A Light That Darkness Cannot Overcome

It is better to light one candle than to curse the darkness.

The days are short, and the nights are long and in this time of Christmas and the New Year the trees are lit and the houses and lawns with their angels and reindeer and wreaths of light still shine in the darkness.

We begin again tomorrow. A fresh start. Take it from the top.

And we carry this past year, and all our past years, forward, with memories, with smiles, with tears, with love and forgiveness and the million moments of grace that once in a while we sit still long enough to feel and be grateful: graceful.

I think of the prayers of monks and nuns whose job it is to keep the lights on. They are professional pray-ers. I am grateful for them and their quiet unseen work, raising incense and chanting prayer with their whole being to God, arguing our case to keep the lights on a little longer. And so far, God has agreed. Despite. In Mercy. In love. In the light that darkness cannot overcome.

For the rest of us, the un-professional pray-ers, the casual pray-ers, the only in emergency and desperation pray-ers, there is hope. Through all the trials and heartaches and joys and uncountable blessings, through loved one’s deaths and the miracles of birth, I believe. I believe even when I almost think I don’t believe, when the grief is heavy and the whys go unanswered. There is memory of light, memory in the power of prayer, in the graces waiting to be poured out to us for the asking, and yes, of course, even if we don’t have enough faith to ask, the blessings still flow.

This year, 2020, has been a test. Of faith. Of love. Of hope. Hope draws its strength from the memories we cherish of other times in history, in our own personal history and the history of humanity. That in the darkness a light will shine. Sometimes, the little sparks will be enough to remind us of our precious legacy.

Why? Because there is love. Love in the little acts of kindness, in the big acts of generosity and heroism. In the blankets wrapped around shivering shoulders. In the gentle touch of my mother’s hand on my cheek, so long ago. In conversations with my father, who, despite his last years tethered to a respirator and feeding tube, our conversations were mostly silent, but heavy with memory. In the squeals of delight when my grandchildren called out “Mamaw!” when they saw me. In the magic of FaceTime when I can almost touch my newer grandchildren on the other side of the country as they dance around their house, delighted in just being. In the cups of coffee my husband set up for me each morning of our long and soulful marriage. In the memories that sustain me since his death.

It is these small acts; all the small acts of love and tenderness, of generosity and forbearance, in kind words and hands held. The list is endless, the love is boundless. In the face of darkness, we light a candle. And then another and another until we are bathed in the light of love, in the midst of pain, in the midst of tragedy. It is these small acts of love, of prayer, of faith, of struggle that rise like incense to our God who came to live among us and open our hearts to love beyond understanding.

This year will go down in history as an extraordinary test, right up there with world wars and typhoons and tornadoes. This year is marked with acts of heroism that manifest in the long hours of nurses and doctors and EMT’s. In grocery store clerks and hand sanitizer. In masked faces and elbow bumps. This year is marked with the suffering of the millions struck with COVID and the millions more who mourn their loss.

Where does all the grief go? How can we bear it? It is too heavy for us alone.

We are in a season of hope. The jolly refrains of children’s songs of jingle bells and Santa are fine, but they are not enough. Decking the halls and trees and lighted wreaths are good, but when the world is heaving with the grief of plague, it is of small comfort. But it is comfort.

We bear it. We sit with it. We rail against it and sob—deep gulpfuls of sorrow and pain and anger. We abide in it. We sit with each other in our grief, in their grief. We borrow light from each other and pass it on.

We are called to be light. In this dusk, we are still called. A conjunction of planets will align for the first time in centuries to be our Christmas star. Shining on the refugee family seeking a safe place to give birth. The veil between heaven and earth that was pulled back centuries ago so shepherds could hear the angels sing Gloria is pulled back again; it is pulled back always if we have the sense to hear it.  

Light a candle. Pass it on.