her for the sudden galloping of her heart at the sight of her unclad, aroused husband. “You need to see what you married, Louisa. The flesh is willing but far from perfect.” He

Afterward I could not help admiring the discrimination of the host and hostess in the distribution of the children’s presents. The little girl, who had already a portion of three hundred thousand rubles, received the costliest doll. Then followed presents diminishing in value in accordance with the rank of the parents of these happy children; finally, the child of lowest degree, a thin, freckled, red-haired little boy of ten, got nothing but a book of stories about the marvels of nature and tears of devotion, etc., without pictures or even woodcuts. He was the son of a poor widow, the governess of the children of the house, an oppressed and scared little boy. He was dressed in a short jacket of inferior nankeen. After receiving his book he walked around the other toys for a long time; he longed to play with the other children, but did not dare; it was evident that he already felt and understood his position. I

At one point, in the east, the mists grew lighter and were clad in gold, like warriors. Then the mists swayed, and the golden warriors bent low. From behind them the sun rose, settled upon the gilt mountain ridges and beamed upon the plain, flooding it with its dazzling brilliance. And the mists now soared triumphantly in a glorious ring, broke up in the west and, fluttering, drifted off into the heights above. Makar thought that he heard a marvelous song. It was the very hymn with which the earth greeted the rising sun every day. Only Makar had not paid attention to it before, and this was the first time in all his life that he realized how beautiful the song was. He stood still listening to it, and refused to go any farther. He could stand there forever listening to it

He starts to turn away, then stops, scratching at his beard, considering something, before bending low in the grass and plucking something from the soil. He holds it out in his palm. "Good luck, giant," he says, nodding. In his palm rests a tiny green leaf. "It's a four-leaf clover," he explains with a wink. "And one that's been plucked from inside St. Patrick Town is particularly lucky." I take the green clover from his palm and hold it up to the clouded sky, marveling at its four perfectly rounded leaves. It smells of soil and rain, resting delicately between my fingertips. And it looks just like the clover on the doorway into this realm. "Thank you," I say to him, but when I glance up, he's already vanished into the thick green spruce trees and falling raindrops.

She marveled at the selections Moira and Gretchen had made. As if they were both professional wardrobe planners. Or perhaps just angels in disguise.

her raw throat. Marveled. He’d literally walked through fire for her. For her. “No one’s ever done that…” Tightening his grip

Instead of marveling at the culinary creations made by a woman I couldn’t have, I ate from other bakers.

When I was a boy I once received, as a Christmas gift, a beautiful book of oriental fairy tales. The stories all took place in India. They told of mighty kings riding to war on elephants; of marble palaces with golden domes where lovely princesses were imprisoned; of magic music that came at midnight from an enchanted grove in the jungle.

Remember the transatlantic phone calls, usually made at Christmas, which were a matter of a vast sum of money and a lot of technical negotiation? And then we spent a lot of time saying, “It’s dark here, is it dark where you are?” and marvelled at the fact that you could have two times at the same time. But recently I rang home while walking through Perth, Australia, to check that the cat was okay. I just dialled the number. It wasn’t very exciting. I didn’t even ask if it was dark.

The Flying Dutchman sailed from Java to the Netherlands in three months,” Zulfikar marvelled. “It’s not unusual,” my grandfather observed. “Any merchant ship could do that.” “In the 1600s, it was unusual, cousin,” Zulfikar pointed out. “The Europeans were spooked by it. They said he cut a deal with the devil to sail so fast.” “Was it the devil?” Karno asked. “Of course not,” Zulfikar said. “He had help from a constant companion.

Isaiah gives the Messiah a five-fold name. His first name is Wonderful. We cannot reckon how marvelous God’s plan for us in the Incarnation actually is. The second is Counselor. God does not just leave us to be staggered by what He has done—He counsels us, He teaches us. The third name is Mighty God—remember this is the same God as the God with us, Immanuel. The Deity of the Messiah is firmly stated centuries before He comes. The fourth name is Everlasting Father. God the Son is not to be confused with God the Father, but at the same time, the Son of God is a Father. He is the bridegroom, married to the bride of Christ, the Church. In our corporate capacity, Christ is our husband. As individuals, the Church is our Mother and Christ our Father. He is an Everlasting Father. The last name is Prince of Peace. Though His coming has been the occasion of war as the darkness has vainly sought to extinguish His light, in order to keep it from spreading, the long-term result of His coming is necessarily the Peace of God.

