The Lamp in the Window

For twenty-two winters, Ruth Abernathy left a kerosene lamp burning in the front window of her farmhouse outside Galena, Kansas. Not because she expected anyone. Because her four children, scattered across three states, had each told her the same thing on different visits: "Mama, when I come down Route 66 and see that light, I know I'm almost home."

Ruth never missed a night. Not when the electric company offered to install a porch light for free. Not when arthritis made it painful to strike the match. Not when Harold died and the house felt too empty to bother.

Her youngest, David, once asked why she never switched to electric. Ruth wiped her hands on her apron and said, "A bulb burns out, baby. A flame you tend."

James tells us that every good and perfect gift comes down from the Father of Lights — and here is the part that should stop us cold — "with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change." The Almighty is not a flickering bulb. He is the tended flame, the unwavering glow in the window that has never once gone dark. Every sunrise, every heartbeat, every moment of grace — it all comes down from a God who does not waver, does not dim, does not forget to strike the match. He is the lamp that has been burning since before time began, and He will still be burning long after the last star dies.