There’s a line in a Frank Sinatra song that asks if we’d like to, “…carry moonbeams home in a jar.” A crazy idea. Moonbeams can’t be contained or put in a jar, but their magic can be carried home just the same. What if we could carry home the kind of wonder and light that moonbeams represent?
Life throws challenges at us every day. Deadlines. Difficult conversations. The relentless tug-of-war between expectations and reality. Yet, amid the noise, we often stumble upon moments of beauty. Unexpected acts of kindness, moments of connection with strangers, or simply a sunrise or sunset that stops us in our tracks. These are moonbeams.
Have you ever met someone for the first time and felt their kindness so deeply that it stayed with you? Maybe it was a stranger who gave you directions with a smile, a colleague who truly listened, or someone who saw you struggling and extended their hand. These are glimpses of humanity’s greatness. Magic moments where we see the best of who we are reflected in someone else.
What if we made it our mission to carry that magic home with us?
It’s easy to bring home the worries of the day. Our frustrations, our stresses, our nagging self-doubt. But alongside these, we can also bring moonbeams: the small, bright moments of beauty, hope, and love that we encounter every day. We can share the wonder of a chance conversation, the joy of something new we learned, or the inspiration we felt when we saw someone overcoming adversity.
Carrying moonbeams is about being conscious of what we pass on to those we love. It’s about choosing to share curiosity instead of cynicism, gratitude instead of grumbling. It’s about being the explorer who brings back stories of the world’s beauty to share with those at home, inspiring them to see the magic in their own lives, too.
Imagine if we all carried moonbeams in our metaphorical jars. How much brighter would our homes, our communities, and our world become?
What if we could embrace the day with the motivated curiosity of an explorer. Purposely looking for the moonbeams—the fleeting magic of kindness, beauty, and connection.
Imagine carrying them home to share, not in jars, but in our words, our actions, and our presence.
Because moonbeams, once shared, have a way of multiplying.
Photo by me, capturing a “moonbeam” of a sunrise view outside my kitchen window the other day
The winds arrive, sharp-edged with frost, Carrying whispers of all we’ve lost. Yet still, we gather where light abides, Tracing joys where memory hides.
The manger waits beneath the sky, Its humble wood holds heaven’s cry. A Child is born, both meek and bold, To mend the hearts that grow cold.
Here at the manger, shadow and light, Joy interwoven with sorrow’s might. A promise breathes where silence stirs: “Fear not—for I have heard your cry.”
Words awaken, dormant long, Noel and tidings weave their song. Through flickering trees and spiced perfumes, Old faces linger in quiet rooms.
Empty chairs hold stories near, A laughter faint, a single tear. Yet love persists where loss has tread, Its echoes call where angels led.
Here at the manger, shadow and light, Joy interwoven with sorrow’s might. A promise breathes where silence stirs: “Fear not—for I am sending my Child.”
O silverware that gleams with fire, O fragile ornaments that inspire. In every sparkle, a truth takes hold: The story that’s not fully told.
For every shadow cast by light, There burns a flame against the night. And every sorrow, every tear, Is met by love that lingers near.
Here at the manger, shadow and light, Joy interwoven with sorrow’s might. A promise breathes where silence stirs: “Fear not—for the Child is here.”
Across the miles, through time and space, The ties of love refuse to break. Each prayer, each carol, each whispered word Carries the weight of the Hope we’ve heard.
The Child has come, and so we sing, For in His hands rest everything. The hollow aches, the brightest cheer— All held in grace, all gathered here.
Here at the manger, shadow and light, Joy interwoven with sorrow’s might. A promise breathes where silence stirs: “Fear not—for I AM with you until the end of time.”
The bells resound with heaven’s cheer, For Christ is born, and love draws near. The angels sing, the nations rise, A holy joy fills earth and skies.
O love that soars, O joy that stays, We join the hymn of endless praise. In manger low, our hearts proclaim: The world redeemed by Jesus’ name.
Here at the manger, shadow and light, Joy interwoven with sorrow’s might. A promise breathes where silence stirs: “Fear not—for the Child Jesus is Born.”
