children of light
It is positively cold, the Advent night glittering, but we have come out anyway, following the light, looking for a glimpse of glory.
Our dear friends and their tiny family huddle in a plywood sleigh, all pink cheeked and swathed in blankets and pom-pom hats, and only because the Lord is within me and everything points back to that first coming, the moment feels nearly holy, like I’m seeing Christ as He was—their new baby swaddled in mama’s arms, and then as He became around the time the wise men visited–the round-cheeked baby-face of our honorary nephew (I’ll just call him B here), his little body sandwiched in between his parents for warmth.
We snap a few pictures, treasuring up the memory for safe keeping.
In just these last fast-flying months, B has become an older brother, also a quick-turn, inquisitive little boy who loves light, who is himself a light to those of us more keenly aware of the darkness.
When we got here, to the park with the light show in downtown small town, I thought, how appropriate, because the Christ light beamed in similar fashion as far as I know, spreading its brilliant rays over a humble animal cave, a dank place probably smelling of donkeys and straw where the vulnerable babe that night would sleep deeply the way only babies can, his face all new and smooth with innocence, quiet between feedings, bundled finally into a feeding trough. And no one would have known anything all that remarkable had happened there except for that light show around the barn, except for those terrifying angels making a birth announcement by way of a concert for the other sleeps-with-the-animals riffraff. So, a King came, King of heaven and earth, the King that hung the stars, choosing to be born into poverty, to identify with the kind of people who sleep with their eyes on those stars and their heads against stones.
Glory to God! This was the song that shook the night. Glory! And peace to all upon whom His grace rests.
And here we stand now on the edge of radiance, our feet, chilled through our shoes, just toeing the grass at the edge of a small, nearly empty parking area, in front of what would otherwise be a bland corner lot across the street from maybe a hardware store and a thrift shop. Nothing special, except for the lights—thousands, twinkling like stars. A song starts, exploding from the speakers suddenly, like the notes could rip apart the sky. I remember the lyrics: Glorious, glorious, glory, this God with us. I smile over the music, still announcing glory to the riffraff become His children because of Him, born of that light now twinkling, now glowing on our cheeks in the cold night.
B lifts a tiny, stubby finger toward the dazzling display in front of us, comments exuberantly his own announcement, “Lights! Lights! Lights!”
He looks at me, leaning closer, and shapes his baby mouth into a gasping O, his eyes going wide with awe. Clearly, he feels he needs the three-fold repetition to get his point across, and even though his vocabulary is still limited, I get it: Look! Look! Look! Or maybe: Holy! Holy! Holy! And then, wow, are you seeing this?
I know, I say, grinning. It’s beautiful.
I love light as much as B, in fact feel the stars in my eyes even in the early mornings, as I did this morning, while out on a run in the rosy cold with Kevin. I jogged beside him telling him something he already knows, that I love light of every kind—morning light, starlight, twinkle lights, firelight, sunlight, light as it’s twisted and bent and reflected, so much so that I want to be filled with light, to wear it, to have it pour out of my fingers. And it’s more than just about the beauty of it, I told him with some passion. I think it’s because it articulates something true about my soul, because…I am a child of light.
Because, as the apostle John wrote it,
The true light that gives light to everyone was coming into the world…and to those who would receive him he gave the right to become children of God, born not of natural descent, nor a husband’s will or human decision, but born of God.
So the Advent story gives us a whole new birth story, one like His own, one that raises us knowing we’re more than just mortal flesh and bone.
While we stand gazing on the corner of downtown small town, the music swells—
Shepherds bowing in the moonlight/Angels dancing in the night sky/Can you believe it?/Can you believe it?
—and all those thousands of lights, like stars, begin to dance in time with joy, the way creation always will.
I put B down, let him stand on his own two legs, and he walks a little closer and begins to dance himself, joining, his little feet tapping out the baseline, the through line, the lifeline of truth, like a scarlet cord thrumming, because it’s true that people living in a land of darkness have seen a great light. We are only witnesses looking back through the lens of now, sharing in an unending celebration.
Kevin walks over to B and also begins to dance, tall man with tiny boy, both of them celebrating wild, tall bent to small, folded close.
I murmur to God, feeling Him with me, the way that Kevin is with B while they dance.
Tall bent to small, folded close, that’s how you are with me, how you have been with us, always making yourself small so we can know you.
I watch Kevin grin wide, catching B’s gaze, grown life-wise man not too big or too sober to dance for love, for the delight of a little boy. Kevin’s smile says, I love you to death. You know that, right?
We take video, recording the sound of our own laughter, what Ann Voskamp rightly calls oxygenated grace, over the sound of that thrumming music like a lifeline and that picture—so perfect–of tall and small dancing in view of light outshining the darkness, the lights making Glory out of a blank corner lot, making spectacle out of a cold night, and I know: This is Advent—Big, vast, limitless God coming small to us, making supernatural holy happen smack in the middle of dark and cold, on the corner of humble and broken, just so we can know His love, just so we can marvel at His light and be His, just so we can dance for joy beside Him.
