In the world today, there are many hearts that dwell in dark hollows. Weighed down by the Hadean anchors of sorrow, loss, anger, hatred, jealousy, guilt, and even indifference. Day and night, hour by hour, these hearts seek life in the dead, plumbing the depths of a strangling emptiness, in search of the light of Hope.

          Many years ago, I went through a phase of being awakened at 3 am every single night. I went to bed exhausted, and it didn’t make sense that short hours later, I would be roused from deep slumber when I wasn’t ready to wake up. Often, it was the acrid smell of smoke that shook me out of sleep.

          The smell of smoke without fire.

          But I was not afraid or troubled much.

          Every time it happened, I sought the light of prayer. For myself. For others.

          One such night, on a whim, I decided to send Light into homes. In my mind, I pictured dwelling after dwelling  – of loved ones and friends, and even those I disliked,  – and I said a prayer of Light for each. Suddenly, something took over the prayer. I felt I was being led to each homestead that I had prayed for. There I was shown the actual fire lit everywhere the match of my prayer touched kindling.

          In some homes, the fire was small, and burned neatly and restrainedly. I was given to understand that the fire was not allowed to burn with abandon; something in the hearts of those who dwelled there dampened holy fire. Then,  there was another home, where the match lit a fire so huge and powerful, it was startling. As I gazed at those determined flames, I felt this written on my heart: Purification. Indeed, a short time later, the family began facing deep trials.

          But there was another home where I sent the prayer of light, yet, no fire did it kindle. I stood in the shadows beyond the house, and looked at the deep, unyielding darkness before me. I didn’t ask for an explanation then, but received understanding months later – no fire could light there because the doyen of the family indulged in occultism.

          I prayed this same prayer over the years, a couple of times, but I was never shown this vision again.

          Today, this grey morning, rains fall outside, dew~ing away the dust and distraction of harried months. The clouds tip their water jars in benevolence, blessing the trees and grasses into bursts of emeralds and hunters, and flowers coyly unfurl the livened yellows, pinks, reds and blues of their petal~sheaths. A dew whisper travels from leaf to bud, awakening that which has fallen into the slumber of despair and despondency.

          As I drink in this reawakening to life, I wonder, if it is not time now, to once more send the angels out again, bearing the prayer of the Noel~light  ~  a Child waiting to be born in the yearning stables of every heart.

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