The darkness of the whole world cannot swallow the glowing of a candle.
~Robert Altinger
White paper bags and candles arrived in a bundle and lay on our front porch. I stared at them, and then read the accompanying note. “Oh,” I said, smiling as I thrust them toward my husband. “Look what the city gave us. All we have to do is add sand to the bags, place the candles inside and line our sidewalk and driveway with them on Christmas Eve.”
“Why?”
“Well, it says here that it’s a traditional custom of lighting the way for the Holy Family called Luminaria. Everyone lights the candles at 7:00 p.m. and turns off their porch lights for an hour.”
He nodded. “Sounds nice. Let’s do it.”
So, in the midst of preparing for our first Christmas with twin baby girls in our new Southern California home, we added Luminaria to our list.
Christmas Eve arrived and so did high winds. As fast as we set the sand-filled bags down, the wind blew them over. We added extra sand to no avail. Our newly landscaped yard had bushes that were barely as tall as the lunch-size bags. As the time to light them approached, we worried that the winds would cause them to turn into torches, burning our new plants.
“We’ll just have to stand out there with them,” Bill said.
I could see he was right. So we bundled up the babies, put them in their strollers, and went out to light the Luminaria. We discovered that our neighbors up and down the street had made the same decision.
“I’m going to bring out some coffee and cookies,” I told Bill.
“Good idea,” he agreed. “Bring some of that cider, too.”
I piled Christmas cookies on a paper plate, poured coffee into a Thermos and cider into a pitcher, grabbed some festive napkins and cups and put it all on a large tray. We stood by our mailbox and offered the goodies to our new neighbors, who gradually congregated in our driveway to talk between rescuing flaming paper bags.
The next year we put a card table in our driveway and our neighbors, now friends, brought goodies to add to our treats. And the following year we set up a long table with a red paper cloth and a large urn of “Farmer’s Bishop,” my mother’s recipe for hot cider steeped with clove-studded oranges and cinnamon sticks. It drew raves, and so did her sausage balls.
Through the years our evening festivities grew. One family placed large red candles in a huge, elaborate candelabra and ceremoniously marched down the middle of the street carrying it high before placing it on our table. The first time was such a hit they continued the ritual each year. We set up outdoor speakers to play Christmas carols and many sang along, some even wandering down the neighboring streets to invite others to join us. Our next-door neighbor won the city’s home decorating contest and we laughed when some of those who drove by to see the lights stopped for a cup of cider and a cookie, as if it were part of the lighting display. It was a fun way to meet other members of our small town.
As our children grew and our community friendships broadened, so did our invitations. Folks from school and church stopped by on their way to or from church or dinner, bringing their out-of-town guests with them and a plate of something for the table.
“It’s the perfect way to have a party,” I reflected. “Because we’re outside, the house stays neat and clean, ready for Christmas tomorrow.”
That statement was true until our girls became teenagers and their friends made our Luminaria part of their Christmas Eve celebration, too. As my mother went through the house one year on her way to refill a tray, she returned to the chilly night and pulled her coat around her, murmuring, “Why do the kids have enough sense to go inside while we stand out here in the cold?”
I stepped inside to check. Sure enough, there they were, sprawled on the floor in front of the blazing fireplace, laughing and enjoying the time free from adults and younger children. “Smart,” I thought, and quietly slipped back outside.
It had to happen; one year it rained. The Luminaria bags were soggy messes along the driveways. We pulled our hat tree to the front door for wet raincoats and added a bucket for umbrellas. Everyone piled into our not-too-large house, bringing their Christmas cheer with them.
Each year when 10:00 chimed we cleared the table and invited any of those still present to join us for 11:00 p.m. Christmas Eve church service. It was always special to end our party that way, later stepping out of the sanctuary at midnight singing “Silent Night,” and wishing each other a Merry Christmas.
With time our guest list dwindled as children grew and families began to travel to be together. Our daughters left for college, and then married and moved away from home. We now attend our grandchildren’s church nativity pageant instead of serving cider in our driveway, although cider and sausage balls remain part of our family’s Christmas Eve traditions.
Life is full of changes but memories remain and we still receive Christmas cards that mention those happy times at our driveway Luminaria. And today when we leave the house on Christmas Eve we turn on our new electric Luminaria to light the way for the Holy Family.
~Jean Haynie Stewart
