The Turn of Advent.

A Christmas tale of grief, light, & hope

Hey friends!
Merry Christmas!
A little Christmas story came to me at 3:45 a.m. one morning, and I’ve spent the past week shaping each scene, writing it out fully, and revising it until it felt right.
My hope is that wherever this holiday finds you, it is gentle and full of peace and that the light of Christmas might linger long in your spirit.

From my heart to yours,
Merry Christmas.

It was the turn of Advent.

The Christ candle was lit aflame and its amber hue set the cathedral’s stone into motion, shadows loosening, walls seeming to sway. The priest rose from his knees, touched his own taper wick to the flame, and turned. One light became another. Then another.

The congregation waited in silence as the pipe organ began to play the familiar chords of Stille Nacht. Voices carried as the flame passed through each pew and with it, the hope of Christmas-tide felt in every heart gathered under the warmth of fellowship and the celebration of the Savior’s birth.

Near and far there was merriment — laughter and song around hearth and home. Families reconvened. Friends raised glasses and toasted to health and to the year ahead. From room to room, from corner to corner, joy carried on the air as snow fell gently across the land.

And yet the same snow that softened rooftops and caught on the cathedral’s spires fell in silence upon the cemetery just beyond the church’s reach where a lone man stood kneeling, his top hat tucked neatly into the crevice of his arm.

He lightly dusted the snow off the stone, revealing the name beneath:

Anthony Horrowitz
July 2, 1885 - December 22, 1902

He remained there, kneeling for a great long while in grief, finding himself rather perturbed with the glee displayed from every nook and cranny of the otherwise relatively quaint little town of Hollowbrook. The breeze carried echoes of distant music and laughter from opened windows, a stark contrast to what he felt in his heart.

He had not anticipated losing his only son. Who ever does? All that remained was the ache, the pain, the despair. Something in him had died that night alongside his boy, in the cold and quiet, as he cradled him in his arms. Breath grew shallow, until at last, all was still.

And the stillness persisted ever since.

The bell tolled from the church’s steeple and soon everyone came piling out of its oaken double doors, guffawing and skipping and partaking in all the tomfoolery one could possibly get away with as they made their way back home where roasted ham, mashed potatoes, candied walnuts, mince pies, and spirits likely awaited them.

The parish priest was last to leave, tossing his frock coat over his cassock and, after checking that the main doors were indeed locked, nodded and removed his homburg as he caught glimpse of Mr. Horrowitz out at the gravesite.

“Good evening, to you sir,” He said with a bow. “Anthony was a fine boy. Tut tut… he will be sorely missed. Yes… very sorely. God bless you, then.” He made his way down the cobblestone stairs, stole one last glance at Mr. Horrowitz, and disappeared from sight behind a sheet of falling snow.

Mr. Horrowitz was once more left alone with his thoughts, a blessing or a curse, he did not know. In a both rather pleasant and painful way, he thought of his son, trying to ever so desperately hold onto the memory of the curvature of his face, the penetrance of deep cerulean eyes, the waves of his hair. Remembering him was like remembering a ghost, ever present, unable to grasp. Losing him was agony reawakened, an agony Mr. Horrowitz never believed he ever would, nor ever want to, heal from. Forgetting him felt like second death.

What he presumed to be a couple of hours passed and the night, as he would have it, was growing very still once more. And although the chill of winter made him shudder through his overcoat, he didn’t dare leave, being at the grave was the only way he felt as though he could still be with his son, feel his warmth, somehow, as though pulsating through the earth.

The snow thickened, the sky turning pale and indistinct, releasing large, filigreed flakes that drifted down slowly, masking the land a dense, white quilt. Only yards away, families and friends and lovers alike leaned back from their tables, bellies full from what had surely been a lovely meal as they anticipated now the exchange of gifts and very likely the cutting of pie.

“Peace on earth and good will toward men!” rose from the bosom of many a member that evening, though few gave thought to poor old Mr. Horrowitz, hunched and shivering in the snow, kneeling at his boy’s grave.

---

And I suppose this would be quite a lousy tale if all would end so abruptly right there. But as chance would have it, there was far more still to be revealed, yes, even in the impenetrable snow.

