Echoes of Light

I remember celebrating one of every holiday, each one a vibrant tapestry of tradition and magic. I remember lying beneath the Christmas tree, its fresh pine scent weaving through the air as multicolored twinkling lights hypnotized my senses, transporting me to places only a child could imagine. 

I remember sitting at the table, dyeing Easter eggs in a kaleidoscope of colors. The sharp, vinegary tang mixed with a faint sulfur bite danced in the air each time I dipped an egg. Then came the treasure hunt—following a cord that twisted and turned under, over, and through until it led me to the crunchy-coated jelly beans and treats that the Easter Bunny had hidden just for me. 

I remember the 4th of July. My dad would nail a pinwheel to a tree, lighting it until it spun in a fiery, dazzling symphony of sparkles. Whistling Piccolo Petes soared into the sky while I penned messages to the universe with sparklers in hand. Life was good. 

And then, my mom went blind—not in the literal sense but consumed by a tangle of religious fervor that ensnared us all. Family holidays and traditions disappeared, replaced by strict church services three times a week, and promises of perfection through obedience. I loved the Bible and God, yet suddenly, to my six-year-old self, everything joyful was deemed “bad,” with little explanation. 

I remember being invited to a friend’s house around the corner, unaware it was her birthday. A piñata hung, waiting to be broken, while cake and punch beckoned from a table nearby. As laughter filled the room, I took my turn at the piñata, the stick poised in my hand for the first swing—when suddenly, my mom’s voice cut through the moment. “Get over here!” she commanded. I was dragged home, scolded for celebrating a birthday, and told that God was angry with me for disobeying Him. 

Valentine’s Day was no different. In first grade, I eagerly crafted a paper envelope adorned with lace doilies and stickers. Art had always been a passion of mine, but that day, I never received a single valentine. My name wasn’t on the list, as my mom had informed the teacher we didn’t celebrate. When I brought my envelope home, I faced her disapproval yet again for disobeying God’s will. 

I grew terrified of churches outside my own, convinced that if I stepped foot in one, God would send it tumbling down upon me. 

As time went on, I, too, became blind—judgmental of those who didn’t practice the same faith but hypocritical in my longing for the family traditions I’d lost. 

For decades, I remained in darkness. Then, about fifteen years ago, God extended His amazing grace, touching my heart in ways I never thought possible. That, my friend, is a story for another time.