THIS morning, I visited the grave of Lawrence Auster. I cut these greens from our yard, decorated them and placed them on the grave, which does not have a tombstone yet but will soon. The ground was partly snow-covered under the oak tree where he is buried. The sky was blue and the temperature was above freezing. The busyness and bustle of Christmas were all around, creating an audible din. But a cemetery is always set apart. The grave of a friend is one of the most precious things in this world. I know that my friend still exists. If he is not in Paradise yet, may he be there soon.

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