Somebody stole Jesus

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Iíd guess my neighbor Dean is about four feet tall; I canít guess his age. His growth was stunted by childhood chemotherapy. Dean isnít retarded but childhood pain and perhaps the social difficulties of being so small have left him immature and lost in his own psychic space. When I run into him at the Joy Station thereís not more than I can think to say except to answer his hello.

Every Christmas his parents add some new glowing doodad to the yard. Frosty, Santa and the Holy Family all hang out together with flashing Christmas trees and sparkling angels. The sight is tacky and we canít help but laugh at it. But we know it is all there to make Dean happy. So when Dean told me the other day that someone had come in the night and stolen everything I couldnít help but be very, very disgusted.

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Somebody stole Jesus
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