Hymns of Particle Waves

There is magic in a darkened living room at night lit only by the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree. 

As a child I would sneak on stockinged feet, stuffed bear in arm, from my room to the living room when the house was black and still, and I would sit and look at this miraculous display in my very own home. I was a kid who was quite particular about my Christmas lights. I liked the multicolored mini ones. The white ones that you see in most postcards and magazines seemed … boring. The colored ones my family used were anything but. The blues and reds and greens and golds twinkled in the reflected surfaces of the various ornaments and across the faux wood–paneled walls in the corner where we placed the tree. Looking forward to Christmas morning likely aided the enchantment of this experience, but if anything could push the thought of tearing open Christmas presents out of my mind and fill it instead with an almost holy reverence of the present moment, it was sitting in front of the tree, alone in a hushed, otherwise dark living room, watching those majestic lights shine straight through my eyes and into my heart. 

It was as if, even in the silence of that living room, those lights were singing a low, slow, holy and majestic song just for me. A hymn not made by words but by particle waves. A chorus of messengers clothed in angelic splendor, bearing witness to what the hosts of Heaven declared to the shepherds long ago: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men!” No sounds were made, but it was music to my eyes. 

This pageant of transcendent beauty captivated my young heart, as though the dawn of existence was being performed on the stage of my ceiling by millions of tiny radiant thespians. I watched the descendants of the first recorded manifestation of the words of God becoming something right in front of me. 

“Let there be LIGHT,” and there it was, in my very own living room—LIGHT! 

Eventually, if I didn’t fall asleep on the couch, I would return to my bed and slumber until the sunlight peeked between the blinds and danced in a long procession of swirling dust particles down to the warming carpet. The smell of Mom cooking breakfast would greet me like a kiss and I would throw off the covers and wake my brother, and we would scramble off our red bunk bed and out into the living room. There would be the tree again to greet me as we waited impatiently while my dad playfully and slowly made his coffee, eliciting giggles and groans from the rest of us. My parents provided wonderful presents, and though I don’t remember many of them, I am grateful for the love and care and sacrifice each one represented to my brother and me. But as much as I loved those presents at the time, I don’t think anything has stayed with me quite like the memory made from the many Christmases that little boy sat in front of that artificial tree, strewn with glory in the quiet, darkened living room of my youth.  

As an adult, I’ve tried to make sense of what made those lights so special to me. What was so magical about them as I sat in front of the tree on those nights before Christmas, waiting the opening of my presents at the coming of the dawn? Why does their twinkle still color my imagination of Christmas several decades later? I’m still not quite sure. Life is far more complicated as I’ve entered my forties than it was when I could count my age on my fingers. Burdens and heartbreak have visited me in ways my innocent heart couldn’t have imagined or understood. I do get to experience this childlike joy vicariously through my own children. I have caught more than one of them captivated by the same holy awe in our own otherwise darkened living room while our Christmas lights sing to them the same ancient song that I too heard long ago. When the morning comes, I know they will also erupt from their beds and run to their presents. And yes, they too will giggle and groan as I keep up the fatherly tradition of going slow on Christmas morning. It is a gift to facilitate these experiences for my kids, but for me, my heart still longs for the innocent magic I once knew in front of that tree. Even so, despite the darkness, in my heart the lights somehow still shine. 

I may not know exactly why the lights enchant me so, but I do know that while we all live a mortal life with pain and sorrow, while we anxiously wait for the True Gift to be ultimately and forever opened, in the dark of our longing it is no small thing to be captivated and kept company by a little light.

The featured image, “Christmas Eve,” is courtesy of Lancia E. Smith and is used with her glad permission for Cultivating.

Adam R. Nettesheim

Adam Nettesheim is Director of Fellowship for The Cultivating Project, and a columnist for Cultivating magazine. Through writing and illustrating, Adam seeks to pull on the golden thread that leads us Homeward. Adam is a ‘Multi-Media Specialist’ by day at a municipality in Colorado but his most important (and favorite) work is husband to his wife Sarah and father to his 3 children. His writing (and a few other things) can be found at https://adamrnettesheim.com/.