!Third day of Christmas --- agk's diary 27 Dec 2023 @ 11:41 UTC --- written on GPD Win 1 in bed after cut from work this shift --- In the rush of the season I never wrote about the last two orientations of Advent, joy and love. First daughter and I lit their candles, Pastor Lori preached on them as disciplines or practices, not moods or prayers. Miryam went to her cousin's house when hers was bombed, killing 11 members of her family: mother, grandmother, siblings, cousins, nieces, nephews. Her boyfriend Yusuf knew where she planned to go but couldn't join her. He loaded dead and soon-to- die people on ambulances night in night out, empty stomach gnawing, his own wounds failing to heal. Miryam's elderly cousin was pregnant, somehow. She drank tea of scrap iron soaked in tepid brackish water with a splash of vinegar, and lived in a farm outbuilding with her husband since fleeing their house. Even here, sleep was hard due to the constant buzz of drones, nightly small earthquakes, roar of D9 bulldozers and tanks. Miryam's cousin's name means my God is abundance. She planned to name her son Yahya ibn Zakariya after Yahya Sinwar. She fingered the old house key inherited from her mother, worn on an old necklace close to her heart. She knew with her whole being her son, merciful God's gift, would make a way in the wilderness. As she opened the door to haggard Miryam, her Yahya leapt in her womb. Her heart overflowed with joy and love. Shorter and more pregnant than Miryam, she threw her arms around her favorite cousin. You live! You're pregnant! Oh come in, come in! God is great! Three months later Miryam's son was born preterm in a car after the UN school where she'd been staying was bombed. A shepherd, flocks long-gone, sat out- side in cold rain so she could sleep. Her tiny helpless baby latched to her young breast, dozed every few suckles. Miryam'd never been more exhausted, but she was somehow entirely unafraid. As she shivered and rain streaked the windows and windshield of the flat-tired car in block 112 of Khan Yunis where she rested, Miryam kept all these things and treasured them in her heart. She slept. Unknown to all, a determined aid deleg- ation from Iran spoke on Signal with Yoav Gallant and Itamir Gen-Gvir. All parties'll deny the talks happened. Trucks would soon transit an unofficial crossing. No promises they'd not be killed, cargo destroyed; gifts of cooking fuel, flour, walnuts, dates, citrus, coffee, olive oil, water, essential drugs from the sanctioned to the beseiged. A Liberian-flagged cargo vessel approached the treacherous Cape of Good Hope, summer storm threat- ening. At the bridge, in the engine room, in their berths, without knowing what each other were doing, the whole crew of many nationalities prayed as one. Entrenched in shattered forests among artillery's hateful boom, cold tired soldiers prayed. Millions of prisoners and dozens of hostages all around the world prayed. In my living room, first daughter dropped dry- roasted goobers on my spread of playing cards. I got the six of spades into the middle of the table before Mr. Chris could. Damnit! he cursed. No nuts on the cards, I told first daughter. Pick 'em up. I flipped three cards from my stock. Every child born may be the one who redeems us from the unfixable messes we've made. May we shield them from Herod, raise them as best we know how, live in the expectancy of Advent year-round. Merry third day of Christmas.