The Darkest Night of the Year
If this season has made a mark on my heart this year, it has not come by way of nostalgia, observing traditions, or even creating new ones. It has come in spirit of heaviness.
December is so very dark here in New England. Sun draws into shade into darkness by late afternoon. And in the days when daylight savings lasted much longer than it does now, we spent months enshrouded in the dim of winter. My childhood was nestled in the mountains of New Hampshire, where darkness fell by 3:30 on the shortest days of the year. I remember leaving for school in the dark and coming home in the dark. Pitch is the color of sky by five.
We punctuate this darkness with light of our own making at this time of year. Christmas lights, such as they are, create artificial, sometimes garish, glow. And they are still a comfort. Eliciting warmth and cheer and memories and "Did you see that house? Incredible." We bring trees inside and drape them with finery, with lights, so that our homes will be warm with more than the heat a furnace gives. We long for light.
It's no accident our church fathers decided on December as the month we would commemorate the birth of a Savior. John 1:4-5:
4 In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. 5 The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
And this is the mark made on my heart.
I am reminded how fragile is this life we are given, how very brief, how marbled with pain. I am reminded of a promise breathed into darkness, a light, a breath so gentle, a power so consuming it takes away the sins of the world. All.
I watch from a distance this season as my friends walk through darkness. Their little girl, but one week old, fights for life in a hospital forty miles from here. And they witness to light in their pain. They speak it true over and over as they hold that girl's hand and sing to her and kiss her cheeks and cradle her spirit in a blanket of constant, unceasing, faithful prayer. And they hope. Light.
This, my friends, is Christmas. Happy Birthdays to Jesus and good cheer aside, this is it. This is the promise fulfilled: the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
Tomorrow night five will sit on the front steps and drink hot chocolate with marshmallows and look for planets and stars and talk about the days getting longer. Lighter. We will mark the time by a tradition held. Dear. We will cradle small bodies warm against us and treasure the moment. We will light a tree and nine candles in the windows and we will stop in our busyness to admire the scenery. We will wrap gifts to tuck under boughs of evergreen and we will whisper secrets to one another. We will greet family we have not seen in months and months. We will fill rooms with good food and laughter. We will light candles and sing in a white church and we will let "Merry Christmases" break on cold air. We will keep tradition. Observe the season. But we will not forget.
The light came because the darkness is real. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
This is the miracle we celebrate--a heart overflowing with gratitude and a knee bent low the only possible response.
December is so very dark here in New England. Sun draws into shade into darkness by late afternoon. And in the days when daylight savings lasted much longer than it does now, we spent months enshrouded in the dim of winter. My childhood was nestled in the mountains of New Hampshire, where darkness fell by 3:30 on the shortest days of the year. I remember leaving for school in the dark and coming home in the dark. Pitch is the color of sky by five.
We punctuate this darkness with light of our own making at this time of year. Christmas lights, such as they are, create artificial, sometimes garish, glow. And they are still a comfort. Eliciting warmth and cheer and memories and "Did you see that house? Incredible." We bring trees inside and drape them with finery, with lights, so that our homes will be warm with more than the heat a furnace gives. We long for light.
It's no accident our church fathers decided on December as the month we would commemorate the birth of a Savior. John 1:4-5:
4 In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. 5 The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
And this is the mark made on my heart.
I am reminded how fragile is this life we are given, how very brief, how marbled with pain. I am reminded of a promise breathed into darkness, a light, a breath so gentle, a power so consuming it takes away the sins of the world. All.
I watch from a distance this season as my friends walk through darkness. Their little girl, but one week old, fights for life in a hospital forty miles from here. And they witness to light in their pain. They speak it true over and over as they hold that girl's hand and sing to her and kiss her cheeks and cradle her spirit in a blanket of constant, unceasing, faithful prayer. And they hope. Light.
This, my friends, is Christmas. Happy Birthdays to Jesus and good cheer aside, this is it. This is the promise fulfilled: the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
Tomorrow night five will sit on the front steps and drink hot chocolate with marshmallows and look for planets and stars and talk about the days getting longer. Lighter. We will mark the time by a tradition held. Dear. We will cradle small bodies warm against us and treasure the moment. We will light a tree and nine candles in the windows and we will stop in our busyness to admire the scenery. We will wrap gifts to tuck under boughs of evergreen and we will whisper secrets to one another. We will greet family we have not seen in months and months. We will fill rooms with good food and laughter. We will light candles and sing in a white church and we will let "Merry Christmases" break on cold air. We will keep tradition. Observe the season. But we will not forget.
The light came because the darkness is real. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
This is the miracle we celebrate--a heart overflowing with gratitude and a knee bent low the only possible response.
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