“His Light shines in the darkness; darkness that cannot put it out.” ~ John 1:5
Snow drifted in quiet spirals
outside the window - soft, unhurried flakes that reminded Margaret of the way
Harold used to dance with her in the kitchen, humming carols only half in tune.
Sixty-five Christmases they’d shared. Sixty-five times she had woken to his
voice whispering, “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
This morning, the house answered her with silence.
The old wooden ornaments waited in their familiar box, the
ones he carved during their first year of marriage when they were too poor for
store-bought decorations. Harold had always treated them like treasures. “Christmas
deserves heart,” he used to say, “not price tags.”
She lifted the tiny wooden star he’d carved one snowy night,
its edges worn smooth. Harold always hung it first. “If the star’s up,”
he’d insist, “then there’s always hope.”
Memories drifted through the room like snowflakes: Harold
laughing as the children tore open wrapping paper; Harold insisting they leave
the tree lit all night; Harold slipping extra cinnamon into her cocoa. The man
simply glowed in December.
Christmas had always been his season. He didn’t just love it
- he lived it. Every December, Harold became a man lit from within, eager to
decorate, eager to celebrate, eager to rejoice in the Savior he loved so
faithfully.
Now, his absence felt loud enough to make her chest ache.
Margaret settled into his old armchair, breathing in the faint scent of pine
and peppermint. “Lord,” she whispered, “what do I do with all this
love?”
As she sat there, a warmth slowly rose in her - gentle,
steady, familiar. She remembered Harold’s final Christmas, when his eyes still
shone with that boyish sparkle he carried throughout his life. He’d squeezed
her fingers and said, “Maggy, when I go Home, keep celebrating! Christmas is
proof that love outlasts death. My love won’t leave you, it’ll just change
shape.”
She felt it. His love was different now, but still strong
and sure.
She rose from the chair and lit the last candle in their
Advent wreath, the part Harold never let anyone else do. The flame flickered,
then steadied, casting a warm glow across the room. Outside, the snow had
thickened, blanketing the world in quiet peace.
She paused for a moment. Not
healed - but held. Her grief loosened just a little. The hurt still lingered,
but its weight had softened. And the candle’s small, stubborn light was enough
to guide her into one more Christmas, carrying Harold’s childlike wonder, his
faith, and the promise of Christ’s comfort in every quiet breath.
Margaret whispered into the stillness, “Merry Christmas,
my love.”
Lord, in this tender season of memories and
longing, wrap all who grieve beneath Your gentle peace. Fill the quiet spaces
with Your presence, fill the aching places with Your comfort. And let the Light
that no darkness can overcome, guide them through every Christmas. Amen
