By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
The sky goes pink this time of year as the sun goes down. I don’t know what it is about the cooler seasons, but there is a gradual fade from dusty blue into the horizon, and then—almost without warning—that rosy hue appears. It always makes things look more like winter to me when those contrasting shades arrive. Though they come earlier and earlier as the days shorten, that soft blush keeps things feeling cozy despite the chill in the air. We are nearing the darkest time of the year, and yet, in my mind, it is also the brightest. My favorite holiday is at hand.
As we approach the shortest stretch of daylight on our trip around the sun, many people grow downtrodden. Seasonal depression is apparently a very real thing, and I understand it. If you are someone who loves warm, bright sunshine, I can see how this season would be challenging. There are certainly things I don’t care to do in the dark either. Getting up in the morning is one of them. It feels downright disrespectful when I’ve been awake for ages and it’s still dark outside.
But I don’t struggle with the darkness itself. I don’t say that out of bravado—if it sounded that way. Nor do I want to claim that I embrace the darkness, because that feels like the far end of a spectrum I don’t want anywhere near. I am simply comfortable with it, because I know what darkness is—and what it is not—capable of. And in these darkest days, I am reminded that not ever in the past, nor today, nor at any point in the future has darkness been able to overcome light.
Take, for instance, a pitch-black room—the kind you can almost feel. The kind where you can wave your hand in front of your face and not only can you not see it, but you could almost swear you feel the thickness of the dark on your skin like smoke. That is an oppressive kind of darkness. Despite how reasonable or rational you try to be, it instills fear. You can’t even see yourself in it, much less anything else. It smells like uncertainty and helplessness.
And yet, all it takes is the tiniest pinprick of light. No matter how deep the shadow, it cannot snuff it out. Light always wins, because despite how it feels sometimes, light is always more powerful.
Christmas is full of lights—and well it should be. It is a celebration of Light in every sense of the word. No matter how you look at it, it is a victorious declaration that light has won. From trees and yards aglow to candles in windows, each one is a triumphal call announcing that darkness is defeated. Even the greenery reminds us that though winter is cold and deep, new life is coming. Nature itself seems to shout the news.
I’ll admit that I don’t care for the dark myself. I don’t want to sleep in a pitch-black room. Still, I know this: no matter how overwhelming the gloom in our lives can feel—whether it comes from the season itself or from circumstances pressing in on us or those we love—there is a Light that wins in the end. This entire season proclaims it loudly.
If your shadows are mild or if they run to profound depths, I can assure you they have no ability whatsoever to extinguish true Light. They simply cannot. No more than shouting the word water at a fire will put it out can darkness hide the light. In a darkened forest, no one has ever feared that their lantern wouldn’t pierce the night—that the darkness might somehow put it out.
I know it may sound trite, but the backdrop of gloom only makes the light shine brighter. Perhaps that is one of its greatest qualities. Darkness allows us to truly see the beauty and power of light more clearly. We don’t set off fireworks at breakfast, and we don’t go strolling through Christmas neighborhoods at noon. Darkness sets the stage. And I realize now, as I write this, that even here the darkness serves the purposes of the Light.
This season, we celebrate the coming of The Light. He entered a world filled with darkness and willingly immersed Himself in it—when He certainly didn’t have to. He did it for us. He thought we were worth it. And in His arrival then, and in His work still today, He continues to bend shadow to His will. Though it may feel frightening and thick enough to steal your breath, even the deepest dark is nothing more than a canvas—ready to glow with His glory—if you are willing to seek and follow The Light.
Prose and Possibilities 