The Darkness Could Not Overcome It

On the way to the Brevard Philharmonic Orchestra’s Classical Christmas, I learn of Amy’s suicide.  

Minutes later, head spinning in a cacophony of tuning instruments, I wrestle to find any joy in this holiday. I remember Brad, at our last lunch, sharing with me the terrors his wife was experiencing. I wish to tell him how sorry I am -- for his overwhelming loss, for his two children, and for failing to see his desperation.

In what was supposed to be a celebration of yuletide joy, I weep for a loving wife and mother, who, in the wake of unfathomable pain, leaves her family behind to navigate a low gray fog.

As the Christmas concert begins, I can’t help thinking how fucked up this world is.

I believe I won’t stop crying until a single cello echoes the spare notes of a piano. A deep-throated longing announces the baby Jesus born in the steaming dung of a stable. 

Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright

Spirit brings to my mind the star of Bethlehem, a pinprick of other-wordly light piercing the darkness.

When I see Brad soon, I wish to remind him of the Christmas story we believe.

In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

The Incarnation plays itself out in the darkest of fairytale — poison, curse, long odds, looming death. But in the end, a pinprick of light pierces even the tomb’s darkness, revealing the impossibly good news of happily ever after.

Long before Christ’s coming, the prophet Isaiah put it this way:

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.

For those living in the land of the shadow of death, the light has dawned.

In the ecstasy of harmonic orchestra and voices, I realize it’s a fool’s hope Jesus calls us to.

Like the one where he wipes away the tears from Amy’s cheeks with his scarred hands.