light

Advent 2025 ~ Light

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Week 3 — Light

As Winterdark quickly approaches, I am, as ever, drawn to the light. Candlelight, twinkling lights, soft lamps. I want light but not harsh light. Not light that shocks the senses but, rather, I want light that warms you and invites you gently in to sit, rest, stay for a while. Light should gather you in, hold you close, and soothe the jagged, ragged edges caused by stress and anxiety and care.

When I am scared, I turn on the lights. When I am weary-worn, then I sidle up to the softest of it, to the candle flames and twinkling Christmas-tree glow. To the light of nostalgic cartoons and movies that remind me “what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown”.

As we head into the long dark that will give way to the growing day, I pray that you find your light this season—the light that will soothe your soul and warm your weary self. You are ever loved, dear one. May your Winterdark be blest as we bend toward the light.

Lingering #2

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Greeting cards have all been sent; the Christmas rush is through…

As the hustle and bustle of the Holidays come to an end and we stretch into these liminal days between Christmas and New Year’s, I find myself wanting to linger on in the softness of the season. I do not want to give up that special, magical quality just yet. As I contemplate resetting the house for the New Year, I find myself really hesitant to let go of the comfort I find in the glowing, twinkling lights. I just want to linger in the sweetness and the gentleness of that glow.

I have gone so far as to consider something that I have never done before: not taking down my Christmas tree. Or, at least, not all the way. I am strongly considering taking off the ornaments but leaving the tree itself up and wrapped in its lights, preserving that soft, magical twinkling in my home throughout the new year. I may or may not go so far as to decorate the tree for other holidays, but I will cross that bridge when I get to it.

Right now, though, I just want the soothing softness of light, the magical glimmer in the corner of my eye. I welcome it to linger and last for as long as possible.

Advent 2024 ~ Light

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As winter draws through the doorway, ducking its frosty head under the lintel, the days grow gray, colder, and, yes, darker. The lights of our homes conversely grow softer and more golden, and more lights begin to fill yards and trees to accompany the growing darkness. Within our homes, light glows and twinkles in the form of candles and holiday lights. Fireplaces crackle and whisper comfort. Porch lights burn against the early-onset evening shadows, calling family and friends home. The light spilling out from doorways promises warmth and welcome as doors are thrown open wide.


In the midst of the growing dark and cold, we can hold onto the Light this Advent season. The Light of Christmas came into the world, accompanied by a star for the Magi and a bright angelic chorus for the shepherds, but for Jesus Himself, His welcome was only the loving glow of his mother’s face and the gentle cradle of Joseph’s rough hands. In the darkness of that stable, the Light of love still shone brightly. As the darkness of winter sets in, may we fill our spaces with light that beams from love, compassion, and generosity. Even in all the dark and difficulty, there is still light to be found in the small corners.

There is the warmth of a proffered cup of coffee together with no expectation of the other person but their sweet company.

There is light in the card or gift that shows up in the mail to remind someone that they are loved and thought of.

There is the glow that comes to someone’s heart when they are told, “This beautiful thing reminded me of you”.


Just as the Light came on that dark, cold night so many centuries ago, a baby nestling into the warmth and love of His parents’ embrace, we can be a light in the shadows now. We can echo Love in all its different, compassionate forms. We can be the glowing doorway that guides a heart through the rough terrain of difficulty or at least gives them a space in which to rest and regain their strength. In that welcome into the light, we can echo the words of Jesus, in His invitation to  “Come…all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). We can make mankind our business and offer light into the growing, darkening cold.

Let’s hold our candles and lanterns high, those sweet lights that guide us and others to rest and peace, love and hope. Even for just a moment, a space to breathe freely in the light. Let us cling to that Light this Advent and always, and work to share our candle warmth with fellow travelers on this road.

Advent 2022 – Cradling the Light (Hope)

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I love candles. The glow of a single flame banishing complete darkness in a single ring of light. One our way to meeting/church, I pointed out the sky to my daughter, a spot where the black rain clouds were broken and streaks of brilliant blue sky showed through. The light beyond the darkness, the sun waiting after the rain. I love a rainy day as much as the next introvert but in that moment, it was a lovely reminder of the vividness of hope, even the smallest notion of it. We can cup our hands around hope’s candle flame, feel the warmth of it, heat that could burn if one gets too close but can deeply warm if held gently.

As we enter this time of Advent, of expectation in the Christmas season, I want to take your hands, Friendly Reader, and place a bit of hope in them once more. Hope is always present, always available in whatever moment we need it, but particularly powerful in its small doses. Just enough hope to fill a candle flame is plenty, because that means that it is not totally dark. There is light. There is hope.

