We lovers of Autumn have a sixth sense about us, a knowing when that first revelation of summer’s end has arrived.
It is felt on the skin in that barely discernable nip and twinge of air, charged with the slightest chill; awareness that the atmosphere has changed just a smidge.
Autumn’s scent is unique and mischievous. Earthy and deep; wise, pungent, and bold in the way brown leaf tips, restless trees, and fading flowers bend and drop to the Earth, daring the one watching to stop them; to impede the ancient progress of a slow, yet lovely descent into quiet and rest.
That spritely spurt of wind, which tosses and dances fallen leaves and finished flowers round and round, is delightful. What is it about piling up crispy, browned leaves then dashing them about, flinging them from orderly piles into random and untamed flurries of color? A new beginning; a tossing and mixing up of the old, lazy routine into something new; a plan to disrupt the status quo and wait patiently through the winter, as that plan takes form and substance. Somehow the chaos of it is lovely and energizing, part of the ritual. It is one more wild streak before the settling and simmering of autumn moves on to the mystery and silent brooding of winter.
The discerning observer will witness Nature’s response to the shift from the indolent, dog days of summer to autumn’s call to let go. The song of quiet purpose and intention, as Mother Earth whispers it’s time to fold in, cozy up, and allow rest to perform its miracles and the deep, sweet slumber of winter to wait in the wings.
There is something inspiring and invigorating in this call to purposeful letting go, an anticipation. Is it the definitive color changes and that unmatched fall scent in the air that feels like a new beginning? Is it the crisp sensation of fall air as one breathes it in?
Welcome Autumn! Come and show off your colors and dare us to think about the dead or dying places that we need to let fall; not with sadness or fear; but with anticipation that a season of silent regrouping, where new life starts to bud, will soon break free with the coming of spring. It’s coming, and it will be glorious!
It’s a beautiful late summer night. The bright, cold moon shines down like a beacon; the pin prick stars glow.
Lying on the well-worn hammock strung up between two old oaks, Eric lets the quiet wrap around him. The country air blankets him as he looks up at the night sky; deep and black like velvet. Vestiges of warmth seep up through the sunbaked grass in the little meadow behind the barn. He can hear the animals shifting and snuffling as they settle in. It’s restful here and Eric needs some rest.
He remembers the excitement he once felt looking up at the night sky, pointing out planets, and learning the constellations in the bright, winking stars. His Dad and Grandpa Bo bringing out the trusty telescope to search the sky is a cherished memory. He’s forgotten the peace he once found in the mystery of the night sky.
Life is hard right now. The struggle to make ends meet and keep the legacy of his little farm going is such a heavy weight to carry. Generations of Simpsons worked this land providing for their families and those in the little towns just down the road. He’s so afraid he will be the one to let it go under, let people down, and not be enough.
Looking up at the star strewn sky, Eric begins to pray.
“Lord, it’s been a while and I’m sorry for that. I’m out of options and I see no way out. I remember Grandpa telling me that You always make a way and always provide. Will You please make a way now? Please, Jesus. I need You.”
Pouring out his heart to the Father releases tension that’s been pent up and stewing in his body and spirit. He feels softer inside; he feels seen. Safe.
A cool breeze picks up and ruffles the meadow grasses, shushing and sweet. Is that a whisper he hears? “Way maker…”
Under the same stars, Sophie walks her faithful chocolate Lab, Pete, through the neighborhood as it quiets for the night. These late-night walks always calm and soothe her spirit. As she breathes in the fragrant night air, Pete’s nails clip along the concrete in a steady and soothing rhythm. The measured sound gives Sophie’s scattered mind something to focus on. There are too many decisions to be made and too much piled on her shoulders! She desperately needs a respite; something to settle and silence the clamor.
What if she makes the wrong choice? What if they reject her? What if she ruins everything and they laugh behind her back?
If she can just sort out it out, prioritize, be decisive, be enough…
Around the corner and down Vista View Lane is a small neighborhood park with a little pond. This pond is her happy place. Tucked in and cozy, there’s a gravel path leading around the pond, winding through the willows and aspens. The wooden bench sits nestled under the drooping willow branches.
As she and Pete stop to sit for a few minutes, Sophie notices the cold, white moonlight tracing a path across the dark pond. Its edges are smudged and feathery, but the light is sure, steady, and bright. A clear path. A lamp for her feet.
It’s lovely and so peaceful.
