I remember frequently sitting on the doorstep of our home when the sun was blazing, the air on fire, grapes being trodden in a large house in the neighborhood, the world fragrant with must. Shutting my eyes contentedly, I used to hold out my palms and wait. God always came — as long as I remained a child. He never deceived me — He always came, a child just like myself, and deposited his toys in my hands: sun, moon, wind. "They're gifts," He said, "they're gifts. Play with them. I have lots more." I would open my eyes. God would vanish , but His toys would remain in my hands.
— Nikos Kazantzakis, A Tree Full of Angels by Macrina Wiederkehr