Our eyes hold on to light, they seek it out, even the merest pinprick of it. In 1941, vision scientist Selig Hecht, worked out that, with a clear, unobstructed view, the human eye could see a candle light flickering about 30 miles away. As long as there is light to be found, there is also hope. Hope of leaving the tunnel, hope of morning after a night of storms, hope of finding what has been lost. Our eyes cradle light, for we cannot see without it. So, in a sense, we are always on the lookout for hope, to find it, cradle it, and let its light dance in our eyes like a candle flame.

Stepping into Advent, into the beautiful chaos of the holidays, I want to cradle hope’s light, to hold it close against the darkening days of winter, against the difficult responsibilities and realities. I don’t only want to cradle it for myself but to share it with those who may also need it, those whose candle flame feels weak and sputtering. Hope and light are ultimately meant to be shared. Many little flames can create a great light, as we all know. May our cradled lights create a glow of hope that breaks up the darkness and remind us in love and faith and gentleness that everything will be okay.

No matter what holiday you celebrate, if any, hope is for you, Friendly Reader. No matter what you are expected or yearning for, hop is there for you. Here in your cupped hands, your candle flame, your light of hope is right here. Hold on to it, but keep an eye out for those whose light is low. Let’s help each other hold on to hope.

Pausing to Rest

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As I tipped the trash bag into the hopper and let the lid fall, I paused on my shuffle back to the house over the icy drive and just stood still. I let the silence of the winter night, the temperature rapidly dropping, settle over me and just…rested in it for a long moment.

Have you ever listened to the world freeze over? I did. I could hear the creak of branches under the weight of the freezing snow and the muted boom of expanding ice birthing cracks and potential potholes in the streets. My eyelashes sparkled with shimmering snowflakes that fluttered to spangle the black of my sweater as they swirled and winked in the arc of light cast by the fixture beside the backdoor.

I remembered a night similar to this, almost twenty years ago, when I tripped merrily home from a campus formal. I recalled the dusting of snow on the sidewalk glinting like fairy dust under my feet and the hem of my gown in the blue moonlight and how beautiful I felt in that moment. Smiling at the memory, I just stood there, drinking the peace of a winter night, its stillness, its deep, slow breathing, and its call to rest.

Then the single-digit-chill wind decided I needed a nudge back to reality and gusted up to cajole me on into the house. “Before the cold catches up to you…” it seemed to whisper, dusting one last sparkle of snowflakes over me before I turned to go inside.

A moment’s rest can be just what you need, especially when it leaves you with a pleasant little shiver.

Snowy Globe

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Have you ever noticed how snowfall makes car headlamps (and even street lamps) look different? It’s almost like a globe that softens the light. It becomes a warm, soft almost candle-like glow rather than a bright orange spear of light. It’s comforting on those snowy, late-evening drives, almost like we are indeed partners and neighbors in this pace of life.

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Turning on the Lights

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BloPoMo Day 11

“Turn toward grace and you turn on all the lights.” – Ann Voskamp

When I was little and I was scared, I turned on all the lights in the house. That way nothing could jump out and frighten me. I could see what and who was around me and know that I was safe. This week, I feel like I have been running around trying to turn on all the lights. Not just for myself but also for those I love, those who are worried, despairing, angry, or fearful. I want them to see who is around them. I want them to know that they are safe with them, with us.

But I’m also turning on the lights so that others can see. I am turning on the lights so that others can see they are scared. I am turning on the lights so that they can see each other. So people can see people.

I am turning on the lights so that people can see what they are forgetting: that we belong to each other.

I am turning on the lights so that hopefully we can remember to have courage and be kind.

I am turning on the lights that we can remember to love fiercely.

I am turning on the lights so that hopefully we can really see each other, and that we can hopefully choose to sit with each other in the real and have the strength and grace to stick it out through the hard.

I have spent my week running around, trying to turn on all the lights I can, shed all the love, all the light, all the grace I can. I know that things are not okay. I know that people are not okay. I’m not going to tell them–tell you–to be okay; I’m not going to tell you that. I’m not going to tell anyone–ANYONE–to not be angry or worried or scared or upset or to feel anything other than what they feel.

I am turning on the lights so you can see something other than the darkness. I am turning on the lights so that you can see my hand held out to you. So you know where to reach if you need or want it. I am turning on the lights so you can see me sitting next to you, can see my arms held open.

Don’t worry, dear one: I’m turning on the lights.