The Night Before

There is something sacred about this night.

The world exhales. The rushing slows. Even the air feels different — as if it knows it is standing on the edge of something holy. Lights glow a little softer. Voices drop. The waiting reaches its deepest point.

Christmas Eve is the night before we know.

This is not the night of arrival.
It is the night of almost.
Tomorrow will bring the child.
Tonight holds the promise.

Mary slept — or perhaps didn’t — carrying hope beneath her ribs and the world went on, unaware that it was hours away from being changed. And then suddenly, heaven pressed close and God arrived crying.

I love that God chose this moment.

Not the celebration yet. Not the resolution. But the quiet stretch just before. The liminal space where nothing looks different, but everything is about to be.

There is a tenderness in that kind of waiting.

Tonight doesn’t ask us to be joyful or reflective or ready. It simply invites us to pause. To sit in the stillness. To let anticipation be gentle rather than urgent.

If your heart is full, let it rest.
If your heart is heavy, let it be held.
If your heart feels unsure, let it stay open.

God is close in the almost.

So light the candle. Turn off the noise. Breathe in the hush. Tomorrow will come soon enough.

For now, this night is enough.