A Heart That Stayed Lit for a Year

This year, “Autumn” left a little later than usual. Following behind, “Winter” arrived with a feisty temperament, sprinkling snow throughout last week. It wasn’t heavy, more like a teasing flurry—until Saturday the 24th, when it poured down all at once, as if Winter were making a grand entrance.

The leaves on the fence trees were unusually persistent this year. Perhaps due to Autumn’s late departure, they seemed caught off guard by Winter’s sudden greeting. It wasn’t just the fence trees—other trees clustered around the neighborhood were the same.

"The leaves hadn’t fully fallen yet."

 

A snowy suburban neighborhood on a winter night. Snow blankets the pine trees, bushes, and rooftops, while a misty streetlight softly illuminates the quiet scene. The atmosphere is serene and warmly still.

Last Christmas, I had strung LED lights around the eaves of our house. Something about that season always lifts my heart. My wife and I had hung them together, hoping to bring a bit of comfort to close the bleak, oil-crash-stricken year of 2019. The lights stayed up well into February 2020.

Joseph, our neighbor across the street, passed away in March 2018. This past March marked his second anniversary. I imagined his wife, Jenny, might still miss him deeply. Though Joseph no longer sat at his second-floor study window watching the world, I felt Jenny might still be looking out—and that perhaps the twinkling lights hanging from our roof would offer her warmth and cheer.

Then came the pandemic. Amid the fear and isolation, I hoped those little lights might offer even the tiniest comfort to our neighbors—and to our own family as well.


On a snowy winter night, warm white string lights are hung along the eaves of a house. Soft indoor lighting glows through the windows, and the snow-covered yard and neighboring house appear in the background.


It made me realize: there are so many things in the world that can be shared, beyond money or possessions. In a world obsessed with efficiency and productivity, perhaps we’ve overlooked the value of things that don’t yield immediate results. Tonight’s snow might worry commuters or dishearten small business owners, but somewhere out there, someone might be drawing courage or solace from the beautiful snow or those gentle lights.

On a snowy winter evening, warm string lights glow along the eaves and porch of a house. Brick pillars, snow-covered bushes, and softly lit garden lamps create a peaceful and cozy atmosphere.


Just before Thanksgiving, the doorbell rang. Standing outside was Jenny, holding a small plastic box filled with handmade almond chocolate. After chatting a while, she said something that stayed with me:

“Thank you. Those beautiful lights every night bring me such joy and comfort.”

A tall pine tree stands in the middle of a snow-covered yard, with a dark gray house in the background. On the right, warm string lights glow along a fence and eaves, adding a cozy touch to the tranquil winter evening scene.


It meant the world to know that my heart had a purpose. We often assume it’s the one receiving help who is grateful—but I believe it’s the giver who feels the deepest thanks. I’m so grateful to the one who allowed something of mine to become a blessing to them. A small, yet deeply profound happiness.


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