A candle in the window. Not just for Christmas anymore.
While grumbling about how the stores forced the holidays, I’ve been putting up my Christmas candles earlier and earlier. Long ago, I put them up after Thanksgiving. Later in life, the night before Thanksgiving, and finally, now, the weekend before Thanksgiving.
A few of my neighbors have their glitter on already, and I know it is early, but I’ve never needed it more. A neighbor across the pond has a new display with ropes of twinkly blue lights on his fence, and they are reflected in the pond. Twice the twinkle, twice the proclamation.
I give thanks for the little lights that crash the darkness. I do not give thanks for Burl Ives or Bing Crosby or the Chipmunks that assail me in the stores. I wish laryngitis on them all. But the lights are different. Leaving aside the displays with heaving blimps of reindeer, the lights are — to me — a sign of stubborn hope.
The little light that shines is hackneyed and trite. But it’s true. There are little things in life that are really big. Your responses, dear reader, are among those things. You have taught me and encouraged me. I am about to hoist a turkey into the oven, and tomorrow, mindful of the world in which we write, I will raise a drumstick to you all. Thank you!