Let There Be Light
It’s been a little over a year since I lost my dad.
One of the greatest gifts he left us was his words—
through the sermons he preached and the lessons he lived.
A favorite of mine was his fascination with the lights of Christmas.
He loved the way light tells a story.
In one sermon, he began with a simple observation:
“Whatever you think about Christmas—Santa, sleigh bells, barns and mangers—it’s the lights that define the season.”
And he was right.
The very first words spoken in Scripture are: “Let there be light.”
Before oceans or mountains.
Before Adam or Eve.
And even before Bethlehem’s star.
God spoke light into existence.
That wasn’t an accident.
Light is one of the fundamental building blocks of the universe.
Without it, nothing grows.
Nothing thrives.
Nothing takes on color, form, or beauty.
Light is God’s signature.
This past week we celebrated Cassidy’s 24th birthday, we can see that truth woven throughout her life. Through every challenge, her story has been wrapped in unmistakable light.
God has always been in the business of speaking light first—even before we understand the story it will tell.
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At Christmas, we celebrate not just the idea of light, but the arrival of Light Himself:
“In Him was life, and the life was the light of all people.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
— John 1:4–5
Christ didn’t just come into the world;
He comes into our world, too.
And that brings me back to an early December morning twenty-four years ago, in a hospital room lit not by red and green twinkling lights, but rather lights coming from monitors and machines.
I remember hearing Mary, Did You Know? played over and over that season, and I wondered:
Did Mary know how her story would unfold?
Scripture tells us she knew she carried the Son of God—
but could she have known how his sacrifice would break her heart…
But save the world?
I imagine her bent low in that stable—
knees pressed into straw as her arms held the Savior wrapped in newborn fragility.
My posture wasn’t so different.
Leaning over Cassidy’s tiny body in the NICU, tubes breathing for her, I also had no idea how her story would unfold.
Mary bore the Savior of the world.
I bore the ache of a broken world touching my child.
Yet in both places—one surrounded by straw, the other by hospital blankets—
Light came.
A light that comforts.
A light that brings peace.
A light that brings hope.
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Each year on Cassidy’s birthday, I reflect on her life.
Twenty-four years of challenges, miracles, diagnoses, victories, and grace upon grace. Twenty-four years of experiencing light show up when we needed it most.
I learned from my dad several truths about light that have woven themselves into Cassidy’s story beautifully, and I want to share them with you.
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Light is pure
It passes through polluted air without absorbing a trace of poison.
We have lived this firsthand.
We’ve walked through seasons clouded with uncertainty, grief, and unanswerable questions.
Yet Jesus never absorbed that darkness.
Instead, his presence cut straight through it.
He brought clarity when fear fogged our vision,
peace when exhaustion blurred our faith,
and hope when circumstances try to dim it.
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Light is gentle
It arrives each morning soft enough not to shake a dewdrop from a blade of grass.
Jesus has been gentle with us, too.
He did not rush our healing
He met us right where we were—
in our tears, grief, and questions.
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Light is pervasive
It can touch palace rooftops
and slip through prison bars—
and in our story, through hospital doors.
Jesus has slipped into every corner of our world.
Into late-night prayers when hope hangs by a thread, he has been there—offering peace when there shouldn’t be any, answers when we were exhausted by decisions, and joy when we felt depleted.
There has never been a space too small or too dark for his light to enter.
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Light reveals
It uncovers truth
and illuminates what is real.
In Scripture, God’s glory simply means his presence made visible—
his character on display.
Jesus made the Father known through love—
a love so complete that He gave His life for us,
even though it could never be earned.
That same unconditional love continues to move through the world.
Without words, Cassidy’s story reflects God’s heart.
Love without conditions,
and worth that doesn’t have to be earned.
That is what God’s glory looks like to us.
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Mary held the light of the world in her arms.
I held a child whose life would teach me to see that light more clearly.
And now, as Cassidy enters her twenty-fourth year, I find myself praying:
Lord, make us people of light.
People whose lives shine with hope.
People who stand like cities on hills,
testifying to the God who breaks into darkness.
So this Christmas…
As we string lights on trees and rooftops, may we remember:
Light is more than decoration.
It is a reminder of the God who spoke light into existence.
The Savior who stepped into a dim stable.
And the King who still steps into NICU rooms and into fearful hearts.
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Happy birthday, my sweet Cassidy!
Your life continues to shine in ways I never could have imagined.
And the darkness has not—
and will not—
overcome it.
