The festive season really isn’t the same when you are overwhelmed with sensory excess and choice. For all its relative austerity, I never miss the monastic life more than on Christmas Day. I might have been weeping into my boiled potatoes, but the Word was made flesh, and God’s light shone over the monastery, and a subtle sense of newness and freshness filled the air. Into the darkness of our solitary struggles a light had dawned. As long as you kept believing that, dwelling on it, and “living it” as a reality, Easter and the ultimate joy of the Resurrection were not far off.
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