Article December 20, 2004 Issue

THE HEART OF CHRISTMAS

By Bill Moody

A steady snow had been falling through the night. The next morning dawned like one of those first days of creation. Everything felt new, fresh, sparkling, wonderful. Those early hours were perfectly still, and I knew it was time to get out the snowshoes.

From our back door where my wife and I lived at the time, I could track down the hill, pick my way through the woods, and link up with a series of trails that ran through an extensive nature preserve. Once on the trails, I would head for a stand of magnificent white pines. In that special place, it was as though a natural cathedral had been constructed and set down there for any woodswalker who happened by. The tall pines, reaching toward the clouds, had allowed for very little growth in the understory. The ground, when it was without snow, lightly reverberated with that cushioned, almost sacred sound underfoot, maintained by so many years of pine needles that had come to rest beneath the venerable trees.

On this snow-blanketed winter morning, the pine grove was perhaps more beautiful than I had ever seen it. I made my way over to a fallen log that served as a ready bench, caught between the trees in such a way that it rested about two feet above the ground. I brushed the powdery snow off and took a seat on what, to me, had now become the first pew in a private sanctuary. The woods were completely quiet. I realized then that I was praying. I hadn't planned it or willed it. The prayer was simply irresistible—as natural in that moment as breathing the clean, crisp December air.

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