December 22, Sunday

MORNING SUNLIGHT streamed through St. Michael's stained-glass windows, painting the wooden pews in jewel tones. I slipped into a seat near the back, smoothing my skirt and feeling slightly out of place.

Reverend Abernathy spotted me from the pulpit and his face lit up. He gave me a small wave as the church filled with the sounds of the organ prelude.

I hadn't expected the choir to be so good – their voices soared to the vaulted ceiling, filling the space with harmony that made my throat tight with emotion. They sang about peace on earth, about hope in dark times, about love that transcends understanding.

When Reverend Abernathy began his sermon, his rich voice carried to every corner of the church. "In this season of miracles," he said, "we're called to look at the world with gentler eyes. To see beyond our differences, beyond our prejudices, beyond our fear of what we don't understand."

I thought of my own journey in Irving – how I'd arrived suspicious of everyone, seeing threats in shadows and evil in anything I couldn't explain.

"The divine speaks to different hearts in different ways," he continued. "Some find God in scripture, others in nature. Some in quiet prayer, others in joyful celebration. Some in ancient traditions, others in new understandings."

My mind went to Tilda's solstice ceremony, to the peaceful way those robed figures had celebrated their faith under the stars. To Coleman's quiet wisdom, Kelly's generous spirit, Sawyer's patient hands restoring broken things.

"Our task is not to judge the path others take to find meaning, but to ensure our own path leads us toward love, toward healing, toward grace."

Tears pricked my eyes as I remembered his confession about moving Rose's body, about honoring her wish to find her own way to faith. How he'd kept that secret not out of shame, but out of respect for her journey.

"In this holy season," his voice softened, "let us look upon each other with kinder eyes. Let us remember that every heart holds its own truth, its own light, its own sacred story."

The choir rose again, their voices weaving together like threads in a tapestry. I noticed Coleman in their midst, his weathered face transformed by joy as he sang. Kelly, too, whose lilting voice I'd heard in the kitchen when she thought no one was listening. Even Kelly's Uncle Pete was there, wearing a tie of all things.

After the service, Reverend Abernathy found me in the small crowd gathering for coffee and cookies in the parish hall.

"I'm so glad you came," he said warmly.

"Thank you for the invitation." I smiled. "Your sermon was beautiful."

"Did it speak to you?"

I nodded, thinking of all the ways Irving had taught me to see with gentler eyes. "More than you know."

"Good." He squeezed my shoulder. "That's what matters – not where we worship, but how we carry that worship into the world through our actions, our understanding, our love."

"Even if that love seems... unconventional?"

His eyes twinkled. "Especially then. Love itself is a kind of miracle, don't you think? However it comes to us."

"Yes," I said softly. "I suppose it is."

Outside, winter sunshine gilded the church's simple cross. The church bell tolled the hour, sending a welcoming sound throughout the town.

I hadn't found God exactly, at least not in any traditional sense. But I'd found a wonderful sense of peace.

Although… maybe they were one and the same.