They were all supposed to be listening to a Christmas broadcast by Mrs. Weasley’s favorite singer, Celestina Warbeck, whose voice was warbling out of the large wooden wireless set. Fleur, who seemed to find Celestina very dull, was talking so loudly in the corner that a scowling Mrs. Weasley kept pointing her wand at the volume control, so that Celestina grew louder and louder. Under cover of a particularly jazzy number called “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love,” Fred and George started a game of Exploding Snap with Ginny. Ron kept shooting Bill and Fleur covert looks, as though hoping to pick up tips. Meanwhile, Remus Lupin, who was thinner and more ragged-looking than ever, was sitting beside the fire, staring into its depths as though he could not hear Celestina’s voice. Oh, come and stir my cauldron, And if you do it right, I’ll boil you up some hot strong love To keep you warm tonight. “We danced to this when we were eighteen!” said Mrs. Weasley, wiping her eyes on her knitting. “Do you remember, Arthur?” “Mphf?” said Mr. Weasley, whose head had been nodding over the satsuma he was peeling. “Oh yes . . . marvelous tune . . .” With an effort, he sat up a little straighter and looked around at Harry, who was sitting next to him. “Sorry about this,” he said, jerking his head toward the wireless as Celestina broke into the chorus. “Be over soon.” “No problem,” said Harry, grinning. “Has it been busy at the Ministry?” “Very,” said Mr. Weasley. “I wouldn’t mind if we were getting anywhere, but of the three arrests we’ve made in the last couple of months, I doubt that one of them is a genuine Death Eater — only don’t repeat that, Harry,” he added quickly, looking much more awake all of a sudden. “They’re not still holding Stan Shunpike, are they?” asked Harry. “I’m afraid so,” said Mr. Weasley. “I know Dumbledore’s tried appealing directly to Scrimgeour about Stan. . . . I mean, anybody who has actually interviewed him agrees that he’s about as much a Death Eater as this satsuma . . . but the top levels want to look as though they’re making some progress, and ‘three arrests’ sounds better than ‘three mistaken arrests

IT WAS CHRISTMAS night, the eve of the Boxing Day Meet. You must remember that this was in the old Merry England of Gramarye, when the rosy barons ate with their fingers, and had peacocks served before them with all their tail feathers streaming, or boars’ heads with the tusks stuck in again—when there was no unemployment because there were too few people to be unemployed—when the forests rang with knights walloping each other on the helm, and the unicorns in the wintry moonlight stamped with their silver feet and snorted their noble breaths of blue upon the frozen air. Such marvels were great and comfortable ones. But in the Old England there was a greater marvel still. The weather behaved itself. In the spring, the little flowers came out obediently in the meads, and the dew sparkled, and the birds sang. In the summer it was beautifully hot for no less than four months, and, if it did rain just enough for agricultural purposes, they managed to arrange it so that it rained while you were in bed. In the autumn the leaves flamed and rattled before the west winds, tempering their sad adieu with glory. And in the winter, which was confined by statute to two months, the snow lay evenly, three feet thick, but never turned into slush.

But don’t give me, if I can’t have the dress, a trip to Greenland, or grim trip to the moon. The moon should come here. Let him make the trip down, spread on my dark floor some dim marvel, and if a success that I stoop to pick up and wear, I could ask nothing more.

The tiny cottage, far out on the highway from any town, was a cheap place to live. In the little plot of land about it, Fadden grew a stock of vegetables. He had a flock of chickens, several ducks, and a goose “fattening for Christmas”. This last was their largest and most lasting joke. Some years before, Fadden had traded a dozen early hen eggs for one tiny gosling. Carefully, he had raised it, boasting about what a fine plump bird it would be by Christmas time. It had become just that – marvellous and plump. And a few days before the holiday of holidays, Fadden had taken his hatchet, and he had sat indoors a long time, regarding it. Finally his wife, understanding, had looked up patiently. “Dan,” she said. “I just don’t think I’d favour goose this year. If you did a chicken instead – and—” “Aye, Dally,” Fadden had said. “It would be a tarrible waste – one big goose for just the two on us. Now a chicken would be just right—” And so the goose was spared.

The art of being an adult sometimes was knowing when to keep your mouth shut.

couldn’t understand how anyone would look at this man, who was not only cute but also good natured, and think he wasn’t worth the effort of protecting. Of supporting. Were the people around him just selfish or blind? And could I smack them? I wanted to smack them.