Light is just beginning to break. I look out the study window through the early post-snow fog at the large house across the street, home to the young daughter of a Jewish American mother and a Muslim Palestinian father. One tiny strand of decorative white lights twists around the banister of the stairs that go to their front door.
I almost cry. The lights seemed so futile, so ineffective against the almost-impenetrable grey morning cold.
And as I sit at my desk, the sun begins to climb. The fog starts to dissipate. And in no time, it seems, everything is suddenly bright and clear: morning.
So many cultures celebrate light in the darkness of winter. We have Solstice, Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Diwali... Often in December I'm just so bombarded with artificial corporate happiness that I can't get the message that all those decorations are supposed to convey.
But this quiet morning with Son still asleep, the meaning of letting our little light shine--shine even when it seems totally overpowered by the depths of the darkness-- comes through to me. Sometimes we need to believe that our own flicker can help light the day. And today I do.
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Son's Snow Labyrinth: