out of darkness
Photo: Philip Bobrow
We spent Christmas Eve in a no-frills New England church in northern Vermont.
One of our kids likened it to a box with a single Christmas tree and a spattering of poinsettias.
The choir filed in not in robes but in street clothes, and most of the congregation was dressed casually — snow boots and flannel shirts.
No velvet. No fur.
We sang carols and listened to passages about the birth of Jesus, and I smiled at the thought that, across the globe, similar services were taking place.
Yes, this was Vermont — hearty and simple, in the nicest way.
When the service was over, I felt like we had done much more than check a box.
The pastor was friendly and inclusive. She welcomed visitors and let us know it was okay to fidget, to leave for the bathroom, or even to go outside and play in the snow (I had never been given permission to fidget, and may have taken her up on it). She stressed comfort over rigidity.
And yet, when we tried to pinpoint the meaning of the sermon, we were at a loss.
The pastor spoke of community — of supporting community — and somewhere in her words she brought us out of darkness and into the light, a theme that landed neatly alongside the singing of Silent Night while we “lit” mechanical candles (no drips).
Now, with Christmas comfortably behind us, I’ve held onto some of the pastor’s thoughts. 2025 is ending, and I wonder what it would mean to move towards whatever light the new year holds.
Right before my mom passed away last August, she gave the three of us — her daughters — a pearl necklace that had been passed down from my great-grandmother to my grandmother to my mother.
When we had it assessed, we learned that, although the pearls are high quality and perfectly graduated, the necklace’s real value lies in the clasp.
The clasp!
The part that sits hidden at the back of the neck, beneath the hair. The piece that holds everything together — essential but unseen, trusted but unadmired.
I couldn’t stop thinking about that - how the thing that mattered most was never meant to be noticed. How it bore the weight quietly. How it did its work without asking for attention.
I wondered if my mother knew that. Or if she was telling us something without saying it out loud.
It made me consider how often we hide our own value behind fear or anxiety. How often we mistake visibility for worth. How often we stay safely busy, moving just enough to avoid being fully seen — to avoid the light.
In Vermont, where life for our family slows down considerably, I often find myself writing by a window in the early morning. We have no shades, so when the sun rises, the light enters slowly and quietly, giving me time to adjust.
I am in good company. Toni Morrison rose at five, made her coffee, and waited for the sun to appear — or, as she put it, she watched the light come.
And maybe that is how we should approach the light in 2026 — slowly, quietly.
Personally, I like the light. I’ve grown accustomed to doing a small mental dance when December 21st passes and the days begin to lengthen.
It makes me happy. Even though it’s still dark at five, we are moving in the right direction.
I am no green thumb, but on occasion I’ve watched my plants grow toward the light. Somehow, even a plant knows the light is nourishing.
So, what might it look like to step into the light?
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Not with resolutions that demand transformation by February.
Maybe it looks like turning a chair slightly or choosing not to close the shade. Or shifting the clasp from the back to the side. Letting one honest thing be seen. Staying a moment longer instead of rushing to the next task.
Maybe it means allowing ourselves the same permission that Vermont pastor offered — to fidget, to be imperfect, to go outside when we need air. To believe that comfort and holiness can occupy the same space.
Stepping into the light might mean noticing what already holds us together — the unseen clasp, the quiet strength, the work done without applause — and honoring that as real value, not something to be hidden or apologized for.
It could mean slowing down enough to let morning arrive, trusting that the light will come whether or not we chase it.
Watching instead of forcing. Adjusting gradually.
For me, stepping into the light of 2026 doesn’t look like brightness without shadows. It looks like standing still long enough to let the shadows fall behind me.
And I think back to that church in Vermont — the plain room, the single tree, the people in boots and flannel.
No velvet. No fur. Just voices rising together, holding small electric candles, singing Silent Night into the darkness.
Each light modest on its own, but connected in community, held in place, doing its quiet work. Something small and essential, keeping everything from coming undone.
A simple light, passed hand to hand.
Enough.