Only altar lights punctuate the darkness. Manger, child, angels, kings.
She wonders why she is here, picks up a thin candle, lights it, sticks it into the circle of sand. And prays.
Not believing, but wanting to believe. Like a superstitious wish on a birthday cake.
And she struggles to dismiss hope since the time of year offers it so freely. Joy seems intrinsic in tinsel and dressed trees.
In those plastic, static crib figures.
And, in particular, that baby.
So that the promise of a child shines out of the darkness.