Meet IGI instructor Annah Elizabeth

Every light shines in darkness

The power of one light Two days ago when we went to Christmas Eve service, I knew it would be magical. It always is. The merry greetings, powerful music, gorgeous décor, and the best part—singing Silent Night in a darkened auditorium lit by hundreds of candles. As Pastor Grant spoke, he reminded us that even one candle shines in the dark. He led us through a demonstration to prove a point. He instructed us to lower our candles. The shadows grew as the auditorium dimmed. When he asked us to raise our candles high enough to be seen by others, the auditorium glowed and the shadows lessened. He also spoke about how some are called to walk in the valley of the shadow of death—a place of despair, sadness and darkness. A place where candles bearing one small flame can make a big difference. The lesson of his story was that no matter where we are, shine our light for others to see. Don’t keep it to ourselves. As a good pastor does, I felt like he was talking directly to me. Of course he wasn't, but I couldn’t help but apply his story to my journey. Eight years ago as I sat next to the lifeless body of our daughter, God handed me a new script that called me to walk in the valley of the shadow of death. I handed the script back. I wanted my old life, not a new one. I wanted my daughter to open her eyes and say “Hi, mom.” But that didn't happen. God again handed me the new script. I tore it up and handed it back. “I don’t want your new script!” I yelled. I had a wonderful life as a mother of one college graduate, one college student, and two teenagers. My husband and I were even blessed with our first grandchild. Life was wonderful! No need for God to change it. I ignored God’s script for years. I picked it up once or twice but with my heart broken in so many places, the lines blurred together, the words indistinguishable. Besides, with my own inner light extinguished, it was too dark to read. And then another tragedy befell us. My dear sweet hubby’s grief over losing our daughter consumed him, and he suffered a disabling stroke at age 46. Here I was facing a new kind of grief, and I had hardly begun to process the first. I was empty inside. Exhausted. Done. One day out of anger I picked up God's script. The first line said “When you help others, you help your own heart to heal.” Seriously, God? I was walking in the shadow of death and could hardly put one foot in front of the other. How was I supposed to help someone else? I wasn’t amused. But I needed God. Desperately. The valley is very dark and so full of sadness and despair. It was hell on earth. I wanted to be any place other than living hell, so I continued reading. The second line of the script said, "Every light shines in darkness." As I continued my own journey through the valley of shadows, God was now asking me to shine my light. Defiant, I challenged his instructions. How could one small light make a difference in such a hellish place? He didn't reply. My wounded, angry, and hurting self wanted to prove him wrong. I lit my light and held it high. And a wondrous thing happened. I found others like myself. Together we formed a village of light right there in the shadows of death. I was no longer alone. In that moment, a little bit of healing took place in my heart. Over the years I’ve thought about that night when God handed me a new script. How I found myself walking through the valley of the shadow of death, begging for my old life back. How I fought, pleaded, and bargained for something else—not this script, God. Anything but this. Pastor Grant reminded me that when God gives us a script and asks us to do something, we have a choice. My choice was either to stay in the shadows of hell or to shine my light—the light we’re all born with. When I finally held my light high, I discovered a need—and others like myself. God never told me I wouldn’t be alone; I just assumed I was. I had to shine my light to learn otherwise. Today I walk with one foot in the valley and one in the sun. When I’m in the valley, our village travels in search of wounded souls lost in the shadows. When we find one, we offer to share our light until they can ignite their own. The moral of the story is to hold your light high. Don't keep it to yourself. Because when you help others, it helps your own heart to heal. Thank you, God. Script accepted.

Reveal day of The 12 Nights of Kindness is finally here!

Night 11 of The 12 Nights of Kindness

Night 10 of The 12 Nights of Kindness

Night 9 of The 12 Nights of Kindness

Night 9 of The 12 Nights of Kindness

Night 8 of The 12 Nights of Kindness

Night 7 of The 12 Nights of Kindness

Night 6 of The 12 Nights of Kindness

Night 3 of The 12 Nights of Kindness

Night 5 of The 12 Nights of Kindness

Night 4 of The 12 Nights of Kindness

Night 2 of The 12 Nights of Kindness

Night 1 of The 12 Nights of Kindness 2017

The 12 Nights of Kindness

Have you heard of The 12 Nights of Kindness? Also known as Secret Santa, I came across this concept years ago. Beginning December 13 and ending Christmas Eve, the tradition is to leave a small treat paired with a poem based on the 12 Days of Christmas on a neighbor's porch. The whole idea was to teach kids that giving was just as fun as receiving.

I embraced the concept of helping kids learn the joys of giving, and proposed the idea to our own. It turns out that twelve nights sneaking around the neighborhood wasn’t a hard sell. Our kids were thrilled with the idea of playing a holiday version of ding dong ditch with Mom’s permission, and we adopted the tradition as our own.

