At this season of the year, darkness is a more insistent thing
than cold. The days are short as a dream. The sun begins to
lose its strength earlier in the afternoon and before we know
it, it’s time to knock off and grope our way out to the car in
the lot. (But for a street light on the corner, we’d probably
stumble a lot while we were groping.) Mornings, our hand
crawls up the wall, a spider in search of a light switch.
The antidote is Christmas, a season of light, a time that
brings out the child in us – or, rather, the childhood in us.
Now upon us are those brief sweet moments when common
things are again uncommon, when our senses are keen with
promise and hope.
The season unrolls, a scroll of blessed events. Wherever
we look there is color, the enchantment in a single star, or
the light of a silver moon. The most common pots are full
of treasure, all lights are beacons, every sound a chorus. The
smallest homes, beaming with joy.
Miracles come quietly, creeping into the human heart
without the herald of trumpets until we are filled with their
wonder and glory; the most miraculous of miracles are often
those at our own fireside, or just outside the door, or across
the table, or in the next room.
Wherever we look we see something that advertises the
future or embraces the past. The view from the living room,
or the office, is the same as it has been for years but at this
time of year, it can be shatteringly beautiful, as in a new
appreciation of life, of the world around us. Christmas brings
thoughts of a new affirmation in living, and of all that living