It Is Not Our Job To Remain Whole
by Donavon L Riley
Christ in December is the winter fire, quietly gathering the forgotten and broken, binding their wounds, and inviting them to be born again through the great roots of His enduring love.—D.
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December wraps its cold hands around the earth, and yet there, in the barren fields of frost, a Child is born—a crackling fire offered to those who sit far from summer’s laughter. This is no mere seasonal cheer. It is the quiet defiance of a flame that lingers in the cold, a hearth gathering in those shivering at the world’s edge, those for whom even hope has gone brittle.
The Christ-Child comes not to dazzle the well-fed, but to stand as a witness, as a warmth for the wandering. He is not a summer sun for the satisfied but the winter fire that gathers the forgotten and whispers, You belong here. He is the ember that remains when the world grows cold. He comes for the downtrodden, for the ragged remnants who thought no one would search for them in the long corridors of their despair.
Christ in December is this: not a crown on a feast but a light in the dark—binding the wounded, welcoming the exiled, reminding us that even now, It is not our job to remain whole. We come to Him to lose our leaves like the trees, and be born again, drawing sustenance up from His great roots.
D.