Now, our oldest daughter was away at college and our oldest son was a busy high schooler, so that left our two youngest as santas. Our 10-year-old daughter much preferred to be an elf, given that she was female and Santa was, well, male. But that left her 8-year-old brother as Santa—an elf's superior. Well, that wouldn't do either. To keep the village peace, we became elves instead of santas.

As a family of six with one in college, we were on a budget. Armed with a shopping list, my first stop was our local dollar store. This turned out to be our only stop—everything we needed was there. Taking home our supplies, I got to work printing the poems while the kids prepared the bags.

The next matter to settle was deciding who would be the lucky recipient. A few months earlier, neighbor Tom lost his wife to breast cancer. I couldn’t imagine what the holidays must be like for him, and we all agreed his home could use small doses of nightly cheer. The matter was settled.

On the evening of December 13, my two youngest elves bundled up and we headed out into the frosty air. In the darkness of night, the silent snowy neighborhood transformed into an enchanting winter wonderland. Our boots trudging softly through the shimmery white snow was the only sound heard as we made our way to Tom’s house. While I watched from the street, the kids snuck up to his porch, rang the doorbell, and ran to hide until the coast was clear to return to me in the shadows.

Returning home, we warmed our hands around a mug of hot cocoa and our hearts around the notion that our little gifts of kindness might cheer Tom. With our first night now behind us, we eagerly looked forward to each evening, and treasured memories in the making.

The next eleven nights flew by and soon it was Christmas Eve, the 12th day when we had to reveal our identity. 

Truth be told, I was nervous. Not having experienced loss myself, I worried that our nightly treats had been a bit too much for Tom’s fragile emotions. But there was no backing down now. We had to finish. 

That afternoon we festively arranged a dozen homemade cookies on a plate, covered it with red cellophane, taped the final poem to the top and—not trusting my children to walk two blocks with a plate of goodies—we drove to Tom’s house. We climbed out of the car, gathered on his front porch, and I rang the doorbell.

When Tom opened the door, our next task was to sing:

We wish you a merry Christmas

We wish you a merry Christmas

We wish you a merry Christmas,

and a happy new year!

Although I’ve been accused of being tone deaf, I was determined to set a good example for my children. I exuberantly sang the first few words until realizing I was solo—my choiring elves just stood there with mouths frozen shut. I had no choice but to finish on my own, tone deaf and all. That’s when I saw tears in Tom’s eyes. Oh, dear. Was my voice that bad, or was our mission just one big flop?

I quickly decided the most graceful way to handle the situation was to explain we were the elves responsible for the surprise treats, and then leave Tom to his own devices. After all, it was Christmas Eve and here we were intruding on his very tender emotions. 

But I soon discovered I had nothing to fear at all. Tom was crying because he loved the nightly gifts, and now they were coming to an end! It turned out that not only did he enjoy the element of surprise, but the nightly anticipation was a wonderful respite from the constant sadness. 

Mission accomplished.

That first year proved a wonderful experience, and we continued the tradition choosing a different neighbor each year. Until 2009, when tragedy struck our own family. At summer’s end that year, our now 15-year-old elf was killed in a car accident. Caught in my own fog of grief, I had no desire to carry on the family fun with our youngest, now 13. With a broken heart, our beloved tradition came to an unexpected end.

In the years since losing our daughter, our family has learned to laugh again but I’ve never forgotten how bleak those first holidays felt. I’ve also learned that helping others helps my own heart to heal, and how the power of small acts of kindness can go a long way. 

Last year when our grandson was 9, we reinstated the old family tradition. He was the perfect age to become a secret elf, and I knew it would offer us all a nightly dose of good cheer. It proved good fun and once again enriched our holidays just as it had in years past.

This year’s unsuspecting recipient is a neighbor dying of cancer. She loves the holidays, and her home is often decked festively year round. Her warm, bright greeting to the neighborhood will be sorely missed in the years ahead. In the meantime, I hope our nightly surprises bring cheer to her final holiday season. 

Perhaps the real beauty of The 12 Nights of Kindness is that it transcends all ages and situations. One need not be a newly bereaved to benefit from such a tradition. It’s a fun family experience that offers an important life lesson in compassion, and leaves everyone with memories they’ll treasure for life.

To teach your children how to be givers of kindness and learn the joys of giving, or heal your own heart by helping others, all the instructions and printables are right here.

Above all, the nightly trips to a neighbor’s porch is more than just a little holiday fun. It holds the promise of magical memories for all ages, and leaves all involved with the gift of kindness and a heart full of cheer they’ll treasure all year.

Happy holidays!