Image: Kathryn Yingst
It was an especially frigid night.
“Will you come with me? Let’s go and see,” I said to my husband. I had wanted to get a better view of the super moon. We put on extra layers and headed to the shore. Pulling up to the beach, we draped our scarves over our noses and zippered our coats as high as they would go. With determination, we headed out into the cold.
It was beautiful. The moon rested low in the night sky, its presence even more intimate during this December cycle when the orb seemed nearly close enough to touch. As we walked across the sand towards it, it seemed almost as if we might step right onto the moon itself. It had been named a ‘Cold Moon’ because its fullness was revealed in the northern hemisphere during the coldest and longest nights of the year. Yet tonight’s moon was dressed in gold, like a glowing ornament. Like an invitation.
Recently, I have found myself especially in need of connection. The news cycle—consistently filled with human tragedy—had been taking a particularly heavy toll on my emotional state. In so many national and international realms, it seemed like people in power had been intentionally making life more difficult for others. Even taking pleasure in it. Just keeping abreast of current events brought tears to my eyes.
But as often as these tears made an appearance, it was the beautiful things that made me weep.
The bright hush of fresh fallen snow. The timeless shape of seashells. My elderly neighbor’s light on. Bluebirds and juncos and wrens visiting our feeder. Brandi Carlisle. Picking up our daughter from college. The deep welcome of this amber moon…
How is it that nothing had changed and yet everything was different? Why were these simple, everyday things suddenly more precious? It seemed like the ground itself had become holy, not because it had transformed—but because I had.
These gifts had been here all along, but paradoxically it was adversity that had allowed me to truly recognize them as sacred. Suffering had too often become a part of the daily headlines, but somehow solace was ours, too.
I wonder if it was like that for the seekers that night, finding Bethlehem. How they had traveled in the cold, wandering in the dark. How they slowly started to recognize the stars. How they found the baby sleeping in a manger, and they knew—with every fiber of their being—he was a miracle.
Kathryn Yingst
December 2025
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness shall not overcome it.” (John 1:5)