It happens to all of us this time of year. The days get shorter, the winds grow crisper. Something stirs within us that doesn’t quite fit the mold of any other season. There’s joy, sure—joy enough to make us believe in miracles again. But alongside that joy, like the shadows cast by twinkling lights, there’s a touch of sorrow. Like an old friend who shows up every December, pulls up a chair, and says nothing at all.
Words that lie dormant eleven months out of the year come alive at Christmas time. Jingle Bells. Rudolph. Good tidings. Noel. The Manger. Words so beautiful and strange, yet they create beautiful poetry on our hearts. Sugarplums dancing in dreams. Mulling spices on the stove. Decorations we see only in this season but remember more fondly with each passing year—twinkles of joy at their best, empty reminders at their worst. And somehow, merriment and brightness find their way in, even when the years haven’t always been kind.
If you listen closely, you can hear hymns calling us across the cold and lonely nights:
“O come, O come, Emmanuel”
“Silent Night”
“What Child is This?”
There’s a funny thing about Christmas—it’s a season of paradox. A time for rejoicing, and a time for remembering. For celebrating, and for mourning. All in the same breath.
Every year, the world gathers around a single story. A manger in Bethlehem, where our Savior came as a child. It’s a story that whispers hope into the cracks of our broken hearts.
“Fear not, O Zion, be not discouraged!” That’s what the prophet Zephaniah said. “The Lord, your God, is in your midst.” And somehow, two thousand years later, we do believe. We light candles and sing songs of joy—because we need to. Because joy matters.
It’s funny how much effort we put into this season. Trees trimmed. Ornaments hung. Villages built. Wishes made. And when the last batch of cookies or Cornish pasties come out of the oven, we sit at tables crowded with food, and laughter, and the people we love. Sometimes we even catch a glimpse of something eternal in it all—the way the lights reflect off the fancy silverware, or how a child’s eyes light up at the first sight of presents.
But there are empty chairs. They’re harder to discuss. Maybe it’s a father, a mother, a grandparent, or a sister. Maybe it’s a friend, a brother, an aunt or an uncle who have gone far too soon. We feel their absence even more at Christmas. We see them in the lights we hang, and the hot chocolates that we make. We hear them in old songs, the ones we used to sing.
And then there are the faces we miss in another way—our family who are still with us but just too far away. The ones across states, oceans, and time zones. We think of them when we pull out the old family recipes and photo albums. We wish they could be here to see the kids open presents, to share in the laughter over the pies that we burned, or took out too soon. But instead, we send texts and pictures, leave voicemails, and whisper a prayer hoping they know how much they’re loved, even from so far away.
Yet even in sorrow, there’s something beautiful. Because love never really leaves us. And maybe that’s the greatest promise of Christmas—the one hidden behind all the ornaments and stockings, and twinkling lights. That the Child who came to a manger promises us something more. He promises that the story isn’t over. That one day, we’ll all sit at a table that never empties, in a place where joy knows no end.
For now, we celebrate as best we can. We bake our pies and pour our cider. We listen for sleigh bells in the distance and leave room in our hearts for joy to enter—just like it always does.
And when the night gets quiet, and the fire burns low, we remember. We remember the ones we’ve loved, the ones we’ve lost, the ones too far away to join us, and the One who came to bring us home.
That’s Christmas. A little light, a little shadow. A little merry, a little sorrow. A season that changes the very words we speak and, if we let it, changes the very hearts we carry.
So if you’re out there tonight, sipping mulled cider by the window, just know this:
You’re not alone. The Savior is here. He’s in the manger. He’s in the laughter. And He’s in the quiet, too.
And maybe—just maybe—He’s singing over you, as one sings at a festival.
