Bending Toward the Light

And so it begins: another year.

There is an old superstition that, to have luck in the new year, you must take down all your Christmas decorations by New Year’s Day. Of course, the naysayers that propagated this superstition clearly haven’t heard of Epiphany. Regardless, I wiped our house clean of holiday décor yesterday. I’m not superstitious, but why not hedge my bets?

I’m always so excited to get the house decorated for Christmas, with everything feeling so bright and shiny. But likewise, I take satisfaction from removing the trappings—like hearing the creak when turning the first page in my new calendar. As I decorate for Christmas, the possibilities are what seduce me: the anticipation of family gatherings, of laughter and music and days spent in pajamas. For the new year, I’m drawn to the exact opposite: to the white paper that is January.

This Christmas I had the privilege of spending time with our new granddaughter. As she lay on the floor gazing up into the Christmas tree lights, I stretched out beside her. Doing some research, I discovered a three-month-old infant can only really see objects that are less than 15 inches away. In addition, their ability to see colors—other than gradations of green and red—is not yet developed. So, although I lay beside baby Eleanor, I could never experience the Christmas tree in the same way. My eyes wandered from ornament to ornament, recalling the sentimentality attached to each one.

I see with my memories.

But for Eleanor, the world is a blank slate and, to her, even her fingers are fascinating. What must it be like to experience life as a series of sensory stimuli—without the baggage of years. No matter how hard we try to recapture that sense of childlike wonder, we really cannot.

I have written before about our new bed which offers a “Zero Gravity” setting. Several times recently after trips to and from the attic, I have treated my achy back to a stint in zero gravity. I believe this is what it must be like to be a baby: free of all pressure and stress.

As the year progresses, I need to remind myself to return to zero gravity often, to center myself, to dispel the worries for even a few minutes and see only what’s right in front of my face. There is light in meditation— in living in the moment rather than worrying about the future.

In our candlelight Christmas Eve service at church, a flame is passed from candle to candle during the singing of “Silent Night,” until the sanctuary explodes with light. Every year we are cautioned that the person with the unlit candle should tilt theirs to the lighted candle next to them. Otherwise, tipping a lighted flame will surely produce burns.

It occurs to me there’s a message in life here: when in darkness, we need to bend toward the light.

How do we do that? I wish I knew: It’s so challenging. My natural inclination is to dwell in the darkness and the quiet. I personally know of several people close to me grieving the loss or imminent loss of a loved one. Where is the light in their reality? How do they find the light in their darkness?

Sometimes our winters find us groping for the light switch in the dark.

Just as January sees our houses stripped of holiday tinsel, as we strive to pay holiday bills and lose holiday pounds, we are presented with a stark choice between wallowing in the darkness and searching for the light. For my friends who are grieving, this may not seem a choice at all. Surely they feel stuck alone on the hard pew, unlit candle in hand.

It is incumbent on us to sit next to them, as close as possible. We need to be within 15 inches so they can see us well, so they might tip their candle to the comfort and compassion that are all we can offer.

With a new year brings hope. Even in a world that seems hopelessly broken, even amidst despair and pain, there is always the promise of spring, if only we bend our candles to the light. And sit closely beside those in darkness.

Happy new year, dear readers! Turn your lamps on.