Silent Night, Holy Night

While I am basking in the San Diego sunshine, watching my children in their T-shirts and shorts play in the cul-de-sac, I think of my best friend hunkering down under three feet of snow for yet another storm on the opposite side of the country. Now, you'll never hear me complain about warm, sunny days, but there are moments--very brief, and usually just at Christmas--when I actually miss the snow.

Snowy nights are so silent. Of course that still, quiet is broken as soon as the sun comes out and the kids wake up. They play in the snow all day long, eating it until their cheeks are the color of cranberries and ice is caked into their hair. Although they’re freezing, it’s only the early winter darkness that ends their day of fun. They come inside and leave the heap of soggy socks and gloves and mountains of parkas and pants, then the puddles of boots and tracked-in clumps of snow migrate away from the cold of the doorway. The kids plop down, curled up on the couch with hot cocoa and blankets while they watch Christmas cartoons and fall asleep (hopefully not with the hot cocoa still in their hands). Their rosy, glowing faces look like little cherubs, and I’m reminded, that this is who they truly are, angels straight from heaven. And the snow falls, and once again it’s a silent night, and with all these heavenly little angels, a holy night, too.