When the Light Outshines the Fire…

WHEN THE LIGHT OUTSHINES THE FIRE…

It started with a simple favor. I was stuck inside sick with pneumonia and asked Asher to go film our Christmas lights so I could see them from bed.

What he came back with was more than video. It was a glimpse into something heavy, unsettling, and deeply symbolic.

– On one side of the road, our campus glowed with steady light, worship music echoing from inside the church.
– On the other side, in the middle of the cemetery, a fire blazed and a group gathered around it in a voodoo ceremony.

Two gatherings.
Two forms of worship.
One light. One fire.
One aching question: what do we do when light and darkness meet face to face?

---

EVERY NOVEMBER…

We string lights across the acre of our campus. In Haiti, where electricity is a privilege and darkness arrives early, the lights are more than decoration. They’re hope on a wire.

Sometimes it feels wrong to keep doing it. When hunger sharpens, when we lose someone, when the storms come or the trucks stop—joy feels costly. Too bright. Too much.

But then the questions start: Where are the lights? Not in complaint—but in craving. As if our lights grant permission. To hope. To smile. To remember joy without guilt.

“When you put up your lights, it tells us we’re allowed to feel joy again. That it’s okay to smile even if we lost everything.”

That’s why we built a chain-link fence instead of a cement wall. We wanted people to see in. Not just to the lights, but to the life inside. Some sit outside the gate just to listen. No shoes, no seat, no shame. Just glimpses of worship. Glimpses of light.

---

THIS YEAR WAS DIFFERENT…

This year, I couldn’t go out to see them right away since I was sick. So I asked Asher to film them. I wanted fresh eyes. (Also, yes—like every year, rats chewed through 30 strands. Darkness always tries to chew the light.)

But what Asher found wasn’t just twinkle lights. It was a moment he’ll never forget. He told me that even before reaching the road, he felt it—a heaviness. The kind you don’t need words for.

You see, we live across from the cemetery. The one everyone avoids after dark. It’s why we changed staff schedules—to keep them from having to walk past it alone. The fear is real here. Stories of zombies. Of spirits. Of what happens when the sun goes down.

That night, our orphans were leading worship—kids who’ve spent years learning to play and sing. The lights were on. The music poured out from the front of the campus.

But just across the street was a different kind of service. Only this one—around a fire.

Two services.
Two kinds of belief.
One road between them.

Asher had never seen one that close. He’s heard the stories. Seen the aftermath. The sacrificed animals. The strange items left at our gate. But this time—he saw the people. The way they held a young boy by the arms and legs, swinging him near the fire. The way they locked eyes with him as he approached. The way they believed in what they were doing.

That’s what shook him most.

We joke a lot about scary things—cardboard clowns, crime shows, pranks that make us scream until we laugh. But this wasn’t that kind of scary. This wasn’t pretend.

This was worship. And Asher felt it.

---

AND STILL—THE CROSS SHINES.

This summer, we replaced its bulbs. Now it casts a steady glow over the ground that sees both worship and war. I imagine it standing tall—not flickering, not flaring up—but constant. Watching over the church, the children, and even the cemetery.

The fire across the street might rise for a moment, but our light doesn’t burn out.
I see the cross facing that fire—not in fear, but in quiet defiance.

Because light doesn’t run from darkness.
It stands in front of it.
It burns brighter because of it.
Fire demands attention.
But light changes everything.

---

SO WE KEEP PLUGGING THEM IN…

Every year, rats chew cords. Hunger whispers “not this time.” Grief argues that celebration is insensitive.

And every year—we plug the lights back in.

Because the world is full of shadows.
But the cross still shines.

And sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is just that—flip the switch again, let the light speak again, and choose joy even here.

Because the world is full of fire.
But the light still outshines it.

---

I’ve attached three videos — two show our Christmas decorations. The third is blurry and hard to make out, but the message is clear: light and darkness are still colliding, even here.

Apologies in advance for Asher’s feet — apparently he moonlights as a tap dancer. 😂 We tried to tone it down, but lowering the sound also kills the background music. I told him it’s time to start lifting those bricks he calls feet!