The pace in these December days is almost frantic. Not the panicked sprint of someone desperate to win the race, but the insistent, humming undercurrent of a mind spinning too fast—ensuring gifts are not only bought, but carry the weight of thought and care; pushing snow from the walks after the night’s heavy fall; cramming meetings into dwindling calendar squares as if time itself is falling behind. There’s the menu planning, the baking, the dashed trips to the store, the quiet rehearsals in the kitchen with recipes worn and stained from years of being loved.

And then there are the moments—unexpected, sacred threads woven through the noise. Some are with those whose lives are bound to mine as surely as roots hold a tree to the ground. Others are faces unfamiliar, yet hospitable enough to draw me into the generosity of the season. And there are the chance encounters—someone I haven’t seen in years, their name hovering at the edge of my memory, their voice stirring dust from a chapter I’d nearly forgotten.

Still, there is the swell of spirit. The gathering to pack Christmas groceries for those who meet the season weighed down by more than winter’s cold. Rehearsal for Sunday’s cantata fills the sanctuary with music that will, for a morning at least, carry us beyond our weariness. Memories of the children’s pageant, where halos tilt, and shepherds shuffle, and somehow the whole thing still manages to unwrap joy. Reading again the nativity story, the fragile beginnings of the One born not in grandeur but in straw, reminding us that “the true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world” (John 1:9).

And yes, there is longing, too. The chair that remains empty at the table, the truth that this family cannot be whole this year. The ache of Dad’s absence, the tender awareness of Mother’s quiet endurance . Grief and joy sit close enough to touch—like twilight holding both light and shadow in the same breath.

This morning, in the hush before dawn, the wind presses against the house with a steady, low moan. Rain spills down, rinsing away the snow’s perfect white coat from earlier this week. The sky doesn’t rise in soft pinks or oranges that wrap the heart in warmth, but in a muted palette—rain-washed gray, the shadow of bare maples, the dark russet of weather-scarred ferns.

This is not the postcard picture, but maybe this, too, is a kind of illumination—not a light that reveals all at once, but the kind that invites one to keep looking, until the beauty hiding in the edges and corners of less-glamorous moments is embraced.

In this cacophony—this mixture of frantic pace, holy connection, laughter, and loss—I am reminded that God does not arrive only in the brilliant blaze, but often in the gray dawn. The gift of the season is not how much we get done, nor in how perfect it all appears, but in how we show up in the light we have. The King of kings entered the world not in the midst of polished perfection, but wrapped in shelter sought, needs met, and strangers welcomed.

I pray your steps be steady, even in December rain. May joy surprise you. May the light of Christ be for you a lantern in gray places, and may His peace be the companion that travels beside you through all the roads this season will unfold.