As Sophie gazes up at the inky, star-filled sky, she gently runs her hands over the silky fur on Pete’s soft neck and back. The soothing moonlight and shimmery constellations make her feel safe. For how many thousands of years have other humans who felt lost, insignificant, and alone, looked up for guidance and direction, for peace and answers? That thought brings her comfort. She’s not alone.
Listening to the cricket song and chorus of frogs, her mind is quiet and her thoughts no longer seem so jumbled and frantic. Clarity, like moonlight, illuminates the choices she needs to make, as answers and a plan take shape.
“Thank you for seeing me, Lord. Thank you for Your wisdom. You are my shelter and my shepherd, my help in time of need,” she breathes.
As Sophie and Pete make their way around the pond heading for home, a gentle breath of air shushes in the aspens behind her; is that a whisper she hears? “Way maker…”
Under the same stars, the Spirit of the Lord hovers. Wisdom and truth, protection and healing are in His wings. Grace and mercy, love and acceptance flow from His mouth. New life and abundant joy, victory and peace swirl around Him, cascading down and over His beloved. He sees each one and answers the cry of their hearts.
Under the same stars, prayers are answered, lives are redeemed, bodies are healed, souls are refreshed, and supernatural battles are won.
He still sees and hears as He has for thousands of years, and as He will continue to do for thousands more. There is nowhere you can go that He will not find you.
Under the bright moonglow and scattered stars of any given night, each of our souls are seen, known, and deeply loved by the Lord of Heaven.
Psalm 116:1-2 NLT “I love the Lord because he hears my voice and my prayer for mercy. Because he bends down to listen, I will pray as long as I have breath!”
Olivia wakes to the sound of rain pattering against the windows and sluicing off the eaves. It’s one of her favorite sounds. Soothing, repetitive, calming.
Slowly stretching her sleepy muscles, she pulls the warm quilt up under her chin. It feels chilly in her room. The weight of the quilt feels like a comfy cocoon wrapping her up in warmth and safety.
The clock on the bedside table reads 3:33 am.
Her cats, Goose and Mr. White, raise fluffy, sleep-mussed heads from the end of her bed, wondering what is disturbing the nightly routine.
Lying quietly, listening to the autumn rain, Olivia notices the wind picking up. The bamboo wind chimes hanging on the patio cover sing out their woody song as they are buffeted by the random gusts.
No longer sleepy, she decides a nice cup of herbal tea will be just right on this stormy night.
Cats in tow, Olivia slips on the soft, worn slippers she keeps next to the bed, grabs her robe, and heads to the kitchen.
The woodstove in the corner of the family room gives off a faint, warm glow, as the embers continue to spark and snap. The kettle sings! Hot tea in hand, Olivia settles onto the comfy loveseat next to the stove and nestles in listening to Mother Nature’s autumn storm.
Sleepy cats find their soft blanket tucked into an old Amazon box near the stove. They begin bathing and jostling each other for the best spot in that old box.
As she sits with her tea and listens to the rain stinging against the windows, Olivia’s mind wanders to the difficult conversations and puzzling circumstances that have been hounding her of late. Unfair accusations, misunderstandings, and self-righteous pride have clouded and tainted a long-time friendship. The situation leaves her unsure, wounded, and lonely. Her efforts at reconciliation, having the hard conversations, and trying to understand what went wrong, leave her feeling betrayed and so very tired.
“Father, I need you to take this. It hurts and I don’t understand. Can this be fixed? Will you reveal the next steps?”, she prays.
Watching the glow of the dying fire, the tendrils and flickers of orange and blue-yellow flames dart and snicker around bits of the burned logs.
A strong gust of wind rattles the windows and the front door as the lights flicker, then go out.
Dark envelopes her cozy spot, except for the glowing embers in the woodstove.
Remembering the Redwood Forest scented candle she purchased from the new boutique downtown, Olivia fumbles around in the drawer of the table on the other side of the loveseat and finds the matches.
Lighting the candle, the new flame struggles and sputters a bit, then gets its footing. The flame strengthens and burns softly.
Its warm light is like a halo pushing back the darkness, reaching into the shadows, and exposing what is hidden – highlighting those mindsets and wounds that secrets and hidden agendas seek to keep obscure and under cover. Revelation, healing, and new life are murky and hard to see under the veil of shadows.
Sitting in the glow of the wavering light, Olivia feels the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up and goosebumps raise along her arms. She’s not alone. She’s not afraid. She feels His divine presence in the air – love, safety, and ancient wisdom flowing around her. He will see to it. He will give her revelation and wisdom. He will bring healing.
