Dearly Beloved, Grace and Peace to you.          

It does not take—although it could—our breath away, this warm November day that should be dense and dark; instead it gives.

The park is washed: a tide of light leaves the day's bright spine exposed, the clear sun beached upon the evening's shore, reposed where children each reflect it, young and pure. How is this day not old and grey, but yet a bride, lap full of wedding gifts,

all tied with gold, with light? It lifts our hearts, too cold, and too soon winterized, to watch our children run in ribbons through the gold, the bright gift

wrapping strewn, untidy sheets of light, across the afternoon, not innocently laughing jewels into our laps until our arms collapse, and we are warm. How can this laying on of hands of light, so late, be right? What are we to remember of this gilded not-november miracle of days? The oracle of praise this day of Magi lays abiding at our feet, the reason given

for tidings of light, light piled against the trees and benches against our legs and feet, against our thoughts of sleet: God has no oughts, but gifts.

This is our tithe: let light be more than interlude, life little more than this— delight and gratitude.


Deep Blessings, Pastor Steve

__________________ Steve Garnaas-Holmes Unfolding Light

To receive Unfolding Light as a daily e-mail, write to me at unfoldinglight(at)