At first it had the feel of adventure to it; a whimsical sort of challenge which he gladly accepted. The downing of not just electrical wires, but of the entire power grid across his region – at least he thought it was his region (it certainly couldn’t be the entire country!) had been cautioned, warned, and discussed until everyone was sick of it and drank more eggnog than they should. He, himself, had made a ‘Tis the season excuse for his overindulgence, giving little thought to what “the season” meant. Sure, he knew – baby in a manger, light of the world and all that. However, most reasonable people also knew it had little influence in the world just now. But no, it couldn’t have spread across the whole country: not that he nor anyone in his vicinity would know; since there was no communication unless one neighbor without knowledge of the current situation consulted the next who had identical knowledge. And at this point, he wasn’t certain whether said neighbor would meet him with a plate of Christmas cookies or the point of a rifle (and he wasn’t sure that he cared). He’d heard that happened to people who were isolated from each other. Of course, could he blame someone for their defensive posture when his suspicious one was no better?

He’d read somewhere that things like this could last for months and much longer. A year? More? Ugh. It had been a week. Seven long nights and days. There was no traffic. Without electricity, the gas pumps didn’t work. Even if they could have made the trip, people didn’t go to work. Why? It was a computerized world – a world that thrived on electricity. At first, a few of the folks who preferred winter to summer walked here and there. After awhile, they didn’t. Perhaps they’d grown too cold without a place to warm up in afterward. Maybe they’d grown tired. Even those with gym memberships needed calories and cold food in cold houses lost some of its appeal. Who knew how much longer they would or could endure? Had the weather been temperate, things would have felt more hopeful. But this? His window thermometer registered 0.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t prepared. He had. Of course, he didn’t plan on helping anyone else. How could he? They should’ve thought ahead. He’d kept his curtains closed to keep in as much warmth as possible and told himself it helped a little, but now he pulled his curtains aside and peered down the street. Dusk approached and soon it would be as black as sin, as his grandma used to say. He looked around the room, taking stock of his supplies. He had canned food, but had lost his appetite. He forced himself to eat each day, though. Today’s feast was a can of corn. Refrigeration was without power, of course, but the indoor temperature without a working furnace made it unnecessary. However, frozen hamburger wasn’t of much use. Water – check; and when he ran out, the snow outside . . . Then he began to wonder if eating snow would help or harm him. His fingers had begun to feel like thick sticks sometime around midnight the night before. At least he could feel them, unlike his toes which had no feeling at all.

The sun would set in another thirty or so minutes, and somewhere on day two, he had decided to use his flashlight to read through the evening. A few days in, he began to worry about how long the flashlight battery would last, and switched to depending on a candle to read before the dark encroached when he blew it out. Tonight he sat by the curtained window and parted the fabric ever so slightly to let in the waning light. He’d save candle light for later. He read:

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

He’d grown to like Tennyson lately, though he didn’t always understand what he was getting at. It was that way with those old authors, those ancient poets. He made more time than usual for them because in the last week time was all he had. What was that his uncle had liked to say? You have all the time in the world, but that’s all the time you have. Closing his eyes, he reflected; and his mind wandered to what their days and culture had been like. Surely such things had affected their perspective. His mind wandered further as he  recalled something he had heard about the holiday he didn’t celebrate – Hanukkah. Having enough oil to light the menorah wasn’t the problem. The Maccabees had enough oil. It was simply that there was only one jar of pure oil – one with the priestly seal. That jar would last just one night. Just one. Compromise seemed necessary. Certainly easier. But they were unwilling to use adulterated oil for something sacred. And God saw their pure hearts and met their desire for doing what was right. Oil for one night became oil for eight nights. He thought about those guys. He wondered if they’d fit in at the company holiday party. Then he wondered if they’d fit in anywhere.

He sat with those thoughts until they met him in his dreams. When he woke, the dark completely enveloped him, and he knew somehow that the One for whom “the season” was celebrated was watching him, his street, his city, the world to see whether any pure hearts remained. And he knew, too, how compromised his heart had become. Taking the middle ground was popular, even seemingly necessary and had been easy, so easy. Rising from his chair, he knelt on the ice-cold floor. Just knelt. A few tears escaped from his closed eyes. He was so tired. But he didn’t ask for warmth or electrical power, for he was overwhelmingly conscious of how undeserving he was. No, he asked for one thing: forgiveness. Purity.

And God saw his crippled, frozen heart and met his desire for doing what was right. He suddenly felt a sort of freedom he’d forgotten existed.

Then – a quiet hum. He heard it before he opened his eyes: the blessed sound of his furnace! And he rose to bask in the shining lights turned on in every room! The Christmas tree lights! The outdoor lights! The lights decking the houses along the street! He hurried to make some cocoa on the stove (hot soup! hot toast! hot anything!), then threw open his curtains despite the night.

Image: pexels-pixabay-278823-scaled.jpg; Quote: Alfred Lord Tennyson; Source: https://open.substack.com/pub/naomiwolf/p/hanukkah-on-the-battlefield?utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web