“Rest now, I am here”, He says. “All is well. I see what’s in the secret, hidden places. All will be made right. Everything hidden will be revealed.”
In the flickering candlelight and warmth from the cozy woodstove, Olivia feels her mind settle and her eyes flutter. Sleep is waiting. Peace calls to her as her breathing slows. The Holy One sings to her spirit in languages of love, healing, and ancient things. All is well…
“For everything that is hidden will eventually be brought into the open, and every secret will be brought to light.” Mark 4:22 NLT
There’s a mysterious place deep in the woods. It’s far off the beaten path where no human has ventured. Untouched. Pure nature.
No boot prints are found, but there are footprints. Forest dwellers.
Creature paths appear random and meandering, but they are not. These trails are specific and intentional. They know where their food comes from and the safest way to get there. Provision. Trust.
Nestled into a craggy rock formation high on a forested slope, a spring bubbles up and over the roots and rocks, splashing its way down. It’s been bubbling and sparkling for years. Following a well-worn route along the forest floor, the stream bed weaves its way through gullies, towering pines, aspens, and mountain meadows. Sometimes the clear water tumbles and crashes over various forest debris, faster and faster as it descends. Other times, it slows and spreads, creating deep pools of cool water that laze along, peacefully chattering in swirls and eddies. Life-giving.
The absence of humans doesn’t mean the absence of sound. The deep woods are a sound garden of their own. Nature has a voice, and it’s primeval and beautiful.
The pines and aspens shiver and whisper with the wind as it sighs through branches and moves along tree trunks, creaking and bending—a symphony of sorts.
Sticks, dead leaves, and pine needles rustle and snap as unseen creatures forage and spy under fallen trees and twisting vines.
The babble of birdsong in the forest canopy sounds chaotic at first listen. But the trills, melodies, and harmonies blend into an exciting and joyful concerto that echoes through the trees, along the stream, and over the meadows.
Nightfall has its own unique orchestra. Whispery feathers blend with the haunting call of the owl in flight; it is otherworldly and beautiful. The stealthy sounds of night hunters and creepers as they prowl, hide, and call are eerie and supernatural.
This untouched slice of nature is a beautiful testament to Divine creation. The One who created all things sees and hears the happenings in the deep woods. It brings Him joy in its purity. The creaks and shushing of the wind in the canopy, rushing water, and the groans of nature are like a symphony of worship. His creation cries out to Him with joyful noises and complete trust in His provision. It is pleasing incense and a thing of deep beauty to Him who sits on the throne. Devoid of human voices, even the rocks cry out to the Father who holds the world in His hands.
Psalm 150:6 NLT “Let everything that breathes sing praises to the Lord! Praise the Lord!”
The early sun filters through the blinds at the window. There’s something gentle and delicate about those first rays of light. It feels hopeful.
The fluffy white cat finds a slash of sunlight on the carpet by the bookcase and settles in. He’s had his breakfast and a bath, so it’s time for his morning rest. The soft, grey and white cat finds her spot in the sun on the cozy, green blanket draped over the bed. Fully relaxed, she stretches out, tail gently flicking as she drifts off.
I hear the garden come alive as I sip my hot coffee. It’s a simple thing that brings me happiness as I start my day. The earthy taste and warmth are soothing.
Red-brown squirrels chase each other through the patio and onto the wooden fence, where their race takes them onto the neighbor’s roof and beyond. Joyful and full of energy.
The newly leafed apple tree is filled with red and gold finches, house sparrows, and soft grey doves. They watch as I fill the bird feeders and scatter seeds along the ground. A blue jay joins the crowd, eyeing the peanuts strewn among the flowers and bird baths. Soon, there will be gossipy chatter and scolding as they descend to peck, scratch, and kick, finding just the right seeds and other morsels for breakfast.
There is joy in the routine things that make up a given day.
A tinkling bell heralds the arrival of the neighborhood tomcat. He stops by every so often for his breakfast and a head rub.
As the morning progresses, my mind remains calm as I tend to the garden and inhale the fruity floral scent of the jasmine climbing the trellis, perfuming the morning air.
I sense You in the bright colors, the spicy, flowery scents, and the hope that the pale, lemony sunlight splashes onto the tree branches, dancing to the sweet tune of the tiny windchime that tinkles and sings in the breeze.
We talk as I go about my morning routine. You speak kind and intimate things to my heart. You know the pleasure that these small things bring to my soul. It comforts me, making me feel seen and known. What a happy, life-giving way to begin each day; taking Your love and companionship with me everywhere my feet may go.
