Pierce the Dark.

We stood in church, Christmas Eve, holding our candles up to the heavens, our voices raised in unison, an old familiar hymn chorusing off our lips. I love those candle-light services, where our worship illuminates the dark.

His little hand was wrapped in a big, strong one, worn with years and wrinkles. His three-year old body standing on the chair; his grandpa propping him up from behind. Together, their fingers linked around the same candle, generations uniting, lifting worship and light as one.

I watched from afar, their faces glowing from the candle near. I wished for a camera, something to capture the moment, to measure eclipse. The vision stayed in my mind, those little hands covered in the larger ones, together bringing light, a heritage in the present.

My inward monologe began. I watched their legacy pierce the dark, and wondered where mine began.

My light, too, was a candle held high. Was a aria in the night. But what about my life, what about that light? Where did my life pierce the dark? Or, and, does it at all?

And the instant response came: Teaching. Without a doubt, without hesitation, this is where I pierce the dark. This is were my light burns. Brims. Brings flares and radiates in the dark. This is where my Christ-light is a bursting array of reds and yellows, oranges, crimson hues. This is where students lean in, where they ask questions, where they ponder responses. This is where my light flickers and catches spark. Where it ignites others, and emits strength.

And so, I am, I was, encouraged. Knowing my lit candle was burning, unabashedly. Knowing it was spreading flame. Knowing it was piercing the dark.

I looked back at the little boy, the old man. I looked at the heritage of faith being held there, amidst their hands, a candle in the night. As their amber light lingered on their lashes, I was thankful. For them. For me. For light. For the Christ-light. For it, me, we, as we pierce the dark.