As the final notes of “Silent Night” wafted through the sanctuary, I kept looking at the light.
The candlelight that we all held in one hand as we sang, kneeling, at the end of a lovely Christmas Eve service.
I didn’t want the light to go out, and kept the candle burning during the processional, “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.”
After that, the overhead lights had come on and as I exited the building, I looked back at a beautiful sight. The soft lights that radiated from the building, and the Christmas tree in front, left me in a comfortable glow.
I was filled by the warmth of a festive event, the embrace of new friends and the promise of new birth.
For the second year in a row, I attended the Christmas Eve candlelight service at St. Catherine’s Episcopal Church on Holt Road.
What was different this year is that I’ve been going there for the last few months, after many years of not being religious in any way.
Bit by bit, week by week, a little more of a light that had dimmed for me began to brighten up again.
Earlier this year I lost my mother, and finding my way out of that darkness has been rough. My first Christmas without her was going to be especially difficult.
On Monday, as I scratched off the last few items on my grocery shopping list, that sense of loss overwhelmed me, and I barely made my way out of the store without breaking down.
On the morning of Christmas Eve, that melancholy reappeared, and I wondered if I had the strength to go to church.
It was on Christmas Eve a year ago I learned my mother’s lung cancer had become so advanced, and she had gotten so weak, that she decided to forego any chemotherapy. She lived two more months, and for me that favorite of her holidays has become a bittersweet memory.
After the candlelight service Tuesday night, I drove past our old house, and noticed that the current residents had decorated a Christmas tree in the front yard, with beaming green and red lights. I smiled, knowing my mother would be delighted.
The lights of the holidays always made her happy, but she always knew how to look for the light every day of the year.
She found it, in her faith and her family and her sense of fidelity to friends and strangers, and really lived it.
It’s a lesson she taught me long ago, and that I’m trying to learn anew. The light is not always visible, and often is buried amid darkness and despair.
But it’s there, if we’re willing to let it shine.
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