Yesterday, I received a card from an elderly gentleman who used to attend our church before he and his wife moved down south to be with their son. She suffers advanced stages of dementia and now resides in a nursing home. His mind is still good. Every year, he sends a Christmas card with a heartfelt hand-written note letting me know how the two of them are getting along and expressing how much he misses our church.
The front of this year’s card reads, “Happy Hannukah.” He’s not Jewish. He’s a Christian with failing eyesight. Evidently, he went to the card aisle at the store and struggled to choose the right one from all those blurry images. It’s not hard for me to imagine him squinting and grunting in frustration, but taking all the time he needed. Finally, he was able to make out a row of lighted candles and thought to himself, “That’ll do.”
His note on the inside, as personable as ever, is in a shaky, barely legible script. I couldn’t just glance at it. I had to spend some time deciphering it, which allowed me to picture his face as he scrawled the words out on the card. He sent it as a Christmas card, of course, but for me, those candles represent Advent. As hard a time as he had making out any of images in the card aisle, he recognized the candles. He saw the light.
His card is precious to me. He lives a thousand miles away. He faithfully visits his wife who no longer knows who he is. He can barely see to get around. His body is full of aches and pains. But he takes the time to get to a store, pick out a card, write a note, and mail it. The lighted candles on the front of his card are testimony to the hope he embodies. Just when I was rushing through yet another busy day that threatened to completely erase the Advent spirit, he passed the light to me and invited me to pause. So I did. Just for a moment. And I smiled and gave thanks.
©2013 by J. Mark Lawson
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