The last of the leaves linger on the low branches. I can just barely make out fall’s final statement of color on the trees. They stand exposed as the howl of the wind whistles through the sinews and tendons extending skyward. The air is icy, breath crystallized, swirls of mist twirl like smoke. Winter’s silver sky is upon us and will soon toss down its blankets. Once again the branches will be adorned, glistening in rays of light. Snow is predicted tonight.

We wake in a land of wintry Wonder now robed in light, each thread glowing, the sun of righteousness, rising, bringing healing in its rays. Look. See His signs, His Wonders to establish His Name among us.

Immanuel.