History tells us that the birth of Jesus most likely occurred not in the velvety depths of December, but more likely sometime in early Spring. Yet I am glad that the world chooses to celebrate His birth in this chilled hush season. For at least here, in my corner of the universe, it is a mystical time of year. The rampant luxuriousness of summer's bounty has eased into the abundant exuberance of autumn's colors, and now, all has faded to muted tones that only hint of long-gone green hues. The world seems still...resting...waiting...clear.
Stars glitter in brittle clarity on December nights. Voices hang in acute crispness in the cold air. The tunes of far away coyotes singing to the moon seem ever so much closer. The owl's call is more poignantly haunting in the chill than in the wrap around warmth of summer evenings. All sounds shimmer, then quickly fade to quiet.
Into this echo of stillness enters the celebration of our Savior's birth. Suddenly, the brittleness, the crispness, the cold, the chill...all dissipates in the flaming brightness of the reality of the One who entered our world, who dwelt among us, God with us, Immanuel!