The Bible verse that inspired this post when I heard it in Church last Sunday:
Shout for joy, O daughter Zion! Sing joyfully, O Israel! Be glad and exult with all your heart, O daughter Jerusalem! The LORD has removed the judgment against you he has turned away your enemies; the King of Israel, the LORD, is in your midst, you have no further misfortune to fear. On that day, it shall be said to Jerusalem: Fear not, O Zion, be not discouraged! The LORD, your God, is in your midst, a mighty savior; he will rejoice over you with gladness, and renew you in his love, he will sing joyfully because of you, as one sings at festivals.
It was like a perfect slice of the sun walked in the room.
Bingo changed my life. The Alamitos dorm held their annual bingo tournament in the Commons, and a friend told me I should go. Sounded like fun to me. What else was a college freshman to do just weeks before final exams? But, we’d have to wait a few minutes for one of his friends who’d be joining us.
She can shop all over town, turn the gift shops upside down.
Finding something for her man with everything.
I noticed her eyes first. Then her smile. It was like a perfect slice of the sun walked in the room.
“Bob, this is Janet. She lives in the girl’s wing on our floor.” Suddenly, words were a little hard to find. “She’s a CIS major too,” he said, breaking the silence. Talking about your major was always a good ice breaker.
But it’s right behind her eyes and no matter what she buys
She’ll always be the finest gift she brings.
Playing bingo is similar to a movie from a first date perspective. There’s not a lot of time for chit chat. Not that this was a date. After all, we just met. I was starting to string words together again, just barely. This was the one person who would change my life forever, but this was also bingo. It all about the numbers.
I wasn’t thinking about anything except how to see her again. Then it happened. I got a BINGO! The prize? A week’s membership at the Jack LaLane Health Spa. That was nice, but didn’t get me closer to seeing Janet again. Lucky for me they had more memberships to hand out. A few games later, with one of the memberships on the line, I could see that Janet was close to having bingo. How awesome is that?
Every year it’s never missed, should be at the top of every list.
It can never be outdone, it’s the perfect gift for everyone.
I’m sure I was the most excited person in the room when Janet yelled, “BINGO!” We had matching membership envelopes! This was my opening. We were only three or four weeks away from the end of spring quarter. We’d be moving out of the dorms for the summer…Janet wouldn’t be living just down the hall. I had to move fast.
It’s in everything you’ll see, scattered underneath our tree.
You can hear it in the carols that we sing.
The details are a bit fuzzy for me as I think about our visits to Jack LaLane’s. I do remember sitting in the Jacuzzi (I presume, after we had done our workouts). The more I talked with Janet, the more I knew she was THE ONE. And yet, I only had a few weeks. The abyss of summer break was fast approaching. I had to stay focused, which was impossible whenever I was around her.
It’s the heart of love’s design and it appreciates with time.
And she’ll always be the finest gift she brings.
Janet and a group of her friends were planning a trip to the Griffith Park Observatory to celebrate the end of the school year. I knew a few of her friends (some were neighbors on my wing). But, I wasn’t exactly part of the Griffith Park trip plan. What do you do in that situation Invite yourself, of course.
We had a small convoy of cars that night. I couldn’t believe I was in the passenger seat of Janet’s convertible as we approached the observatory. This was like a date, but not quite. We were part of a big group. Everything was closed at the observatory (college students work the late schedule), but we walked around the grounds and checked out the stars for quite a while. I remember how the lights reflected off Janet’s eyes more than anything else.
Our road trip wasn’t over. We stopped at a Tommy’s Burgers on the way back. My first chili burger, on my first (almost) date with Janet.
Every year it’s never missed, should be at the top of every list.
It can never be outdone, it’s the perfect gift for everyone.
Only six weeks later, we were in my parent’s Toyota 4×4 pickup, following my family down to Gonzaga Bay in Baja…about 100 miles south of San Felipe. Why not go to the middle of nowhere in Baja, off road, with this (awesome) guy you met playing bingo? Janet is an adventurer, to say the least.
Now it’s not in any store and she could never give me more
Then her promise of the finest gift she brings.
Three years later, we shared our first Christmas as a married couple.
Our adventure continues to this day.
The finest gift is truly the one I receive every day (including Christmas).
Grandpa Bob Encouraging Leadership 
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