Peace, be still

 Peace, be still.

 

The storm has passed.

The snow blankets the ground,

flows into the street

like an ocean tide

and drifts in the breezes,

blown from tree to tree.

 

At night the sky is bright

as streetlight and moonlight

and starlight, and not a little

amount of Godlight

bounce from snowflake

to snowflake, illuminating

everything,

and for a moment you

understand how darkness

can also be light

when God is present.

 

Peace, be still,

my heart,

my hand,

my spirit.

 

In the morning, the tracks

of phantom deer appear

in the snow, leaping and loping

before vanishing

at the fenceline.

 

Beside them, other prints,

the frenzied, frantic, swirling

dance of the squirrel

searching for breakfast

as the sun rises.

 

Peace, be still.

The knee-high spruce

in my front yard,

can only manage a sigh

and a shrug under

the heavy weight

of the snow,

sending the smallest

of avalanches rolling

off its peak.

 

The sun parts the clouds, putting

out a hand, squeezing past, muttering

an “excuse me” because the sun

values politeness, but the show

is just beginning

and the sun is the star

everyone is waiting for.

 

Peace, be still.

 

Oh it is cold,

but the upper crust of snow

contains multitudes

of frozen snowflakes, perfection

each one, mathematics as art

prisms, not prisons, of light,

free to everyone who dares

to take a look.

 

Only in the bitter cold—

what an unfortunate modifier—

but only in the coldest of colds

will the fallen snow sparkle

with rainbows of light.

 

Nature has put out

its own Christmas decorations.

 

Peace, be still.

 

The storm has passed.

And the first gift

of Christmas is here,

the birth of a child

in Bethlehem

who will still and calm

all storms,

both in the world around us,

and the world inside of us.

 

Mary felt it

and Joseph,

the shepherds,

the innkeeper,

the sheep,

the goats,

the cattle that lowed

in their sleep.

 

The baby Jesus cried,

and His cry

was a song,

a hymn,

an anthem

 

that stilled worry and fear,

and stirred hope and joy.

 

Peace, be still.

 

That song still sings,

if you listen carefully.

 

It’s that hush I hear

at night when I dare

take a cautious

and reverent step

outside and look up

at the sky

and the stars that wink

at me, because they know—

they hear it too,

light years away—

the song sings to them too.

 

But for me,

it’s that hush after the storm,

that whisper of one snowflake,

settling itself, hunkering down

in fellowship with every other snowflake.

 

It’s the hush

that makes me cherish,

each brittle breath I take

in the cold,

because in that breath

is the song

of redemption,

restoration.

 

It’s the song

that makes all things new.

 

It is the Christmas miracle.

 

Peace, be still.

 

Amen.