Jay Asher - What Light

“Tell me about tonight,” I say. “I’m guessing it’ll be packed.”

“They do two services on Christmas Eve,” he says. “The earlier one is for families, with a pageant and a million four-year-olds dressed like angels. It’s chaotic and loud and pretty perfect. The midnight mass, the one we’re going to, is more solemn. It’s kind of like Linus’s big speech in A Charlie Brown Christmas.”

“I love Linus,” I say.

“That’s good,” Caleb says, “because otherwise tonight would stop right here.”

We walk the rest of the way, up the gradually rising roads, hand in hand in silence. When we reach the church, the parking lot is full. Many cars are parked at the curb and even more people walk in from nearby streets.

At the church’s glass doors, Caleb stops me before we enter. He looks me in the eyes. “I wish you weren’t leaving,” he says.

I squeeze his hand, but I don’t know what to say.

He opens a door and lets me walk in first. The only light comes from candles flickering atop tall wooden rods mounted to the sides of each pew. Thick wooden beams along the walls on either side rise up, past tall windows of red, yellow, and blue stained glass. The beams touch at the center of the peaked ceiling, giving the effect of a large ship tipped upside down. At the front of the church, the edge of the stage is lined with red poinsettias. Stepped risers are already filled with a choir in white robes. Above them, an enormous wreath hangs in front of a set of brass organ pipes.

Most of the pews are packed shoulder to shoulder. We slip into a pew near the back and an elderly woman approaches us from the aisle. She hands us each an unlit white candle and a white cardboard circle about the size of my palm. In the middle of the circle is a small hole, and I watch Caleb push the top of his candle through the hole. He slides the cardboard a little more than halfway down the candle.

“These are for later,” he says. “The cardboard catches the drips.”

I poke my candle into the circle and then set it in my lap. “Are your mom and sister coming?”

He nods toward the choir. Abby and their mom are both on the center riser, smiling and watching us. His mom looks so happy to be standing next to Abby. Caleb and I wave at the same time. Abby begins to wave, but her mom pulls her hand down as the choir director now stands before them.

“Abby’s always been a natural singer,” Caleb whispers. “She’s only practiced with them twice but Mom says she blends right in.”

The opening carol is “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”

After they sing a few more songs, the pastor delivers a sincere and thoughtful talk about the story of Christmas and what the night means to him. The beauty of his words and the gratitude in how he presents them touches me. I hold on to Caleb’s arm, and he looks at me with so much kindness.

The choir begins singing “We Three Kings.” Caleb leans over and whispers, “Come outside with me.” He takes the candle from my lap and I follow him out of the sanctuary. The glass doors close behind us and we’re back in the cool air.

“What are we doing?” I ask.

He leans forward and kisses me softly. I reach up and touch his cold cheeks, which make his lips feel even warmer. I wonder if every kiss with Caleb will feel this new and magical.

He turns his head to the side, listening. “It’s starting.”

We walk around to the side of the church. The walls and the steeple loom over us. The narrow windows above are dark, but I know they’re made of stained glass.

“What’s starting?” I ask.

“It’s dark in there because the ushers went around and snuffed out the candles,” he says. “But listen.”

He closes his eyes. I close mine, too. It’s soft at first, but I hear it. It’s not just the choir singing, it’s the whole congregation.

“Silent night… Holy night.”

“Right now there are two people at the front of the church holding lit candles. Only two. Everyone else has the same ones as us.” He hands me my candle. I hold it near the bottom, and the cardboard circle rests atop my closed fingers. “The two people with the flames, they step into the center aisle; one heads to the pew on the left, and the other goes to the right.”

“Holy infant, so tender and mild.”

Caleb pulls a small booklet of matches from his front pocket, tears out a match, folds back the cover, and strikes it. He lights the wick of his candle and then shakes out the match. “The people in the first two pews, whoever is closest to the aisle, they tilt their candles to the ones with fire. Then they use that flame to light the candle of the person beside them.”

“Glories stream from heaven afar.”

Caleb moves his candle toward mine and I tilt mine sideways, holding the wick to his flame until it begins to burn.

“This goes on, candle by candle. It moves back row by row. The light spreads from one person to the next… slowly… creating this anticipation. You’re waiting for that light to reach you.”

I look at the small flame on my candle burning.

“With the dawn of redeeming grace.”

“One by one, the light is passed and the entire room becomes filled with the glow.”

“Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.”

His voice is soft. “Look up.”

I look to the stained glass windows. There’s now a warm glow coming from inside. The glass shimmers in reds, yellows, and blues. The song continues and I hold my breath.

“Silent night… Holy night.”

The lyrics are sung all the way through one more time. Eventually, inside the church and out here, there is total silence.

Caleb leans forward. With a soft breath, he blows out his candle. Then I blow out mine.

“I’m glad we came out here,” I say.

He pulls me close and kisses me softly, holding his lips against mine for several seconds.

Still holding each other, I lean back and ask, “But why didn’t you want me to see this from inside?”

“For the past few years, I never felt as calm as the moment my candle got lit on Christmas Eve. For just an instant, everything was okay.” He pulls himself close, his chin on my shoulder, and whispers into my ear, “This year, I wanted to spend that moment only with you.”

