“Go on back in, honey,” I say. “I’m going to watch a little longer.”
How often does one get the opportunity to watch light rain down?
So I sit alone in the cold and look up at a glitter strewn sky and think about Christmas. And I wonder how the night sky looked on that holy night so long ago. As the poem says, she bled on straw and Light came down through her womb and I ponder what we don’t know about that night—I remember the feeling of holding my first child after the pain of birth and I wonder at how her birth pangs didn’t split this world wide open.
How can we be so blind? How can I miss Christmas this way?
The days keep rushing by and I can’t seem to catch my breath and there are so many things to do…so many goings on. My heart can’t seem to abide and I think longingly of the gift of Christmas that was given to me in July—when both of my boys were hospitalized suddenly and fear and faith mingled in a new way.
I look up. The sky seems content to stay in place … no more Geminids. Just this ocean of shimmer. And peace. I scoop it up in handfuls and heartfuls and whisper thanks through chattering teeth.
And just when I get up to find the warmth of the hearth, a slow-burning flash surfs through those star-waves. I stand in awe of Christmas.
Light come down.