It is so easy to be proud. So easy to think that we deserve all the miracles that we are given. Exactly because we are given such great things that we think ourselves as great, the more we have, the more we forget that they were not our own hands that created them out of nothing. Truly, we are none of us worthy of life itself, an infinite gift packaged in a finite form. The eyes we look out of, the imaginations of childhood, the color and texture of a rose. I might pray that the Lord take away the wonders of the everyday, to give them again so that I might appreciate them, but then I know that given a short time afterwards, when I bask in comfort again, recovered from the pain of the previous loss — that I would forget. And wonder I, truly, how many countless things I take for granted, that we don’t notice the miracles every day because they come every day.