Christmas at the Lake

Christmas at the lake is special, as it should be, tucked away up here in the quiet of the woods, the summer lake people gone, too cold now for the noise of summer – swimming, boating, the docks long ago pulled in against the ice forming at the water’s edge. There are a few hearty souls staying here year ‘round, us among them, our own small community separated though we be by forests, thick and silent, and camps, empty now, closed up, shut down, but we can hear each other, this small community,  now and then in the clear air we share, a rare car laboring up the hill, a lone dog barking in the distance, or the sound of an axe swinging, chopping firewood, kindling, to stoke the home fires burning low, warming our spirits even as it warms our bodies.

And at night, this night, a clear night, dark but for the stars above, bright in the crisp air of winter, dark and clear and still, we stare out, cold, wrapped in blankets and wrapped within ourselves, staring out at the dark water melding into the distant shore and sky above, and staring there, listening, we can hear within us and around us in the clear air the words made more meaningful in the darkness, in the stillness of this night, December 24^th, Christmas Eve: “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright”; this we can hear and this we can know, “Christ the savior is born; Christ the savior is born.”