Being is the ultimate gift, the fact that what is, is, is the preeminent miracle. I looked at my front yard this morning and wonder if each blade of grass could speak how long would I have to sit here to hear each of them thank God for being a blade of grass. The odds of anything being, versus not being, are unfathomable. In fact, the whole ball of wax could just as well be nothing. A side note to this is that grass being grass is its praise for being. In light of that fact, what does it mean for me to be me?
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