On the sixth day of Christmas, a Christmas memory gave to me, the secret! My mother knew the secret. She whispered it to me. And now, I'm whispering it to you.
For those who have eyes to see, every light is a testament of His love for you.
When I was a child, and the J.C. Penney and the Bon Marche decked their halls and dressed their windows for Christmas, some of my mom's quilting bee friends complained that the commercialization of the Christmas season was to be the downfall of humankind. I can still hear them from my fort under the quilt frames. My mother, bless her soul, did not agree.
When December began, and the sun set early, my mother would trudge across the snowy farmyard to start the old brown Impala, warming it up for the moment when my dad came in from the evening milking and finished "scrubbing the barn off" at the deep sink on the back porch. After the aroma of dairy cows had been replaced with Borax, she would herd us into the warmed-up car and we'd go on evening drives to see those commercial light displays the quilting ladies so thoroughly scorned. My dad was always tired after the evening milking, and didn't especially enjoy driving on snow-covered roads, but even he got into the spirit of it. My mom had that effect on him.
We lived in the country, so it was a decent drive to the lights of the city. It wasn't quite over the river and through the woods, but it was close. My mother compensated for the long trek by making it an event. We nibbled on Christmas treats. We listened to the Christmas station on the radio. And we drank hot chocolate. She brought along the hot chocolate in two big red plaid Thermoses that came in their own insulated brown Naugahyde carry bag. (You youngsters would call it pleather.)
We drank from a set of Snoopy mugs that read "This Has Been a Good Day" on the side. I never wondered why we had a full set of identical mugs with Snoopy contentedly snuggling Woodstock. I figured everyone had a set of them, like Tupperware tumblers and Melmac plates. I'm pretty sure Mom bought those mugs, one at a time, with her carefully collected Green Stamps from Safeway.
We weren't coffee drinkers at our house, but hot chocolate season was big. BIG. And Mom's hot chocolate never tasted better than from a mug that reminded the sipper it had, indeed, been "A Good Day."
We'd ride along in the Impala, sipping hot chocolate from our Snoopy mugs to the smooth Christmas strains of Nat King Cole and Bing Crosby, and marvel at the modern advances in holiday illumination.
My mother attested that every single light bulb testified of Christ. It didn't matter if the string was strung from a mall or a gas station or a tavern. She said "Even if they don't know it, they're testifying of Christ with every little light, because He is the Light of the World. His light fills us with hope. It leads us to Him just like the first light of the new star guided the shepherds and wise men to his manger."
On one of these evening jaunts, she leaned over the seat to make eye contact with me and said, "This is important for you to remember. Every light you see is a testament of His love for you. Do you understand?" I promised her I understood. I promised her I would never forget.
My mother had a testimony of Christ. For me, she was one of those lights, and it wasn't only at Christmastime she shined. She secretly felt this way all year long. She was prone to gaze at a star-filled sky, and I knew what she was thinking about those heavenly lights illuminating the night. Fireworks displays? Candles? Obviously, more of the same. The light emanating from a crackling fire? Do you even need to ask? She saw every little light.
When we walked the aisles of Skaggs after Halloween to find the Christmas decor had overtaken the Thanksgiving pilgrim section, my mother was actually smug. She didn't care Skaggs had jumped the holiday gun. All she saw were rows upon rows of boxes upon boxes of 100-light strands about to be distributed throughout our county.
At our house, we held off on Christmas decorating until the day after Thanksgiving, but my father was adamant the tree would not go up until one week before Christmas. Not because he was a Grinch, but because he was afraid the tree would start on fire and the whole house would go up in smoke. He was right to be cautious, because the minute the tree was in its stand and covered with lights, my mother would have it turned on and twinkling twenty-four hours a day until New Year. She could dry out a tree in record time.
It's been twenty-two years since my mother left us for an infinitely better heavenly view of the lights she loved so much. And, still, every light I see holds a promise I made to her. A promise never to forget their reason. Some displays are awe-inspiring. Some are tacky. But who really cares? Let those tacky little lights fill the earth with light. Let them fill you with light. Let Him fill you with light.
My mother knew the secret. She whispered it to me. And now, I'm whispering it to you—
For those who have eyes to see, every light is a testament of His love for you. Enjoy the lights. Remember their reason. Whisper the secret to all of His children. Let the Light of Christ light the world through you. In the secret, I found the greatest of Christmas Spirit.
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