At Christmas time the world pauses to remember the birth of Jesus Christ. And though the voice of the Lord himself in latter-day revelation has declared the date to be April 6, we as Saints continue to commemorate it at its traditional time in December. Why? Some say we keep Christmas in December to eliminate a stumbling block to new converts who have been reared with the tradition; others maintain that it matters not what day we celebrate the Savior's birth. Yet, there is a another element present--an element that renders logical and meaningful its celebration at the onset of winter; indeed, a symbolism that exalts the beauty and very purpose of Christmas.

Christmas falls only a few days after the beginning of winter; Easter comes soon after the commencement of spring. Between these two events lies winter, a time of probation. Thus was the advent of Christ. He entered mortality on earth, a symbolic winter in comparison to the glory of the eternal burnings from whence he came. He walked the ice and snow of the flesh and surmounted the chilling blasts of the tempter. Yet never did he lose his footing; never did he cry out against the bite of the flesh. He overcame all things at Gethsemene and Calvary--the equinox of life. Then, in the dawn of spring, he rose triumphantly from the tomb into the resurrection, as likewise the world in reverential response puts on its coat of life anew in preparation for summer.

So it is with us, the spiritual brothers and sisters of Jesus, the sons and daughters of God. We also were in the beginning with God. We dwelt with him as sons and daughters of glory in the summer of our

eternities. We progressed and developed. Then came the autumn of our premortal destinies--the fall, when the winds began to blow, the trails grew steeper, and a third of the leaves of Heaven--who could not endure-- fell from the branches of life to form rotting subterfuge below. We entered the winter; we inherited the blizzards and the sub-zero trials of today.

But, like our older brother, we, too, may overcome all things and see the spring. Then we will find that the rotting leaves at our feet have only decayed until they, through their presence, have enriched our entire existence--that we might be strong, able to stand firmly throughout the night, prepared to reap the blessings of a warmer season. We may rise and stand in the morning of a spring--resurrection, Millennium, family reunion--as we flower and bud, preparing for the summer ahead. At spring's end the storms rage--Satanic fury unleashed--but if our roots are deeply planted, these also will be for our good.

When at last we find ourselves in the fulness of summer, a voice will whisper, "You're not a stranger here. You were here another summer. But now there is a difference. Then you were only a child of the sun; now you are a priest or priestess, a king or queen to the most high God, to rule and reign forever and ever. Now you are ready to give rise to eternal lives, children who will walk the paths of autumn and winter and spring--paths familiar to you, for you walked them before. You see, this is one eternal round."

Thus, we celebrate the birth of our Redeemer. It is a time of birth, of beginning. He began a path through the snows of life, a path without which our very spirits would be frozen in the ice of eternity. His is a warming fire--a refiner's fire--in days of cold. The days are coldest and darkest at the start of the winter months. The world had not seen darker days than those before our Savior entered the winter of his existence. Yet he was the light, a light that shone in darkness. As surely as the days begin to be longer and brighter at Christmas time each year, so did the light of his influence begin to increase in the world. It is still growing, and will go on until it attains unto the perfect light--even the light of summer.