Even though we were just in the farmhouse parlor, the room felt the same as all the Christmas Eve services before it. Grandma’s vintage tree flushed behind me with its faux-candle lights encircling the branches, casting a shadow of light around our circle. Specks of birthday candle light flickered from person to person. Even the farm participated in our circle, glowing from the reflection of the moonlight on the snow. Dainty icicles like thin drips of candle wax skimmed the bushes and bare tree branches.

A thin skin of slush glazed Turner Road running by outside. Not nearly as treacherous as forecasted, but not likely to be cleared until a dedicated man with a tractor got out to plow. I had to smile, thinking about the powdering of snow that kept us at the farm for Christmas Eve. I couldn't help but thank it.