“The moon sets and the eastern sky lightens, the hem of night pulling away, taking stars with it one by one until only two are left.” -Anthony Doerr, All the Light We Cannot See
“Long ago, at many times and in many ways, God spoke to our fathers by the prophets, but in these last days he has spoken to us by his Son, whom he appointed the heir of all things, through whom also he created the world. He is the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of his nature, and he upholds the universe by the word of his power… You, Lord, laid the foundation of the earth in the beginning,and the heavens are the work of your hands; they will perish, but you remain; they will all wear out like a garment, like a robe you will roll them up, like a garment they will be changed. But you are the same, and your years will have no end.” Hebrews 1
On this tilting planet, yesterday marked the darkest night of the year for the Northern Hemisphere. And after spending a few weeks of shortened days and protracted nights since returning to the US, I celebrate the returning of the light.
One thing that always strikes me in returning to the States is the brightness. Reliable, consistent electricity means that places are rarely really dark. But this year, I’ve also been surprised by the darkness. Even though I live in the Southern Hemisphere in Kenya, I live so close to the Equator that days and nights are pretty evenly split between 12 hours of dark and 12 hours of light. I find it a little disconcerting to return to Middle Tennessee where it currently gets dark around 430pm. It’s hard to want to continue with regular rhythms and routines when everything is dark. After 5pm, I feel like it’s time to put on pjs, watch Christmas movies, and drink cocoa. Is that concerning?
It’s not Christmas yet, and so you may find yourself caught in the busyness of gift wrapping and traveling and events. I am grateful for recent opportunities to decorate trees in Charleston, and watch ballet recitals and elementary school basketball games in Kentucky and have friends from Sudan and Burundi converge in Nashville for a Christmas concert at the Mother Church of Country Music (That’s what it’s called. Seriously!).
I love all of the rhythms of Christmas: reconnecting with people, lingering with family, cheering for the kiddos of life-long friends, walking familiar streets, listening to holiday music, baking, reading, reflecting, writing. And this year especially, all of it has seemed like so much light. Tastes and pictures and reminders of the joy of that first Advent 2000 years ago, and the Advent that is to come.
As I write tonight, I’m sitting in front of the glowing Christmas tree and I’m thinking of gifts of faith and community that are light shining in what can sometimes be dark dailyness.
Soon enough Christmas will be here, and soon after a new year of work and worry, laughter and hope, helloes and goodbyes. Perhaps this year, as every year, it is important to pause before the baby who is the “radiance of the glory of God” and to remember that “the hem of night is pulling away.” The One who is the Light of the World has come, comes, is coming again. His Light never changes.
On this day after the darkest night of the year, we are almost ready to celebrate to birth of a baby. His light, His radiance, still shines for a world that grows weary of the darkness. I hope your Christmas, wherever you are on this lovely tilting turning planet, is filled with hope and joy and ever so much light.