The Warm Light in a Cold House: A Christmas Advent Reading

There are some days that you don’t forget. They are etched inside of your heart and brain, carved painfully and slowly—the reminders of a time gone by.

For me, that day is December 18th , 1974. It’s the day my father died. I was at school, 6th grade, homeroom and the day had just begun. But a knock on the door pulled my teacher out of the room. She returned with a concerned look on her face and asked me to gather my things. I was met in the hallway by the principal, the guidance counselor, and my little sister. They all carried the same worried, weighty look.

A neighbor, Elaine Elder, had come to take us home. The long drive home was magnified by the silence and the occasional glances in the review mirror. Elaine bore the same lines of concern. Not knowing what to say, we talked quietly about the weather, and the Christmas break.

It was a relief when we finally reached home. My oldest sister, Linda, was there. She exchanged more meaningful conversation with Elaine. They were cleaning the house because relatives would soon be coming in. My mom and brother were at the hospital making arrangements for the funeral. Their conversation confirmed what I already knew.

He was gone. His battle with cancer and all the other demons in his life was over. He’d been in the hospital for months, and I’d not seen him since the summertime. In those days, they didn’t let kids into the cancer ward.

My job was to take the trash out to burn. (We lived in the country so that’s what we did.) I found it ironic to be cleaning the house—it seemed an ill-fitting metaphor on the day of death. As I dumped my heavy load and struck the first match, a greedy flame began its job of consumption. I wept, and looked into a December sky bereft of hope, of optimism, of promise.

The next few days were a blur. The funeral was on December 22nd —just three days before Christmas. As an Army veteran, he was buried at the Leavenworth National Cemetery; I’m quite sure we could not have afforded anything different. A 21-gun salute preceded the elaborate folding of the American flag. As the flag was handed to my mother with her rag tag band of six very lost children, the first flakes of snow danced, fluttered and made their way to an unforgiving earth.

I cannot tell you what happened in the next two days before Christmas. As promised the relatives did come for the funeral, and they stayed through the holiday. I suspect they shared a similar concern for our welfare. My mother was left with six children, no life insurance, no home, no income to take care of her brood.

The relatives occupied our little 1000 square foot house with us. It seemed that every space was occupied—beds, couches, the pull-out sofa in the living room. Despite the full house, my 12-year-old heart felt empty and cold. In the blackest hours of the morning, I gathered under our silver tinseled tree, and the lights from the tree revealed a sparse collection of packages. My six-year-old sister, Wanda, joined me at the tree while everyone else slept. There in our little fellowship, we sought hope that Christmas would still come.

In the years gone by, I remember little of our conversation, but what I recall most in that moment was the propane stove centered there in our living room. This big, boxed unit’s job was to heat the confines our little abode—a big task to reach all the corners of the house. In the darkness of the night, I remember now the glow of the flame, the steady consistent light of that stove doing its best to provide us warmth.

After all these years, that light still reaches me, and reminds me that even in the darkest places there’s hope.

In the opening lines of the Bible, the earth is without form, shape and substance. Yet in Genesis 1:3, God the Father cuts through the mess with His first declaration: “Let there be light!” The light provides the first substance, the first separation from the darkness.

Is it any wonder that the prophet Isaiah said of the Father: “I form light and create darkness.” (Is. 45:7)? Or that David would speak in wonder: “He wraps himself in light with a garment…” (Ps. 104:2)? Or that Paul would remind us: “For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” (II Cor. 4:6)?

This theme of light runs like a steady stream through the scriptures and like a drumbeat through the columns of history. There is always light. There is always darkness. But the light shines brighter. As Jesus proclaims, “I am the light of the world whoever follows me will never walk in darkness…” (John 8:12)

And perhaps the greatest wonder, Paul tells us that we are light: “For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord.” (Ephesians 5:8)

So take heart in this Christmas season, no matter how dark your world or the world around us seems, there is always the flickering flame of light—even if by a propane stove—that reminds us that our Father is an ever-present light. His promise is sure: one day we’ll no longer have need of sun or moon because His Glory will be our light in our eternal home.

- Bill High, Legacy Stone CEO