December 24/25, Nativity (Isaiah 9:2-7; John 1:1-14)

One November night on a cross-country drive, I fell in love with the tradition of setting candles in windows. The sun went down before 5 p.m., and as we drove along the narrow, winding roads through eastern Ohio, the dark hills were lit by a surprising number of such candles, winking warmly at strangers and passersby along the way. I never forgot that feeling of welcome and glowing hope at such a dark time of year, in a place I didn’t know, and I have been a devoted user of window candles ever since.

So devoted, in fact, that when my husband and I replaced the old knob-and-tube wiring in our last house, we made sure to install an outlet under each window that looks out on the street. (In cold climates, batteries in window candles go dead faster than you can blink.) The house was a brick colonial on a corner lot, perfect for window candles: two stories with two matching windows on each of them. Instagram gold, especially after a snowfall.

Legend traces the tradition back to Mary and Joseph searching for a place to stay, as well as to the star that leads the Magi on a long journey through strange country. I don’t know about you, but it’s hard not to feel as though I am also journeying through strange country, every single day. Perhaps feeling the same way, many folks in my social media feed have talked about putting up their Christmas decorations earlier than usual. My cousin in Dallas put the lights up on her family’s house on October 7 this year. They are a bulwark against the gloom, whether it’s the shorter days, the chaos of the news, or the loneliness of ongoing social distancing. This year, decorations feel like an act of resistance.