We are setting off for a walk, my daughter and I. It is a Sunday evening near year's end, silent and cold.

We step out the door and see only darkness, and we shrink back from it, holding each other's hands tightly, staying close to the curb. Darkness makes us feel small, and terribly alone.

But as we curve out of our cul-de-sac, the night is warmed by Christmas lights, strung like jewels in neighbors' windows, scattered in bushes, wrapped around trees. Along the street, luminaires dance bravely against the slap of the wind, and a solitary star dangles in a tree.

The darkness is still there, at the edges of this night. But each small human offering of light has pushed it back, making a path for us. Making our way clear.

It has been that kind of year.

We began 1997 in a cocoon of comfort. Times had rarely been better, with no wars, plenty of jobs and reasonable gasoline prices. We rode contentedly on the crest of the wave, the tumult far below us.

But as the year went along, the waves crashed down. And then the deep waters came.

Staying afloat

So we did the only thing we knew to do. We donated sheets and children's clothing. We restocked libraries, swept mud, cleared driveways.

When the water receded, we saw the destruction that lay beneath it, but also the good within ourselves. We did not wish to be in the midst of this mess, this sorrow, but we did not run away from it. We shared what we had, and held on to each other.

And the skies cleared a little. And the light returned.

Then summer turned to autumn and, although we mourned nonexistent World Series invitations and grew tired of stadium stupidity and general greed, life was good.

And then a princess died, horribly prematurely, and a nun who seemed too wise and precious to lose.

It was as if the waters came upon us again, knocking us off balance, stealing our breath. The media hype ran off our back, but the true pain was not lost on us. Two vulnerable boys were left motherless. A young woman had died violently, after living more painfully than we had known. And we had lost our small, hunched symbol of goodness.

We mourned as a nation, and as a world, united by grief and affection. And we did simply what we could think of to do - sign cards, say prayers and take over some small part of their work in the world.

Then winter came, and our lives and hearts seemed patched together again, only in a different way.

Peace shattered

These were the darkest days of all. The more we learned about these men, the more we loved them. And the more we regretted having never said our thanks.

So, with broken hearts, we left them notes and roses, and prayed for their families, and thanked other cops in their place.

And somehow, in the midst of our inadequacy, the light shone through again. We could not save Spec. Jeter and Officer Pope, but we could reach out in love and affirm what was good in the world. And, in the shadow of their greatness, we saw the hope of goodness in ourselves.

Now my daughter and I think of those two men as we walk on in the cold night. We round a corner, past all houses, and the night becomes very dark. I look up and, there above us, is a bright moon and a cascade of stars.

''Look, Jessa,'' I say, pointing up. ''Don't those stars look like a road map? Maybe it's God's way of showing the two officers the way home.''

''No, Mom,'' she says, eyes fixed on the sky. ''I think it's a celebration. God is saying, 'Welcome home.' ''

Krista Ramsey's column appears on Saturdays. Write her at 312 Elm Street, Cincinnati 45202.

RAMSEY ARCHIVE