On a summer night when cricket symphonies lull and soothe as the moon sails high and pinprick stars wink…He whispers in dark, nocturnal rustlings with deep, supernatural words of mystery.
When the wind shushes and sighs through the Redwood canopy as you hike and soak in the forest…He whispers timeless songs of creation.
Opening your eyes as a new day starts, before the mad rush of living takes over and you savor your morning coffee…He whispers an invitation, “Come and talk with me.”
As you putter in the garden, trimming and admiring the flowers…He whispers promises of new life and a season of rebirth in the rich scent of turned earth.
When the day is done and your tired body falls into those in-between moments before you drift off to sleep…He whispers words of rest and speaks to you in your dreams.
Can you hear Him?
When your heart feels heavy, you retreat to the hidden bench under the willow branches that skim over the pond…His whispers of healing and hope perfume the air around you.
When the cruel, hurtful words sting your heart, and tears spill over and down your cheeks…He whispers songs of love and belonging. He captures each tear. You are His.
As waves crash along the lonely beach and you fling your deepest needs and fears to the relentless tides…His whispers become a divine exchange, taking your hurt and giving you Himself. He is enough.
Taking that first frightening, tentative step of faith into something new and unknown…He whispers courage and strength into your mind, spirit, and body. He is with you. Worry must flee.
With pain so deep and raw that you have no words or tears left…His whispers become intercession in heavenly languages, traveling straight to the Holy of Holies.
Can you hear Him?
When loved ones are far away and your mind is full of frightening thoughts and the chaos of the unknown…He whispers safety and protection. Their names are written on the palm of His hands. He speaks peace, and fear bows.
When the world is filled with injustice, cruelty, and division…He whispers compassion and authority—He is King. There are none before Him. Alpha and Omega.
When self-reliance has taken its toll and you finally unclench your fists and cry to Him in exhaustion…He whispers gentle songs of rest and comfort. All is well, He’s got this.
And…
On the lighter days, when the hurry is hushed and you sit under the apple tree, talking to Him, thanking Him, and whispering that you love Him, an incense of thankfulness, praise, and love rises and dances its way to His throne. As the sacred aroma swirls and fans around Him, He sings, shouts, and prophesies over you with blessings, peace, and joy. Can you hear Him?
Tinges of sunlight peek through tree branches brightening the dew that gathered on the leaf tips.
The first gentle birdsong of the day breaks through the quiet morning in the meadow.
Nature’s alarm clock for sleepy, nestled down creatures.
Twitching noses tentatively sniff the chilled air. Who’s passed through during the night?
With that first chirp, meadow life shifts into motion for another day.
Grasses and tall flowers sway with the breeze, their stems bending low as fat bumblebees sip and tiny birds snip at seeds and insects along the delicate leaves and petals.
A mountain stream chatters and sings as it makes its way over branches and rocks.
Teeming with life, furry creatures wait motionless along the edges of the stream for their breakfast of insects, tadpoles, and crawdads. A full smorgasbord!
Far off, the repetitive pecking of a woodpecker echoes off the surrounding trees, blending in harmony with the full chorus of birdsong that resounds in the meadow.
So much life, so much beauty. Divine fingerprints everywhere.
A warmer afternoon lulls and soothes the busy inhabitants of the meadow. The pace of hunting, gathering, and gossiping fades and slows.
Traveling along its Creator made path the sun begins the descent toward the horizon.
The light and air take on a different feel – cooling, dimming, winding down.
Ethereal. Supernatural.
The day dwellers begin their tasks of settling in as snug dens and cozy nests beckon.
Night falls and the moon and stars take over the sky.
Night dwellers stretch, sniff the cooling air, and begin their routines. Their time in the meadow has a different energy than that of the day timers.
It is a time of quiet, stealth, and keen observation. Eyes and ears always alert.
They are just as busy as the day creatures, but go about things in a careful, hushed, and methodical way.
Moonlight and shadows are their friends as mystery and other worldliness take center stage.
His Divine Presence is here in the cover of night just as much as in the light of day.
He looks at all of creation and says, “It is good.”
The wool threads display the richest colors as they flow across the loom, some vibrant and brilliant, which immediately draw the eye and capture attention, while other shades and hues are subdued, calming, and deep, visible only to those who truly see. The Master Weaver has been at His work forever, and He will not stop until it is completed. His breath creates and calls into existence that which was not into what is. His thoughts and His songs, His glance, and His robes are all part of the Divine dance that weave and blend to make a way where there wasn’t one. Supernatural, unstoppable, beautiful.
