There's a slick mixture of snow and slush on the ground this morning. The trees and the eaves are dripping steadily. The horses in the pasture make not a sound as they walk along, looking ghostly in the morning half-light. With the series of Pacific storms making their way up from California, we are as sodden as we can be. It's more like April than December.
But tomorrow night we begin the celebration of Christ's birth and all that it meant to humankind and all that it does mean still.
And all that it will mean.
My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus' blood and righteousness.
I dare not trust the sweetest frame, yet wholly lean on Jesus' name.
On Christ the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand.
All other ground is sinking sand.
So let the trees drip. I'm warm inside, where Christ lives.