Morning Light

There’s a particular softness to December mornings. The light arrives a little slower, as though it wants to unwrap the day carefully instead of rushing it open. And somehow that gentleness feels right for this season.

Christmas carries so much sparkle and noise that it’s easy to forget its quieter notes — the ones that hum underneath the carols and lists and lights. But the morning seems to remember them for me.

Today, as the first light edged its way through the window, I felt that familiar Advent whisper:

Something hopeful is on its way.

Not in a dramatic, sky-splitting way, but in the slow, steady way light always arrives — a quiet promise warming the edges of the world.

Maybe that’s why I love mornings in December. They feel like a mirror of the Christmas story itself: God choosing to come close through smallness, through gentleness, through the unexpected glow of something humble and new.

Before the day gathers its momentum, I’m reminded:

I can begin softly.
I can carry expectation without pressure.
I can hold space for hope to grow at its own pace.

Christmas doesn’t ask me to be dazzling. It invites me to notice. To look for the light that keeps finding me — in the hush of early hours, in simple kindness, in the quiet courage to begin again.

So here’s to this morning, and all the mornings of Advent.

To the slow unfurling of hope.

To a day lit from the inside out.