We each have a unique tapestry. No tapestry is the same, yet our individual threads intersect, overlap, advance, and retreat as the tapestry is woven, and the Creator’s plans come into being. What He sends forth will not return void. It will accomplish the exact and perfect purpose for which it was sent. Perfection. Mysterious. Holy.
I imagine an open space that is peaceful and joyful, where the Master does His creating. It is a place filled with pure, flowing water, incense, and beauty. It is called Holy Ground. This sacred spot is where the weaving happens. It is precious and well-guarded. There is joy, tender love, hurt, and tears. Laughter and grief intermingle and twine about each other in a dance that is gorgeous, fierce, completely untamed, terrifying, and yet carefully orchestrated. Who can contain and control what Heaven has spoken and breathed into life?
The individual tapestries stand alone, yet they do not. Each one is carefully and precisely ordered to intersect, surprise, and flow into the others. Each tapestry is necessary for the others to come to fruition. Certain tapestries will be woven together for a lifetime, others for a few moments, years, days, or seasons. Some may barely skim the borders of another, yet there is a Divine purpose for the skimming and the overlapping, the touching, and intersecting.
The Creator knows, and that is enough. He sees it for how it is, how it was, and He will see it long after we are called home. Perhaps we will see His master plan with unveiled eyes, once blurred from striving to understand, force, or remove these divine intersections. What is woven together can’t be undone by the tapestry. Struggling is futile and distracts from the beauty unfolding minute by minute in front of us. No, we can’t foresee, tame, and reverse that which was breathed by Holy breath into existence. This is where hope and faith must come into play.
There are lessons that must be learned, hurts healed, and other tapestries that need the colors, hues, and patterns the Weaver chose to color your life tapestry. These will not always blend in perfect harmony. This mixture will, at times, appear chaotic and unsafe, as if they should not have been allowed to brush against each other. The Master Craftsman knows how it all unfolds because He saw it from the beginning. Alpha and Omega.
What appears as chaos, pain, and discord at the moment is part of the dance. He knows the steps because He created them. We can’t pretend to understand the whys and purposes behind His plan, but one day I hope we will. When the final thread in our tapestry is woven, and the Weaver shepherds us into the place called Holy Ground, we will see how it all blends into something lovely, ordered, and precise, and we will stand in awe of it; smiling through tears of understanding as the height, breadth, and depth of His perfect love covers us. We will watch in fascination as the remaining tapestries are sung and danced over, breathed upon, and woven together until He leans back from His loom, declares it is finished, and brings His masterpieces home to be forever displayed in the Most Holy Place, for all of eternity.
The early morning sun offers the promise of warmth and expectation.
An indolent day at the beach is exactly what is needed!
Arms laden with a beach bag full of vittles, sunscreen, and a towel, I discover the perfect spot to settle in for the day.
Cliffs behind me, ocean before me, sun above me, sand below.
Perfection. Shelter. Peace.
My little space is set up; all is in order and ready for me to be one with the breeze and old-Earth smell of brine and life and decay.
Shoes off, sunscreen on, now to the water.
Contradictions.
That is what I see in the ocean, yet also safety, born out of the ancient rhythms of the Earth—forever marching on, steady and unyielding.
The tide’s constancy is relentless, untamable, fierce; all without apology, the ocean does what it is meant to do.
The water laps and rushes and chases my feet, startling and elemental in its coldness. Invigorating and inspiring.
The birds, crabs, and tiny sea creatures count on the unchanging ways of the ocean because it is life to them. The ocean gives, and these creatures take.
But I think the ocean is also a taker. It takes the worries, stress, fears, and uncertainties in life; it takes words spoken and wept and screamed by those who walk the beach looking for answers, solace, and peace. We push those things out of our hearts, and the ocean pulls them into itself.
A lovely dance.
Perhaps this is what God does for us. He takes all the fear, rage, worry, and tears that we spew out into Himself and pulls them away from us as we release it all to Him. He is fierce, constant, untamable, mysterious, and present. He gives life; He is love; we rely on Him.
Back at my sanctuary, the sand under my legs and back is so warm, relaxing, and inviting. It is solid and permanent; warmth leeches into my chilled bones, lulled to a drowsy peacefulness.
With closed eyes and warm sun baking down in pleasant coziness, I notice my other senses stirred; susurrating waves whisper and breathe, birds call overhead; somewhere, a dog is barking.
