Let There Be Light

The basic necessities of Christmas - Nativity, Tree, Music, Lights. For me, lights, since my childhood, ignited a sense of trust and security. From falling asleep under their gleam shining through my window, to the years they seemed like an oar somehow righting the ship in uncertainty. But it is the memory of how they became a beacon of hope that makes me continue to light the night. 

Too young to fully grasp my father’s responsibility of livelihood, it was that first year after moving to the farm when he was temporarily transferred to Seattle. Heading into the season, the void of the head of household was ever so apparent. My brother, Mark, a young teenager at the time, had been assisting Dad for years with the lights. Mom thought nothing of him tinkering through the boxes or asking for a trip to the hardware store to replenish supplies. He was far too methodical and careful to be up to anything out of the norm. 

Unbeknownst to Mom, Mark had scaled the roof of our two and half story barn, even framing a multi-color glow on the cupola. My grandfather, aghast by the magnitude of illumination, swore a pilot would confuse it for an airstrip. There we were in the middle of nowhere, gaining notice for miles. And when Dad came home for Christmas, I was sure it was because of the lights. 

Years passed, the house lights continued, but time and risk ended the lighting of the barn. Mark married, became a father and relocated his family to Kansas City. Still, he set aside occasional weekends to help on the farm. Then the worst happened. Mark passed away in the fall of ’92 after a short bout of Leukemia. 

The inconceivable reality? No one would be home for Christmas. Mark’s widow wouldn’t be bringing their girls, and how could we possibly celebrate with more empty chairs than occupied ones? 

I lived a quarter mile north of the homestead. Driving home one late afternoon the first week of December, as I started to pass by the house, my car came to a screeching halt. Even though he had seen more tragedy than I, this couldn’t be a proper reaction to grief. His son had died. I knew my dad had lost his mind. There he was, alone on a ladder, stringing lights on the farmhouse. “Dad, what are you doing?” Without any further explanation, he simply said, “Jane, it’s Christmas.” 

I tried to imagine his motivation to carry on with something I presumed nobody but us would notice. Could it have been the physical sense of doing what was normal and timely?  Was he doing this for my daughter? Or was he simply trying to honor the memory of Mark? 

Whatever the reason, it sparked my own necessity to continue with more than just a tree. Yes, I put up the garland on the porch. Yes, I drug out the boxes of decorations and I too, got with the program. 

The blue spruce tree Mark had gifted and planted in my yard a few years before, mysteriously drew my attention. I knew what I needed to do. Slightly taller than me, I filled that tree with as many colored lights as its branches could hold. Suddenly, my impulse met its reason. I didn’t know where heaven was, but I did know if there was a chance Mark could see this tree, I would make it as bright as I could. Grief met purpose.

Year after year as the tree grew, the tree became a thing. Every year, more strings of lights, more extension cords and the improvisation of tools and ladders required a greater level of risk. I didn’t care. Never a bough would find itself darkened. I lost count of the number of lights when it reached 1200, but I kept adding. Including the year when my Dad passed away right before Thanksgiving.

Often, I questioned why I kept on, feeling it more a task than an act of love. It would never be as bright as the barn, and who really notices on this lonely country road? 

The year before we sold the homes and land, a handwritten letter came addressed to ‘homeowner’. No return address, a name not recognized. A letter of thanks, written by a woman who traveled our road late every night, returning home from work. She reflected how life circumstances and time now prevented her from decorating her own space. She stated how those lights spoke to her with the warmth and glow of Christmas. 

My effort had been validated. Not in the way I would have imagined, but through the struggle and hope of working through grief, those lights had reached the heart of a stranger and that stranger radiated proof in a message back to me. 

When my grandmother passed away a few weeks before Christmas, I felt whatever memories we had, were scarred forever with a death so close to a day representing joy. Mom surprised me when she said, “Oh no Janie, Heaven and Earth are never closer to each other than at Christmas. What a wonderful time to go home – and still be so close.”

Never could I have imagined that some years later, in 2014, it would be right before Christmas when she too, went home to be with our Lord. And then again, my husband Frank passed in early December of 2020. 

Still, I decorate. I continue to attempt to light the night sky. Messages of many, I guess. I do it for my daughter and grandchildren here, and my loved ones in heaven. Although my actions keep me busy, through the years, pushing through grief seems to have become routine. 

This year, I almost felt a sense of dread to set out and accomplish my mission. Then, nearly ten days before Thanksgiving, the reflection of welcoming radiance emitted from the neighbor’s white lights lining their rooftop. Stunned by my own shock and awe, I felt compelled to just sit in the dining room and stare. Could it be something had awakened in my heart which had been missing? 

Honestly, I was bewildered because I had become unaware of the absence. The mundane existence of widowhood attempted to bury a feeling vital to the presence of joy. And then there it was – something that cannot be manufactured and only comes as a gift - the sense of wonder. 

I shared my story with my friend Traci. The narrative of lights hit her too, but for a different reason. She went on to tell me about her mother who had grown up in extreme poverty in Illinois. It had taken years for her mom to open up and share the reason for her connection to Christmas lights. She divulged it was the one time of year where she felt like everyone else. When her dad would hang lights, she felt normal. Even better was the snow when it coated every rooftop in sight. Clean, pure white blanketed the houses, making every home look the same. You couldn’t pick out which houses needed paint, whose house was in disrepair, which ones were missing shingles. Rich or poor, in the stillness of peace, we are all equal. 

I, too, shed tears at her words. More than anything, Traci had just defined heaven. A place where everyone was brought together in love. The home we long for with no sorrow, no pain, no longing for what we have not. Pulled together by the whisper of a promise, led by light.

We all have a story. Hardships. Grief. Loss. Do it anyway. Light your candle, add sparkle to your home. Early or late, light the night and be a beacon of hope connecting heaven and earth. 

God uses His light to open our hearts. Let His light overshadow the darkness. We are close. Wonder exists in the unexpected. Heaven surrounds us.