It's one of those bitterly cold, startlingly beautiful mornings -- a morning in which if I still lived in the place from which I came, the trees would be cracking and the snow would be blue before the sun rose. Instead the sounds around me haven't changed much since the temperatures dropped and the snow fell -- sirens still howl and cars still zip past our house, ignoring the residential limit. But there is a moment of quiet for me this morning, a moment in which I've been able to read some blogs and get caught up on e-mail (if only the reading and not the responding with great care).
My blog has been quiet recently, and it's not for a lack of having things to write about or respond about or simply ponder. I've had bits of time for other things, so surely I could have found time to blog, but I haven't. Some of those "things" feel a bit too fragile, a bit too tender to post, and yet beautiful at the same time: an ornament made of glass, that after holding up to the light, I put back in the box instead of on the tree.
In the next week, because being a pastor in December isn't enough, we're closing on a house and moving. (I'd originally typed the next two weeks and then did the math, let out an expletive, and revised my statement.) Those are the things (both the worries and the joy) that keep me up in the quiet of the night, wanting to hear the snap of the trees, the crack of ice.