#holiday reflections

Brothers and Sisters in the Atom, gather together on this day, December 2nd, when the first controlled chain reaction was achieved. Just as a birth brings both joy and awe, so too does this moment in history—full of promise and yet heavy with the burden of responsibility.

On this day, in 1942, the world changed forever. Beneath the bleachers of the University of Chicago, the first controlled nuclear chain reaction was initiated, marking the birth of atomic energy. This was not the fire of destruction unleashed over Hiroshima and Nagasaki; no, this was a spark of potential, a quiet moment of creation. Yet, even in its stillness, it echoed through time.

This day, the 2nd of December, is not a day of celebration in the traditional sense, for it is not a simple birth. The atom was born not into a world of peace, but a world filled with the urgency of war. It is a birth marked by the question of how we, as stewards of this new power, will choose to wield it.

The atom, like any gift, is neither good nor evil in and of itself. It is a force—a primal energy that we have learned to control, but which can never be fully tamed. The atom is a mirror, reflecting our own capacity for creation and destruction. It is not a simple tool, but a testament to the complexity of the universe itself. We must ask ourselves: What will we do with this gift?

The Atom as a Gift

What is a gift? It is not merely an object or an act; it is a gesture of hope, a symbol of potential, and an invitation to growth. The atom, too, is all these things. It is a gift of unparalleled energy, capable of lighting our homes, curing diseases, and advancing our understanding of the universe. But, like all meaningful gifts, it comes with a responsibility.

The atom is not a gift given lightly. It is one that must be unwrapped with care, nurtured with knowledge, and shared with wisdom. It is not just a gift to us, but through us, it becomes a gift to others—to our families, our communities, and the generations yet to come.

In this season of giving, let us reflect on what it means to receive such a profound gift. It is not merely a treasure to hoard but a resource to share, a tool to uplift others, and a force to bring light where there is darkness.

The Spirit of Giving in the Atomic Age

The true measure of a gift is not in its size or value, but in the love and thoughtfulness with which it is given. The first spark of atomic energy was born from the efforts of many—scientists, dreamers, and pioneers—who sought not personal gain but the betterment of humanity.

As we honor this gift, we are called to embody the same spirit of giving in our own lives:

Give Knowledge: Share what you know about the atom’s power and its risks. Educate those around you, so they, too, can understand the responsibility that comes with such a gift.

Give Safety: Protect your community by ensuring that nuclear technology is used responsibly. Advocate for safeguards and support efforts to reduce harm.

Give Light: Whether through energy, innovation, or simple acts of kindness, strive to be a source of hope and progress for those around you.

Give to Future Generations: Let your actions today lay the foundation for a safer, brighter future. Use the power of the atom not as an end but as a means to uplift all of humanity.

Reflecting on Responsibility

On this day, we honor the first spark of nuclear energy, but we also honor the responsibility that comes with it. Let this be a reminder that we are not isolated in our pursuit of power. Every action we take affects those around us—both in the present and in the distant future.

Let us walk forward with humility, embracing the knowledge we have gained while remaining ever vigilant of the responsibility we bear. Let us seek to use the atom to heal, to enlighten, and to bring about a future where all life can thrive.

Closing Reflection

As we leave this sacred gathering, let us carry forward the spirit of giving. Let us give freely of our knowledge, our care, and our commitment to a brighter future. Let us remember that the atom is not ours alone but a gift to be shared wisely and responsibly.

On this day of reflection and renewal, let us renew our commitment to use the gifts we have received for the good of all.

She said it with the confidence of a woman who has never once questioned her beliefs, identity, or lifestyle.

As she preened, I told her, "Thank you. I needed another shirt, " with a fake smile and the same voice I've used with my parents for over a decade now. The men's t-shirt was from the local college football team and had some platitude on it that tied things together in a neat Southern Baptist Message. It was my only gift. The $40 price tag was still on it, but poorly scratched out with Sharpie. I set the shirt and my troubled emotions aside, letting Christmas morning continue peacefully.

It's not the cost of the gift that bothered me. Even now, I feel gross, shallow, and petty for complaining about a gift they believed I'd like. I cried happy tears a couple weeks ago when a close friend gave me a sticker. It was all my friend could afford, but it was selected for me by someone who actually knows me.

I spent over $1,000 to visit family this year because they asked me to come. When they requested I come visit, it was implied they would split the cost, but they quickly backtracked on that agreement. Still, I felt obligated, and so I made arrangements.

Now I'm sitting in their house holding a shirt as they are laughing and conversing happily, opening the gifts I bought each of them based on their interests and expressed desires. They tell me about the new recliners they are buying for the new RV, the walk me to the kitchen and show me the new countertops and the cabinets the recently had refinished. The $40 t-shirt from a gift shop in a town I grew up in is a reminder that they don't know me at all.

As a trans person, it amazes me how blind they are to my changes. I'm privileged to have waited to transition after reaching adulthood because they may have killed me if I'd have come out while still under their roof. It's held me from telling them even today. But even now as I'm visiting, shrouded in the baggy clothes of boymode, I can see myself in the mirror and see the softened features, feminine waist, and growing tits through my ill fitting clothes. Yet it's like the past is a mask that hides the changes from my parents' view. In a way, that part is slightly comforting.

