The Talmud says, Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, "Grow, grow!"
How much more, then, are we the project of the Creator, who sends His angels to watch over us lest we dash our foot against a stone?
"Grow, grow," He says, and we cower in dark caves, afraid of His Light.
"Grow, grow," He says --- and we run the other way, hiding like Adam from His voice.
"Where are you, Adam, my creation, holder of my Spirit-breath?"
"Where are you, O Absolom, my son?"
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