This seems to be important enough to put it somewhere where it won't get lost:

When reading about God—even in nitty sort of systematic theology—I feel like a child looking at Christmas lights. After all, I’ve been waiting all stinking year with the egging-on of nostalgia from the previous six years of my life. I walk like I own the town because I’m seven whole years old now and I've seen these before—but I have them memorized because I know I will never see them enough. 

My eyes dart from one cluster to another, overwhelmed to take it all in. As I begin a grand exposition to describe one set of lights to my mother (who’s wants nothing more than to strap me into a harness to keep me from running in front of on-coming traffic again), I interrupt myself just before reaching my final point—I’m zinged with excitement as I see the next array coming up. I am so utterly caught up that I am hardly capable of offering a coherent logical description of what’s going on. Much less, a description of the theory used to properly put lights on a house or the handiwork involved in hanging the lights so they don’t fall. 

Since I so benefit from both theory and handiwork, I feel obligated to grow up—to grow out of being seven years old—so that maybe I could do for another seven year-old what these theological adults have done for me. The problem is that every time I read about the doctrine of the Trinity, I’m a kid and have to grow up all over again. Drag.