“Thank you,” I whisper. “It was perfect.”

The church doors open and the Christmas Eve service is over. It’s after midnight and the people leaving must be tired, but each face looks filled with a peaceful happiness—with joy. Most of them don’t say anything as they walk to their cars, but there are several tender wishes of “Merry Christmas.”

It is Christmas.

My last day.

I see Jeremiah hold the door open for a few people, and then he walks over to us. “I saw you duck out,” he says. “You missed the best part.”

I look at Caleb. “Did we miss the best part?”

“I don’t think we did,” he says.

I smile at Jeremiah. “No, we didn’t miss it.”

Jeremiah shakes Caleb’s hand and then pulls him into a hug. “Merry Christmas, friend.”

Caleb says nothing; he just hugs and closes his eyes.

Jeremiah pats him on the back, and then he wraps me in a hug. “Merry Christmas, Sierra.”

“Merry Christmas, Jeremiah.”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he tells me, and then he walks back into the church.

“We should start heading back,” Caleb says.

There’s no way to describe how much tonight has meant to me. In this moment, I want to tell Caleb that I love him. This would be the time, right here, because this is when I first know it’s true.

I can’t say it, though. It’s not fair for him to hear those words and then have me leave so soon after. Saying it would also sear them onto my heart. I would think of those words the entire ride home.

“I wish I could stop time,” I say instead. It’s the most I can give either of us.

“Me too.” He takes my hand. “What’s next for us? Do we know?”

I wish he could give me the answer to that question. It feels too insignificant to say we’ll keep in touch. I know we will, but what more?

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

When we get back to the tree lot, Caleb kisses me and then takes a step back. It feels right for him to start pulling away. There is no Christmas miracle that can keep me here or guarantee us more than we have now.

“Good night, Sierra.”

I can’t say that back. “We’ll see each other tomorrow,” I say.

As he walks to his truck, his head is bowed, and I see him look at the picture of us on his keychain. After he opens his door, he turns to me one more time.

“Good night,” he says.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

I wake with a mix of clashing emotions. I eat a small breakfast of oatmeal with brown sugar before heading over to Heather’s house. When I get there, she’s sitting on her front stoop waiting for me.

Without getting up, she says, “You’re leaving me again.”

“I know.”

“And this time, we don’t know when you’re coming back,” she says. She finally stands and holds me in a long hug.

Caleb’s truck pulls into the driveway with Devon riding shotgun. The two of them get out, each holding a few small wrapped gifts. Whatever sadness Caleb carried as he drove away last night seems to have disappeared.

“Merry Christmas!” he says.

“Merry Christmas,” Heather and I say.

Both guys give us each pecks on the cheek, and then Heather ushers us into her kitchen, where coffeecake and hot chocolate are waiting. Caleb declines the coffeecake because he had an omelet and French toast with his mom and Abby.

“It’s a tradition,” he says, but he does drop a peppermint stick into his hot chocolate.

“Have you jumped on the trampoline today?” I ask.

“Abby and I had a backflip contest first thing.” He holds his stomach. “Which wasn’t the smartest thing to do after breakfast, but it was fun.”

Heather and Devon sit back in their chairs, watching us talk. It could be one of our last conversations and they seem in no rush to interrupt.

“Did you tell your mom you’d already found it?” I ask.

He sips his hot chocolate and smiles. “She threatened to give me all gift cards next year.”

“Well, she found the perfect gift this year,” I say. I lean over and give him a kiss.

“And on that note,” Heather says, “it’s time for our gifts.”

I almost can’t watch as Devon begins unwrapping his floppy-looking present. He draws out the uneven and still-too-short red-and-green scarf. He tips his head, turning it over and over. Then he smiles, possibly the biggest, most genuine smile I’ve seen on his lips. “Baby, you made this?”

Heather smiles back and shrugs.

“I love it!” He drapes the scarf around his neck and it barely hangs past his collarbone. “No one’s ever knit me a scarf before. I can’t believe how much time you must’ve spent on this.”

Heather is beaming and looks my way. I give her a nod and she scoots herself into Devon’s lap, hugging him. “I have been such a bad girlfriend,” she says. “I’m sorry. I promise to be better.”

Devon pulls back, confused. He touches the scarf. “I said I liked it.”

Heather moves back to her seat and then gives him an envelope with the comedy show tickets inside. He seems pleased by that, too, but not as much as by the scarf he continues to wear proudly.

Heather hands an envelope across the table to me. “It’s not for right now,” she says, “but I hope you’ll look forward to it.”

I open a printout that has been folded into thirds. It takes me a few seconds to decipher that it’s a receipt for a train ticket from here to Oregon. Over spring break! “You’re coming up to see me?”

Heather does a little shimmy dance in her seat.

I walk around to Heather and hug her so tight. I want to see Caleb’s reaction to her coming up to see me but I know I would overanalyze any look on his face. So I give Heather a kiss on the cheek and hug her again.

Devon places a small cylindrical gift in front of Caleb and then one in front of Heather. “I know we already had our perfect day, but I got the same thing for you and Caleb.”