A few days ago, my wife Anne said something very simple to me. Almost trivial. "Did you notice? It's still light at seven o'clock."
That's all. But there was something in her voice that sounded like relief. Like a breath held for so long, finally finding its way out.
Yes. The days are lengthening.
It's a phenomenon we all know. That we wait for without admitting it. That we often notice alone, in the kitchen, looking out the window. The light lingers. It doesn't seem in a hurry to leave. And something in us — something we wouldn't have known how to name — slowly relaxes.
You may have felt it too.
What I love about this observation is that it doesn't share easily. You can show a photo, describe a sunset, explain Earth's movement around the sun. But the sensation that this light stretching into the evening brings — you can only tell it to someone else, and hope they've experienced it too.
And that's when something beautiful happens.
"Did you see it tonight?" — "Yes. I noticed too."
These simple words weave something between people. A shared attention to the world. A wonder that flows from one to the other, that grows as it passes from mouth to mouth — like the light itself, that reflects and multiplies on the facades, in eyes, on water.
It's an act of communion. Small, fragile, precious.
John opens his Gospel with a declaration that sounds like this. Not a demonstration. Not an argument. An announcement, almost whispered:
"The true light, which gives light to everyone, was coming into the world."
John 1:9 (ESV)
He doesn't try to prove the light. He points it out. He simply says: look — it's there.
What's striking about this first chapter is that this light comes into the world the way spring does: gradually. Almost discreetly. It was coming, John says — in the imperfect, like something settling, embedding itself in duration. Not a flash. Not an explosion. A presence that sets itself down. That stays.
And not all people noticed it.
"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it" (John 1:5).
It's not that the light wasn't there. It's that you had to lift your eyes to see it.
We do the same thing with the lengthening days. For weeks, the light comes back — five minutes a day, ten minutes, twenty. And we don't see it. We're in our routines, our schedules, our worries. And then one evening, someone says to us: "Did you notice?"
And then we see.
Maybe that's why faith is rarely a solitary matter. We need someone to tell us: look. We need a community — even small, even humble — that names the light out loud. That points to it. That celebrates it. Even when it's discreet. Especially when it's discreet.
The first Christians did this together. They didn't keep the light to themselves. They told each other what they had seen. What Jesus had done. What he had said. They passed the light along like someone passing a lamp through the darkness — each holding the flame for a moment for the one walking behind.
"You are the light of the world", Jesus says (Matthew 5:14). Not: you are alone. You are — in the plural. The light he gives us is not meant to be kept alone in a closed room. It takes on its full strength — all its warmth — when it flows. When it's shared. When it passes from hand to hand, from heart to heart.
So this evening, if you notice that the light lingers a little longer than yesterday — tell someone. Name it. Point to the window. Send a message. Call.
This tiny gesture may be the truest picture of what faith does, when it's alive: it points to a light the other hadn't yet seen, and gently invites them to look. The true light was coming into the world. It's still there. Tonight. For you.