Breaking Tradition

(Photo: newenglandhistoricalsociety.com, “Home for Christmas,” Norman Rockwell)

“Instead of cursing the darkness, light a candle.”—Benjamin Franklin

Back in the day, coming home to New Hampshire from Thanksgiving dinner on the farm in Massachusetts meant shutting off the crackling AM radio in favor of miles of conversation interspersed with comfortable silence. There were no seatbelts because I remember resting my head on my forearms on the back of the front seat while chatting with mom and dad. The bright lights of traffic on Route 128 went away as we turned up Route 3—hardly the multiple lanes of busyness it is now. Darkness was everywhere. Nobody seemed to live along this stretch of road.

It was always a good feeling to turn off in Tyngsboro (because you had to back then), because it meant we were that much closer to home and because there was light and life going through the village and over the iron bridge into South Nashua where there were neon signs here and there and the spotlight on what was then the Green Ridge Turkey Farm. In their own way, lighted markers of comfort and joy.

As we turned onto Route 101-A, there were lights of a different kind—scattered and warmer, the glow from homes and farms set back from the two-lane highway lined with stonewalls and trees. Getting closer! And I knew “when are we going to be there?” would no longer be coming out of my mouth when we drove through Milford (because you had to back then). A bit more light and life. And something I couldn’t wait to see each year: this one big Victorian that was always and by itself decked out with holiday lights on Thanksgiving night. Except every year, dad would remark something like this to mom:

“Too early! Honeybee, will you look at that?!”

All these years later, I wonder if dad, who loved Christmas, secretly wanted to finish the sentence with “I wish we would do that, too.” But tradition is tradition deeply engrained, and so no lights go up in my house until the first Sunday in Advent.

Until this year...because it is 2020.

The day before Advent, I took out the window candles, set them on each sill, and got them ready for launch in 24 hours. But as afternoon turned to evening and “darkness was everywhere,” I looked at one of the window candles in the kitchen and, for some “”odd” reason, remembered that my theme verse on January 1 for what would turn out to be the craziest year of them all was: “Your Word is a lamp for my steps, it lights the path before me.” (Psalm 119:105, The Voice), which I noticed had a cross-reference to this:

“The people walking in darkness have seen a great Light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death, a Light has dawned.”

(Isaiah 9:2, NIV)

Which, in turn, pointed to this:

“In the beginning, the Word already existed. The Word was with God, and the Word was God. He existed in the beginning with God. God created everything through him, and nothing was created except through him. The Word gave life to everything that was created, and his life brought light to everyone. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it.” (John 1:1-5, NLT)

I must have read those familiar verses a gazillion times before, and never did they have more clout, more illumination and Hope, than they did on this night before Advent 2020. Hesitantly at first, because gosh, this was family tradition being challenged, I turned the bulb on the first kitchen window candle. And then with a sense of purpose and almost a defiance coupled with joy, “Your Word is a lamp for my steps, it lights the path before me — and everyone else’s!” ran through my mind while powering up all the rest of the window candles in the house.

And yet again, just as in the disciple John’s ancient days, the darkness could not extinguish Light.

And it never will.

And that will be the Christmas message from my house to those passing by in this crazy year, whether they realize it or not.

And a reminder to self that, wherever I go, I carry that same Light with me. 

I’d like to think if dad was in the kitchen with me on Saturday night, he would have agreed:“Just in time, son! And don’t be in a hurry to take them down when Christmas is over, either.”

My dad always was a very wise man.

“When the dawn appears,

When the light grows,

When the midday burns,

When has ceased the holy light,

When the clear night comes:

I sing Your praises, O Father:

Healer of hearts,

Healer of bodies,

Giver of wisdom...

Remedy of evil.”

—Synesius of Cyrene