Near where I live in portland, oregon, tall cottonwoods line the far bank of the Willamette River. These quiet sentinels of nature, though shorn of their leaves in wintertime, still blot out most of the lights on the opposing side at night.
Yet at Christmastime, colorful lights draped on a 50-foot Douglas fir shine above the river and through the cottonwoods. I love to look out on these lights from my study in the dark hours before the dawn. They speak to me of the "still small voice" of angel messages, thoughts from God greeting me at the Christmas season.
One December morning, as I sat observing the star at the top of the tree, I saw another light above the star. In the morning mist, I couldn't distinguish where this second light was coming from. Maybe it was just an early jet heading for the airport? But, no, the light wasn't moving—only shining in the stillness above the lighted tree.
