The Christmas tree lights invite me to sit down and enjoy a cup of hot tea.
Or so it seemed as I was traveling alone to my night class. That’s when I saw it: the family had positioned the Christmas tree front and center in the picture window. The curtains had been pulled back, showcasing the tree—decked out with tinsel, aglow with red, green, and white lights. Maybe it was because it looked like a 1960s house, reminiscent of my boyhood home, that I thought of Mom and how she would keep the fireplace burning this time of year, warming us as we stood close to it. Our eyes would shift from the tree’s lights to the presents nestled beneath it, anticipating the day we could open them.
My fond attraction to the 1960s house led me to look for it again the following week. Not finding it, I looked closer, slowing down on my return later that night. For the next two weeks, I searched for the house with its lighted Christmas tree. Peering along the road, coming and going, I tried unsuccessfully to find it.
Had they closed their curtains, deciding to keep Christmas to themselves? But why decorate a tree with lights, and place it in front of a window, only to close the curtains? Had something happened to the family, perhaps an emergency, causing them to leave? Was it my imagination and longing for Christmases past that summoned my search for that Norman Rockwellian Christmas scene?
Or had the lights of Christmas gone out?
The lights of Christmas can go out. They can flicker, then grow dim, and eventually die. It can be a slow death, sometimes taking years, or it can happen quite suddenly, between the beginning and middle of one Christmas season or even between Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. You might find yourself standing in a dry place, alone, surrounded by darkness. And you don’t have it in you to celebrate Christmas anymore. You hear yourself saying, “What’s the point in trying to pretend?”
And the lights of Christmas cease shining for you.
Deaths—recent and past—can do it. Christmas can be a most lonely time of the year for those grieving the loss of loved ones. The empty chair (or chairs) at Christmas dinner is a stark reminder that someone is absent. And the pain can be too much to bear.
The lights can go out when loved ones can’t be there, maybe because of distance or because they no longer desire to come. Either way, it’s not the same without them, and you feel alone.
The death of Christ can darken Christmas. I don’t mean his death on the cross. Though he lives, Christ can die in your heart. The belief in him, who he is, and what he has done: his birth, life, death, and resurrection may seem like a fairy tale to you. Or at least it no longer matters to you. Maybe the halo shining around the Christ child in the manger ceased glowing long ago for you. No one has to tell you that the darkness in the manger reflects the night in your heart.
But then it happens: something reminds you of Christ’s love. Someone who has hurt you calls, “I’m sorry,” they say. And you say, “Me too. I love you.” And the lights come back. Or perhaps a student writes, “Thank you for showing me the way.” And a light shines. Or a child says, “Thank you for loving me when I acted like I didn’t love you.” And your heart warms. It could be the doctor calling you. “She’s going to make it,” she says. And the light dispels the darkness. Christ’s light shines even when the darkness would prefer to suppress it.
My eyes grew large as I exited the highway close to my home. I didn’t recognize this house though I’d seen it many times before. They must have put up their Christmas lights only a few hours ago. At 10 p.m., it seemed like a lighthouse, a beacon guiding sailors adrift on darkened waters back home.
Yes, the Christmas lights had come back on.
If only for me.