By: Clare Morgan

Christmas, to me, means light. Light is everywhere in December. As the sun goes down earlier every day, folks make up for the lack of sunshine with their own light. The Christmas season is easy to see as you drive down the street; almost every house seems to have strings of lights along trim and plastic reindeers leaping over unseen obstacles. At my house, the glow of our ten foot faux cedar tree, hung with gold and red ornaments and shimmering crystal teardrops, throws soft speckled light on the floor of our living room. In the family room off the kitchen, my mom decorates a second tree, this one with miniature kitchen utensils, bedewed plastic apples, and gingerbread men. On the stair landing sits a third, more casual Christmas tree: the cowboy tree. Its dusty green branches are strung with chili pepper lights that make a sharp red pattern on the walls and banister. And if three trees isn’t enough, I keep a fourth in my bedroom. When I was little, this six foot cedar looked enormous to me, like something straight out of The Nutcracker Ballet I grew up performing in every year for ten years. As I grew though, the tree became less and less impressive, but no less beautiful or magical. The soft pink and cream light thrown from the tree is my own special Christmas. I sit on my bed every evening letting its sparkles dance across my face, and admiring the glow that lights my whole room. The most beautiful part of my Christmas light though, sits outside, amidst frozen marigolds and a bare crabapple, in a wooden crèche my grandpa built years ago. The manger scene in front of my house is simple: Joseph and Mary kneel beside the Baby Jesus, whose arms are outstretched to the falling snow. On cold nights, the light of this vignette warms the air around it. And in cold hearts, the soft glow of the Infant’s outstretched hands reaches for the love of the world.