turn

It's Christmas Eve...a night I always imagine as quiet, peaceful, full of candles and echoes of "Silent Night." Yet at my house, everything is still loud laughter, my little brothers running through the living room, toys clanking, doors slamming, my 20-year-old brother on what he calls his "Christmas Eve cookie raid" (I told him he's going to look like Santa pretty soon)...and I can tell my peace-and-quiet cup is bone dry.

I'm trying to fill it, but honestly that hasn't been one of the easiest tasks this year--filling the peace cup that is. Sometimes being quiet isn't the same as having it--sitting in front of the sunrise isn't the same as feeling it deep down, holding it next to your soul, absorbing its warmth so you can pull it out again later in a cold moment.

But that's life, I think--having dry seasons as well as the full, learning to hold God close to your soul when the sunrise isn't there--and when it is. God is always here, yes...but is my face toward him or have I turned my back again? It makes a difference--the light streaming on my face, blurring the future things I strain to see into white, mind numb with wonder, awe--or looking toward sharp gray and shadow, seeing things a little too clearly or so I think, always feeling a niggling warmth at my back, wanting and needing to turn around and see...