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Christmas may not look the same for me now that I’m blind, but it means even more than it used to. My memories of the season are blurred around the edges – the powder-white world is a little more grey, the sparkle of stars a little less bright – and while the lights of the Christmas tree still shine, they dim a little more with each passing year. But although I cannot see the lights, I’ve found the same joy shining in other ways.
It’s a joy that comes alive in the scent of cinnamon-topped sugar cookies, the squeak of freshly fallen snow underfoot, and the sound of a church filled with voices singing “Silent Night” on Christmas Eve. It’s a joy that rises above the holiday bustle and settles into the quiet spaces where the steady presence of Emmanuel shines through the darkness, inviting us into the quiet wonder of God with us.
Christmas feels most alive here – not in the clamour and noise of the season’s festivities but in the stillness which reveals how the world Christ entered as a babe isn’t so different from my own: one marked by darkness but aglow with hope.
God’s people needed hope that first Christmas. I imagine the darkness casting shadows over their lives – 400 years of silence from the Lord and the long-ago promise of a coming Messiah presumed forgotten amid the weight of Roman rule. Yet even in that darkness, God promised light: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone” (Isa. 9:2). In the very beginning, God separated light from darkness, called it day, and declared it good (Gen. 1:4). And thousands of years later, his plan of redemption drew one step closer. But this time, he did not keep the light apart from the darkness – he entered it himself, sending his Light into the midst of the shadows, where he began his work of transformation from the inside out. It’s a work that continues to this day in the hearts of those who believe in him.
We anticipate the Christmas season as one of celebration and joy, but for many, the season brings deep sorrows we’d sooner keep hidden. For me, this Christmas marks the first without my grandpa, and though I’m comforted to know he is spending it with the Lord he loved so well, his absence leaves a hollow place in my heart. Yet the light of Christ shines brighter than my grief.
Even without sight, I feel it in small, tangible ways: a mittened hand in mine on a winter’s walk, the reverent beauty of placing the baby Jesus in the Nativity manger, or friendships deepened over a shared mug of cocoa. God’s presence is not confined to what we see. Psalm 27:1 declares, “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” and in this truth, fear and despair begin to fade. For those of us who walk through seasons of shadow, the promise remains: Emmanuel, God with us, is here.
Christmas is more than a festive display. It is an invitation to step into the quiet wonder of God’s love, to let his light shine into the hidden corners of our lives, and to know that even when our eyes cannot see, his joy, peace and hope are never beyond our reach.
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Read the full issue of Christian Courier [PDF] here.
