A few summers ago, I was backpacking through a glacial basin in the depths of California's Sierra Nevada mountain range. One evening toward the end of my trek, I stood, perched on a rock overlooking a 12,000 foot high lake, watching the sun set over the peaks to the west.  The air was cold, the sky clear.
     As the sun slipped below the horizon of jagged rock, I mourned but I treasured, too.  I mourned at the cold that would drive me into my tent, I treasured what I knew would come the next morning:  the rising sun.  I took in the order and rhythm, I gasped at the certainty of light.  I was deeply grateful that they all happened.
     Basking in our collective post Christmas presence, we can think, again, about light's certainty.  Whatever empires roamed through the lands of the ancient near east, whatever assertions of potency and power they promulgated, we can understand that, in the end, God came.  In the end, God spoke.  God came to earth, God bathed its light in his light.  Long absent in physical form yet continually pervading reality since its very beginnings, God's light made itself unmistakably known.
     As we go forth this week, we remember this light.  We remember the joy of Christmas togetherness, we recall the happiness of opening gifts.  We revel in memories of fun moments.  Though we return to "reality" and its swirl of work and attendant responsibilities, we can continue to walk in the glory, to marvel at the mystery, the profoundity of it all.  We can embrace the light, the light of purpose and meaning.  Even as we trek through the quotidian, we can touch that which enables it to happen and be.
     Inasmuch as I leave this week for a backpacking expedition in the American West, not to return until well after the New Year, I send my best wishes for a wonderful end--and beautiful beginning--to another year spent in God's light.
     Thanks for reading!