On Loss and Christmas Lights

In May, a friend texted me late at night worried about her father’s health. She said when it was time that she wanted me to help her write words to honor him and told me precisely what she wanted to convey. It would have been easy for her to get caught up in some of the harder parts of her family’s story, but she was crystal clear. She only wanted to talk about grace and redemption. I never got the chance to help her write it, instead not many months later, I stood at the front of a church, behind the flowers and her photos and spoke words that I thought would be for a very different time. Like she had asked, I wrote about grace and redemption but I spoke them with shaking hands and an unsteadiness in my voice. These words were now to honor her and it was a good thing she forced me to look for grace and redemption, because I struggled to find them on my own.  When it was over, I couldn’t face all the lines and the people and I quickly made my escape from the sanctuary. 

Shortly after, my kitchen table filled with friends that I had sat next to in those hard wooden pews. We ate and remembered and caught up and occasionally even laughed. Eventually everyone piled into their cars and went home. They drove North or South or to the airport, but I remained. Somewhere just a few miles away, her family gathered in much the same way. People would leave. And others would stay, but she was forever missing at the table. 

I went back to the same church that night. I volunteer with youth, and even though I’d been given a pass for the evening, I wanted to go. I wanted to sing in the same place I had mourned. Where I still mourn. 

I pulled into the same parking lot where I fled only hours earlier, but the whole campus had shifted in that short timespan. The portraits and personal effects had come down and Christmas decorations had started to come out. I wondered if they had waited. A nod to our grief, clearing out the programs and the fuzzies, before setting up for joy and expectancy.
It caught me by surprise. 

Of course, loss happen all the time. Even in the midst of celebratory seasons. 

Death has always given way to life. 

In no way did I feel rushed in my sadness, this dark cloak, is still the only thing that seems to make sense. Instead I felt like the curtain had been pulled back a bit. A reminder that many are carrying their hard things into this season too. 

Hope. Peace. Joy. Love: Advent could not come fast enough. And the order has never made more sense to me. I wondered if this season could somehow have both. Mourning and celebration. If this building could hold both only hours apart, maybe so could I. 

I climbed the stairs and saw several faces I had seen earlier in the day. I had shed my funeral clothes, but not my grief. I sang. I hugged. I was present and I was completely somewhere else. My whole life I have been jealous of people that had a certainty or a faith that I just never seemed to hold. Instead, in this moment, my loose faith finally felt like it fit. One that expects questions and can hold anger and has space to let other people’s prayers and songs take the place of my own for a while. A faith that is indeed big enough even in its smallness. 

It has been a few weeks. My concentration and sleep are finally returning. The hard feelings softening a bit. Grief can still occasionally surprise me and take my breath away but mostly life keeps moving onward The dishes get put away, and the emails returned. I question the old adage that time heals all wounds, instead I'd argue that time just etches us with scars.  Either way, time does indeed march forward. It is the season for soccer games, dinners, concerts and parties. My calendar is full even if my heart is heavy, and I find myself pulling into my driveway long after dark many nights. Each night I notice more holiday lights up in the neighborhood. A welcome brightness. I let my daughter play Christmas songs and we take extra laps around the block. I say she needs to practice driving, but mostly I need the light. At work, we share the best neighborhoods and addresses in a 10 mile radius (local friends – I’ll share).  The whole world has lit up when I have felt the darkest. And I am glad for all this extra light. I need every tiny bulb and bit of brightness I can find. 

Recently, someone patiently talked to me about a friend she lost much longer ago. A mentor, taken from her. She found herself doing some of the impossible things that I am doing. Everything in her lights up as she remembers. She is here but she is somewhere else. Her eyebrows lift. Her eyes smile and all the energy in the room shifts. Everything in her gets brighter.
Since my friend died everything in me has felt dimmer. I’m not there yet. 

But it offers a hope that one day I will be. A hope that one day when talk about my lost friend, that my eyes won’t flood and my heart won't clamp shut. No one will need to remind me to breathe, but instead, I will remember and I will light up. That my eyes will twinkle like Christmas lights. 

I look at the holiday lights with hope and I hold on to the darkness just a little bit longer. For now. I am finding room for both. Christmas lights aren’t exciting during the day. You can see them but they aren’t impressive. You can’t coordinate them to music or have them dance across the lawn in the fullness of day. The show only starts after the sun sets. The darkness itself isn’t bad, even though it is heavy and fearful and makes it hard to see the way forward. Sometimes it is necessary.

In the case of Christmas lights, it is the darkness that lets them shine so brightly. 

I wish that wasn’t true. 

But it is a truth that I need right now. 

This darkness will somehow make the light more beautiful if I let it. 

My favorite part of Christmas Eve service is where they turn out all the lights. 

When it gets dark and hushed and holy.  And we sing a quiet song instead of a joyful one. 

The light is passed person to person. Slowly. Inefficiently. With care not to drip wax or put the tiny flame out. And eventually the whole place is lit up. But not the usual light, these bits of brightness come from each other. Flames flickering. Casting shadows. When we find each other in the dark, it creates a warmth and a glow that you don’t get from the usual overhead lighting. Eventually everyone is invited to hold up their light and something feels empowering about that. This tiny stick of fire held over our heads doing its best to not let the darkness put it out. 

It is a holy and beautiful feeling that I look forward to all season. 

But it doesn’t happen without darkness. 

And if you sing to the last verse, 

It is its own dawn of redeeming grace.