The years go by too quickly, driven by the ways we dissect time. I believe we might live longer, if not better, by counting moons instead of days. I like my age better divided by seasons instead of seconds, measured instead in the lifespans of loyal dogs and good horses, and the occasional cat.
I think we all mark the passage of time with holidays, willingly or not. The Christmas stockings our mother made hang from the mantle. We look at the old pictures and carefully unwrap the old ornaments. We notice the empty seat at the table that was filled just last year.
As time passes and the number of empty seats grows, there is a tendency to look back more than we look forward, as we might turn to face the warmth of the hearth when a cold draft slips under the front door. These holidays are particularly difficult for those who feel that chill while the hope of a warm embrace has faded into the past.
In the rapacious vulgarity of the commercial holiday, it’s easy to forget that this is, first and foremost, a season of hope. Hanukkah is particularly poignant this year, but it reminds us there is a light in the darkness. It speaks of endurance and renewal, community and solidarity.
Christmas is the hope of redemption and grace that remains undiminished. It reminds us that the world is renewed not by spectacle but by quiet acts of love and sacrifice.
And so we move through these winter days with what light we can carry, trusting that it is enough. The seasons turn, the candles burn down, the stockings fray a little more each year, yet the hope beneath them endures. For all the empty seats and all the years that slip too quickly past, there remains this truth: that love survives loss, that light returns even after the darkest nights, and that we are embraced—by faith, by memory, by one another, and by that sacrifice made long ago. In this season of small miracles, may we find the courage to look forward again, and to know that the warmth we seek is still ahead of us.
Outside The Box 