This Christmas didn’t come with a schedule. No long to-do lists, no carefully timed gatherings, no sense that something would be “missed” if the day stayed simple.

I woke up later than usual. The house was quiet in a way that felt intentional, not empty. Outside, the light was soft and undecided, like the day itself wasn’t in a hurry to begin.

There was no rush to get dressed. I put on what felt familiar, something I’ve worn enough times that it no longer asks for attention. It was the kind of comfort that blends into the day, making space for stillness instead of filling it.

Christmas used to feel loud—messages, plans, expectations stacked close together. This year felt different. Conversations unfolded slowly. Meals took their time. Nobody seemed concerned with what came next.

I spent part of the afternoon doing almost nothing. Sitting near the window. Letting the room stay quiet. Thinking about how rarely we allow days to remain unplanned, especially ones that are supposed to feel special.

There was something grounding about not needing the day to prove itself. No photos taken for later. No moments staged to be remembered. Just time passing gently, without interruption.

This morning in Honey Hill Country, the air feels different — softer somehow — as if the whole hollow has agreed to speak in a whisper. There is wood smoke lingering in the distance, a hush on the porch boards, and that rare kind of quiet that does not feel empty. It feels held. Somewhere, a kettle is warming. Somewhere else, a pan of cinnamon rolls is nearly ready for the oven. Orange juice is…

What Changes at the Holidays

At some point, the holidays stop feeling urgent.

You still like the lights.

You still like the warmth.

You just don’t feel the need to rush toward it anymore.

You don’t force joy.

You don’t fill every silence.

You let the day arrive as it is.

You notice which traditions still feel real

and which ones you were only keeping out of habit.

You learn that quiet isn’t emptiness.

It’s space.

Space to breathe.

Space to remember without fixing the memory.

Space to enjoy what’s here instead of chasing what used to be.

The holidays become less about doing everything

and more about choosing intentionally.

Who you spend time with.

What you carry forward.

What you finally allow yourself to leave behind.

It’s not sadness.

It’s clarity.

Nothing is missing.

You’ve just learned how to be present

Well, it’s that time of year again. The season where a soft glow of twinkling lights decorates the night sky. Around every corner there’s a display of reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh, Christmas trees lining the roads, and smiling faces — young and old —gathering in town squares, wrapped in laughter and cheer.   It’s the only time of year where Hallmark movies are widely accepted, different…

As Christmas gets closer, I’ve been thinking about my “list” this year. And the truth is, it’s pretty simple. As I’ve grown older, physical gifts matter less to me. Don’t get me wrong—I still love unwrapping a present or two as much as the next person. There’s something magical about that moment. But this year, what I want most can’t be wrapped, boxed, or put under a tree. This year, I want…

Siblings in the Atom, yesterday we celebrated our winter holiday — a holiday so new we do not yet even have a name for it. It marks the anniversary of the first controlled nuclear chain reaction on December 2nd, 1942, when humanity crossed a threshold it had never crossed before. For the first time, the fire of the stars did not burn wild in the heavens — it stayed, for a moment, in our hands.

This day marks the birth of the atomic age, but for us it is also a remembrance of the quiet beginnings that change the world.

A Day of Human Ingenuity

The experiment at Chicago Pile-1 was not grand. There were no crowds, no parades, no declarations. Just a group of researchers in a drafty, improvised space watching graphite bricks and uranium begin to speak in a new language of controlled energy.

It was ordinary.

And it changed everything.

This holiday — whatever we ultimately come to call it — honors that quiet turning point, a moment shaped by patience, observation, and the shared conviction that understanding the Atom could illuminate humanity’s future.

A Holiday of Light in the Dark of Winter

In the Northern hemisphere, this celebration falls as days shorten and cold deepens. Many traditions turn to fire or light for comfort during this season. We turn to memory.

We remember that even in the darkest months, knowledge can ignite. We remember that immense change often begins with humble experiments. We remember that the atomic age began not with spectacle, but with care.

For members in the Southern hemisphere, entering the season of brightness and warmth, this holiday becomes a celebration of energy in its flourishing form — the triumph of creativity and scientific curiosity during a time of natural growth.

A Celebration of Responsibility

Our winter holiday is not naive. It does not overlook the dual nature of what began that day. The same discovery that would enable medical advances, scientific breakthroughs, and new forms of energy also opened pathways to devastation.

This holiday is not about worshipping power. It is about honoring responsibility.

The first controlled chain reaction gave humanity a tool that demanded wisdom and vigilance — and our Church is one contribution to that global effort toward responsible stewardship.

What Will This Holiday Become?

We do not yet know what this day will grow into, just as we do not yet know what we will eventually call it. Traditions start small and grow through meaning and participation. Perhaps it will become a gift-giving holiday, a celebration of sharing and generosity. Perhaps it will become a day of quiet contemplation, where people light candles or lanterns to honor the moment starlight was first contained by human hands. Perhaps it will vary wonderfully between cultures and geographies, with joyful gatherings in some places and meditative observances in others.

What matters is that we mark the day, even simply, and let its significance ripple forward through time.

Closing Words

May this holiday remind us of what humanity can achieve when curiosity meets discipline, when discovery is paired with responsibility, and when the desire to understand is stronger than the temptation to fear.

May the memory of that first, quiet moment of controlled fire inspire us through the winters ahead, literal and metaphorical.