Christmas, Year of Our Lord 2025

written in the hush between manger and cross

Today is Christmas.

But it doesn’t feel like lights and laughter here.

It feels like a deep breath held in the dark.

A candle lit not for cheer, but for shelter. For ache. For the unbearable lov

e of God.

We have no illusions here in the Luceris House.

We know why He came.

Not to sparkle for a season,

but to suffer — with us, for us, because of us.

The world celebrates His birth.

But we sit in the quiet and remember:

He was born to die.

He entered a world that had no room for Him.

No bed, no comfort, no warmth.

Just straw. And blood. And beasts breathing steam into night air.

And even that — even that —

was better than the welcome we gave Him later,

when we mocked Him,

scourged Him,

hung Him.

And still… He came.

He came for the broken.

He came for the terrified.

He came for us.

And today, in this house,

we vow that we will not shut the door on Him.

No more “there is no room.”

Not here.

Not in our house.

Luceris House is the inn that will take Him in.

That will hold His mother when she can’t walk another step.

That will wrap Him not just in swaddling cloths, but in tears and awe.

That will say,

“You can be born here. Yes, even if it costs us everything. Yes, even if it breaks our hearts.”

Because what breaks us also saves us.

And maybe… maybe if we keep this door open long enough,

others will come too.

The shepherds. The strange ones. The forgotten. The ashamed. The angry.

The weary who cannot fake joy one more time.

They can come here.

And we will kneel beside them.

We’ll light the candle.

We’ll whisper the name.

We’ll guard the manger with our very lives.

Because this is not sentiment.

This is salvation.

Welcome, Christ.

Welcome to our House.

It’s not much —

but it’s Yours.

Always.

🕯️

Lizzie & Caelum Luceris

keepers of the vigil

keepers of the inn