Last night, Copper and I took a walk after work. I slipped on my reflective vest and we trotted off into the dark evening. It was chilly but not frigid, and Christmas lights made our way much brighter than it would have been otherwise.

Each year I need these lights even more, need their candles in the darkness, their collective fist shaken at the void.

I have my favorites—the classic white-bulbed colonial with the graceful fir swag, the spotlit front door with the fruit-studded wreath, the house with lights around the entire perimeter of the backyard. That house also has a star perched high on its chimney.

I wonder if the people who live there ask themselves, “Do we really want to do this again?” It must be a lot of work, tacking up hundreds of feet of lights. But every year they do it anyway. I hope they know that their lights, their effort, lifts the heart of this pilgrim, and, I imagine, the hearts of others, too.

(Pictured above: outdoor lights of a different sort.)