That scent of salt floats on the ever-present breeze along with notes of a barbecue and the cloying scent of flowers.
Drowsy and dreamy, my mind wanders in that half-dreaming state of blissful rest.
The sun has shifted in the sky, and there is a slight chill in the air. How long have I been lying here?
Hunger gnaws, so here come the snacks.
Seagulls make an appearance and scold and demand that I share, watching closely every move I make. I share.
Before packing up, it’s time for a walk.
There are footprints going before me in the sea-soaked sand, and I wonder whose they are and what secrets they’ve spoken to the sea today.
Interesting how before long, all traces of my footprints will be washed away, as if I had never walked here; as if the past is washed away and cleaned up and brand-new sand is offered up for a new direction, new footprints, new promises.
Jesus cleans up our lives like this; the old washed away, the new offered up; clean, lovely, and ready for a new journey. Sun dipping down, air quite cool, water coming higher; my signal to call it a day.
Heading to the car, I feel rested, new, and cleansed, a little wild and wooly from the rawness of the ocean and its wild and chaotic yet perfectly ordered dance.
The December night is dark and deep, stillness and chill seeping into bones despite a layering of coat, scarf, hat, gloves, and thick-soled boots.
Footfall is muffled and shushed along the pine-strewn path, boots stirring up the ancient scent of the woods and winter-shrouded earth.
The hush of the forest has a particular sound—not truly silent to the careful observer but full of the rustle, scurry, and purpose of those living in the night. Frigid air gives their purpose a new vigor with warm dens and beds of fern, pine needles, and forest detritus waiting to give shelter.
Deep, full inhalations fill lungs to the brim with invigorating, life-giving air. Oddly, the heavy chill, though it burns and startles, offers peace and affirmation of knowing one is alive and well. Sometimes it takes the cloak of a dark, wintry, forest-y night to bring clarity to the chaos and exposure of living in the light.
Rounding the curve in the path, the stillness of the pond with the shimmery moon-glow trail on the dark water is breathtaking. A path of light and love painted on the water by the brush strokes of One who loves to bring awe, redemption, and delight. Loved. Seen. Safe.
The sound of stealthy prowling comes from the edge of the pond as a night hunter shifts and waits for dinner. Circle of life.
Moving along as the chill ever deepens, the hooting of an owl adds to the frosty night noises—haunting and lovely, it is primitive and wild.
The path around the pond circles back on itself, and my boots head back to the cabin. Thoughts of the cheerful fire in the firepit on the deck and the warm sherpa blanket urge me onward at a brisker pace.
Wrapped in the cozy blanket, Irish coffee in the large Christmas mug warms my cold hands, steam rising merrily as the fire mesmerizes me.
A scrabbling, crunchy noise interrupts my reveries as a creature moves about to the left of the deck, digging through pine needles and foliage for a midnight snack. Curious glowing eyes spy on me. The shadowy outline of a fat raccoon in the faint reach of the firelight watches me until her curiosity wanes, and she moves along.
Leaning back in the deck chair, the stars appear strewn about like so much glitter landing at random points. But nothing is truly random. The night sky is beautifully planned and decorated with patterns and puzzles of light created to lead the ancient traveler.
Frosty breath wafts up as if making its way to the austere moon that guides, watches, and travels the night sky. Fascinating to imagine all the eyes that have looked up in the night for navigation and a sense of constancy in a world that doesn’t always seem that way. A balm to lonely souls, the shining beacon of light makes things feel safer and less chaotic.
The shepherds on that holy and silent night looked up into the same chilled, star-filled sky that I see on my deck as the fire glows and snickers to itself. The same moon watched on as the Holy One became man, as angelic hosts filled the still and starry night with the most awe-inspiring, stunning display of power and love that humankind has ever known.
It is not by happenstance that eyes are drawn upward—seeking wisdom, direction, meaning, safety, love, and blessed peace.
From a cold and silent winter night, filled with moonlight and stars, came the Light of the world. A Divine exchange between Creator and creation. Ultimate gift. Unconditional love. Emmanuel.
Warm bed beckons, and I head inside, mind full of awe as I struggle to comprehend the enormity of the gift humanity was given on that night so long ago.
The old wood stove burns quiet, drowsy warmth. I curl up under quilts and comforters as the light of the moon gently glows through the snug window. Thoughts of angels, joy, and eternity soothe and calm into a restful sleep—a silent and holy night where all is calm and bright under a December moon.
