The Quiet Corners of December

December has a way of rushing in like an excited guest — arms full of lights and lists and half-baked intentions. Some years it feels like I’m swept along in its momentum; other years, like this one, I find myself paying attention to the quiet corners instead.

It’s funny how the small things take centre stage when I let them. The soft clatter of someone setting the table. The warm hum from the oven. A bit of wrapping paper curling in on itself like it’s trying to become a bow. Even the pause before the kettle clicks off — all these tiny, unremarkable moments seem to glow with an inner warmth when I slow down enough to notice them.

Maybe it’s because December carries its own kind of tenderness. We dress it up in loud things — music and gatherings and glitter — but underneath all that, there’s a pulse of something gentle: a reminder that God steps quietly, that light often arrives in smallness first.

I think about the way the Christmas story begins: not with trumpets but with a shelter that didn’t quite fit, a sky waiting to be split open, a world unaware that hope had already arrived. There’s something reassuring about that. It tells me I don’t have to be spectacular to be held by God’s love. I don’t need to get everything ready or get everything right. He can slip into my life through the quieter entrances — the ones I barely notice.

Today, I found myself grateful for those small entrances. For the quiet corners that tug at me, reminding me to look again — to see the beauty tucked inside the ordinary. To breathe a little slower. To let something warm settle in my ribcage.

December is loud, yes. But it also whispers. And sometimes the whispers are where the real joy hides.