We have spent so much of these months practicing walking in the dark, haven’t we? A pandemic and loss and grief have darkened our path, but the beautiful thing is that even when we didn’t know what we were walking toward, we kept going anyway. Kept praying anyway. Kept creating anyway. Kept parenting anyway. Kept healing anyway. Kept washing our hands anyway. Kept teaching anyway. Kept loving anyway. And somewhere along the line, perhaps without us knowing it, our eyes adjusted, and we could see a little bit more — see perhaps that we’re further along than we thought we were. We’re crawling our way out of the dark.
The winter solstice is here, and each year it teaches us that the darkness, no matter how thick, no matter how long, only lasts for a season. The light is always on its way. It’s always been with us, as a matter of fact; perhaps it’s just been too faint for us to notice it. And maybe that’s the real meaning of Christmas after all: that the Light has always been with us. God has not loved us from afar. Emmanuel. God with us.
So may we receive the blessing of the light this week, the blessing that even if our hearts are battered, or they are bruised, or they are tender, or they are tired, we are not alone in the longest, darkest night. May we find fragments of light in our homes, in our faith, in ourselves. May we be warmed by the spaces and faces of those which make our hearts shine. May we know the closeness of the Light with us, the Light in us, and may we prepare him room.
You are loved this week, friends. This week, and every week.