I was frightened. We were walking back to a cabin in the Ozarks in a remote area, and it was getting dark. It may be different today, but back then, the cabin was in an area far removed from highways and population centers. No city lights reflected upward along the horizon. The moon and the stars would have lit the way, but their light did not penetrate the upper branches of the heavily forested hills. There was supposed to be a path to the cabin, to help a person travel the last half-mile or so from where a car could no longer travel. Someone with a tractor and some sort of brush cutting mower had made this path, but a lot can grow up again in a month or more, and the path I expected to follow disappeared at dusk. I had a flashlight – but if you have ever tried to walk through waist-high weeds at night with a flashlight, you know how useless that can be. If I held the flashlight up high, I couldn’t see my footing. If I held the flashlight low enough to see my footing, I couldn’t see far enough ahead to know where I was going. To make matters worse, I began to wonder what kind of creatures would be walking through these same woods. If I stopped to listen, I could hear no sounds. If I continued to walk, the sounds of my own feet trampling sticks and leaves made enough noise to drown out any other footsteps that might be out there. And what about snakes? Do snakes come out at night? There was a lot to think about, being lost in a remote area at nighttime, when the real and the imagined intertwine. After some missteps and wrong directions, we came to an area which had once been farmed, where the trees had not yet returned. When I turned off the flashlight, and relied on the moon and stars, the indentation in the grass and brush took shape before my eyes – it was the path I was looking for. And after a few moments and a hundred yards of hope, the straight lines of man-made construction – a roof and a porch – appeared amid the tangle of natural leaves and branches. We found the way.
* * * That event came back to my mind recently, as I reflected on the light that is promised to us in Advent, the “light from light” that comes to us, God from God. What struck me was the reality that my own light was foolish, and that it was the real light of God’s creation that guided me – but only after I gave up trying to find my way by my own resources.
* * * A story about getting lost in the woods is a good story to tell in Advent or at Christmas – especially if it has a good ending. The Family Life Newsletter of the Diocese of Altoona-Johnstown has some suggested “Conversation Starters” in the Winter 2007 issue. The suggestions are shorter than my story, but they will work for families with children of a wide range of ages. As you are trimming the tree, the newsletter writer suggests, you might say this to your family: “Every year when I pull this ornament out of the box, I remember when we . . .” Then you might ask, “What’s your favorite memory of our family?” When you are putting up the crčche, you might say, “It’s too bad Mary didn’t have a more comfortable place to give birth to her baby, Jesus. Some people don’t have decent homes. Have you heard about Habitat for Humanity?” Other conversation starters deal with lighting a candle to signify God’s presence, and asking, “Do you think Jesus is still with us when we’re grouchy or not getting along? I think he is.” Advent and Christmas are times to build memories and to maintain family traditions – and to talk with each other about the things that make a difference.
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