Tomorrow will be St. Thomas' Day. It's the shortest day of the whole year. We'll be gathering for the Eucharist at 7 a.m. and remembering this Apostle whom Christ called from the darkness of doubt to the light of faith.
Additionally, in the Great O's, tomorrow is "O Dayspring!" It's purely an historical accident (in the Julian calendar used when the Antiphons were first composed, December 13 was the darkest day of the year), but now the Church prays that particular antiphon that calls out to Christ as the true Sun precisely on what is for us the darkest day of the year.
Also, I cannot let a St. Thomas' Day go by without my favorite solstice poem - by Robert Frost
Whose wood these are I think I know,
His house in the village though
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farm house near,
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's been some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Sigh. All we had today was rain. Not nearly so plesant as the snow-fall Frost describes.