light in the darkness
“I need help, please,” Adam says, thrusting his nightlight toward me. “It’s not working.” It can be a whole new year, the midnight sky exploding in colorful stars, manmade light raining toward the earth with sparkling sound, and we can still be on the ground feeling damaged.
He draws one long leg up in a modified leaning tree pose, looks at me through a forced squint that seems to say I should be asleep already. I speculate that Adam subscribes to the notion that if I can’t see you, you can’t see me, and this is one of those moments when he would prefer to remain mostly unnoticeable. At bedtime, Adam always seems desperate, so weary of the flood of disorganized sensory information that keeps him on edge that he longs to hide away. I understand this, having told myself countless times that joy comes in the morning, that I will wake up renewed, even if I feel utterly depleted by nightfall. Sometimes, I fall asleep praying snatches of David’s poetry, You are my hiding place; you will protect me, because I can feel tempted to believe exactly the same lie about God, that if I can’t see Him, surely He can’t see me. I can squeeze my eyes shut against a barrage of heavy things and wonder if God knows how desperate I am for light. Like Hagar in the wilderness, I have to name Him again, El Roi, the God who sees me.
“Does it need a new lightbulb?” I ask, lifting my hand to receive the nightlight, already uncurling my legs and moving to get up. Fresh on the heels of Christmas, I can relate to the Magi who found their way to Jesus by following the path of light. All around me, twinkle lights shine like stars, calling me beyond the dark chill, the bones of trees, to the warmth of grace.
There is wisdom in this, that Adam knows he needs light, that he searches out help when he can’t find it. In fact, he only comes to us with this need, which tells me quite a lot about what it means to him. Like most of us, Adam believes he’s self-sufficient, and maybe the effort to assess and articulate what’s lacking feels just as hard as needing. I don’t know how you can help. I’ve said that; I’ve felt that. But light in the darkness represents an emergency situation for Adam, and when he can’t find me in times like these, he’s been known to scavenge the house. I’ve found table lamps sitting in his bedroom floor, plugged into the outlet where his nightlight usually lives. No matter how desperate Adam feels, he can only close his eyes and entrust himself to the vulnerability of sleep if he knows a light still shines. Something about this resonates with me, too. Life can feel like a thousand dark griefs, but I find rest because I believe in light, even when I can’t see it. When I can’t find my way to God, I reach out to loved ones for help; I search, wide and wild, for illumination.
I walk into the kitchen, carrying the nightlight, and Adam follows, murmuring softly behind me, the words like a looping prayer, “Oh no, it’s not working. I need help. Help, please. Fix it, please.” I smile, recognizing the refrain as something I have oft repeated.
“I think it just needs a new bulb,” I tell him, trying to reassure, as I turn to open the cabinet and fish out the needed bulb–such a small thing, fragile, tear-shaped. I drop the spent one into the trashcan and twist the new one into place, thinking how humbly light comes–how humbly light came–into dark places. Just past Christmas, and I keep remembering how Jesus came small, fragile. A new kingdom began, and the sky exploded with heavenly light; angels surrounded the poor and scandalous with songs of deliverance. And people still felt damaged. Somewhere, it felt dark as pitch. Darkness can feel overwhelming here, urgent. It takes a while, sometimes, to see the truth, and when we do, we echo Jacob: Surely the Lord is in this place, and I was unaware of it. The thing is to keep looking for Jesus, to keep looking for the light shining in the darkness, the light the darkness can never overcome, the lamp that’s always lit. The thing is to let Advent be a life.
Quiet, Adam flicks my ears, which means love, love, love and thank you, as I plug his nightlight into the wall and we watch it beam, again. He gasps, joyously, “Oh!” It sounds like laughter.
I see it, this new light, like heralded gospel: Light always comes new. And it comes in advance. Long before the lightbulb in Adam’s nightlight failed, I stocked the cabinet with a replacement. Even now, some of the stars light the sky with beams that have traveled for years, and so many years ago, from such a distance, Jesus set out with purpose to rescue me. In him was life, and that life was light for all people (John 1:4).
