It’s been blowing wild horses most of this week. I almost flew away today while hiking out to a point, where the icy waves lifted to mist, and the sun shot reds and greens through the spray. The wind chill was zero or less, all this the tailings of a blizzard that swept in yesterday.
But the day after the blizzard here, when most of us were curdling our hot chocolate with our hot breath, cold hands and withering questions, three people walked casually into frostbite winds to ride the frigid crushing waves. How is it that when some of us are trying to stay rooted and safe others are riding the highest coldest waves they can find?
And how is it, after catastrophe, some know all the questions without a single answer? Some know all the answers without a single question? And others know nothing, and insist that all claim ignorance as well?
Enough has been said this week. I offer only this, and I hope it is enough:
The worst we can do is stop doing what we should be doing this week.
For me, I will still walk, despite the wind and cold.
I will still count the hours of light instead of the hours of darkness.
On Christmas Eve, I will still light a candle with 100 others in a darkened sanctuary singing "Silent Night, Holy Night."
On Christmas Day, I will still ornament tables with gold ribbon, poinsettias and homemade food and feed twenty people I love.
And every day I will pray thanks to the God who chose to born among dirt, hay and stones, who never turned from our dirt and our death until he offered us His own.
Because of this, every day, here, sorrow and joy meet. I will feel both-----and carry on.
Thank you for sharing this place with me, and walking into the days and nights together. With much gratitude and prayers for your good,
and wishing you the merriest of Christmases,