For just as Mr. Horrowitz stumbled back to his feet, a sudden, unsteady rush of dizziness coursing through him as blood returned to his head, a peculiar light appeared at the far end of the graveyard.

Yes, yes, a light, if you’d have it.

It bobbed and swayed, drawing nearer, piercing through the gloam like an ambient flame. Mr. Horrowitz did not startle or flee, he watched, rapt, as the glow approached, until he could make out the silhouette of a cloaked figure following close behind. It was a lamp, held loosely in the figure’s fingers, its flame dancing willfully within the glass, untouched by the frost.

The flame illuminated a man of many years, his long, silvered beard stirring gently in the winter air. Deep lines marked his cheeks and brow, softened by the lamp’s warm glow. He had a slight limp in his gait, though his gaze quiescent and unhurried. He approached in silence, and Mr. Horrowitz realized he was approaching him, not coming to pay homage to another stone.

The man eventually stopped beside him, and, after a moment’s pause, lowered himself to the frozen ground. He set the lamp between them, its warmth widening just enough to soften the snow beneath their feet.

For a long while, neither spoke.

Mr. Horrowitz found that his hands had stopped trembling, noticing it only because he had not asked them to.

“It’s quite cold,” he said at last, though he did not quite know why.

The man nodded, as though this were a truth worth honoring.

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

The silence lingered between them, not uncomfortable, but as palpable as the stone before which they stood. The man kneeled down, carefully reaching out with a bony hand to brush off the newly fallen snow that had reaccumulated over the name plate.

The man had an aura about him that Mr. Horrowitz couldn’t seem to place. It was as though a faint light radiated from him, a subtle magnificence that resembled more of a phantom or perhaps, an angel. He remained on one knee, studying the name in careful reverence, an acknowledgement of the life and the ache and the grief that lingered there.

It was quiet between them for a great long while. Warm, stinging tears welled in Mr. Horrowitz’s eyes. There was something about the man that made him feel seen, truly seen.

“Anthony was a fine boy,” Mr. Horrowitz said at last, his voice breaking despite himself. “A good kid. A loving one.” He swallowed hard. “I don’t—don’t understand why he had to be taken from me.”

His breath caught.

“I miss him.”

The man placed a hand upon Mr. Horrowitz’s shoulder and leaned in closer.

“He mattered,” he said.

The words settled between them.

“Grief is not the absence of hope,” the man continued. “It is the shape hope takes when love has nowhere left to go.”

The man’s hand remained upon Mr. Horrowitz, steady and warm against the cold. Mr. Horrowitz’s vision became blurry and his tremble returned as he wept into the night, a lament sent to the heavens carried in the thick frigid air.

“I’m afraid I cannot answer your why,” the man whispered, “not tonight.”

“But I can tell you this,” lifting the lamp between them, its soft luminescence casting shadows among the graves that looked more like crooked teeth against the snow. “Love does not end where breath does. And neither does it ever go unnoticed.”

He reached into the folds of his jacket, grabbing something small wrapped in tan parchment with a thin string tied neatly around it. “Here,” he said. “This is for you.”

Mr. Horrowitz carefully undid the wrapping though his wavering fingers. Once it was open before him, the warmth startled him.

It was a candle.

Not new, but well used — its wick lightly blackened from prior lightings. Even still, the candle had much life left in it; its wax unspent, its base stout and steady.

“Keep it,” the man said. “Light it when the night grows long.”

He reached over with the lantern and ceremoniously touched the flame to the tip of the candle, which caught at once.

Mr. Horrowitz stared longingly into the bouncing flame, getting lost in its life and vibrance as the wax steadily turned to liquid and ran softly down the base. When he finally looked up, he realized that the man had gone completely, vanished or walked away without his notice.

The only light now was the light of the candle, that shone strong, not shuddering even a flicker from the western breeze. He held the light to the grave one more time, and, after a moment, finally turned to leave.

From a nearby home, he heard the last stanza of Stille Nacht carried in the wind, meeting dear old Mr. Horrowitz as he hobbled at last toward home, the candle cupped carefully in his hands.

Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,
Gottes Sohn, o wie lacht
Lieb' aus deinem göttlichen Mund,
Da uns schlägt die rettende Stund'.
Christ, in deiner Geburt!
Christ, in deiner Geburt!