In the crackling dusk of a Rocky Mountain evening, I have come to catch the glow.

It’s the day after Thanksgiving, and I’m standing on the sidewalks of Estes Park, waiting for the wonder to begin. Tonight is clear, a blank between two snowstorms—one that whirled through the town last week and one that’s predicted for this weekend. Even in the draping dark, the snow-streaked profiles of the mountains almost glow against the winter sky.

I pull in a deep breath, the excitement tingling in my lungs. Tonight, I’m joining one of Estes Park’s favorite traditions. Tonight, I’m ushering in the Christmas season with the Catch the Glow parade.

The event has been held every year for decades—an annual observance that ignites the holiday magic in Estes Park. The parade proudly poses itself as an alternative to the frenzy of Black Friday, and this spirit is reflected in the way magic replaces materialism. Instead of featuring tacky commercialism, the floats are handcrafted by a local creative team who pour hours into each masterpiece. The dignitaries of the parade likewise represent the best cross-section of mountain life: park rangers, search and rescue personnel, rodeo champions, and first responders. The homespun tradition draws attendees from all over Colorado—and many from elsewhere.

Like me.

As I shuffle with the crowds toward downtown, I try to calculate how many years I’ve waited to be here for this Christmas parade. Four? Five? Every year on the Friday after Thanksgiving, I’ve thought about this moment from my home in Arkansas, imagined being present and able to witness the fabled celebration for myself. Now, finally, I’m here with my family—where the mountains are watching and the anticipation crackles in the air and the massive fir trees by Bond Park are twinkling with thousands of lights.

As we approach the center of downtown, the crowds thicken, people seeping along the sidewalks in slow-moving streams. We squeeze our way to a prime viewing location just beside the grandstand, and I peer up and down Elkhorn Avenue. The road is fringed thick with crowds as far as I can see, a forest of figures shadowed against the bright backlight of the local businesses. The air is rich with the aromas of signature tourist food—pizza, popcorn, taffy from the local shop.

So many people—all here for this moment. I glance at the couple to my left—a woman in a quilted coat and beanie jostles the tall man playfully, and fragments of their conversation rise. “—and so she said she couldn’t believe I’d never been to the parade.” The woman’s laugh holds a sheepish undertone. “And the more I thought about it, the more I realized she was right. It’s crazy…living so close all these years but never coming to the parade until now…”

A couple of older women slide into a gap to my right, chattering as eagerly as the Steller’s Jays that inhabit the pine trees on the mountain slopes. Their conversation, too, centers on the parade. According to these ladies, the parade is more than an outing—it’s practically a ritual. One woman launches into a recollection of floats from all the parades over the years, the details still etched into her memories. “Don’t you remember that Star Wars float? It had the most interesting—” Not to be outdone, her friend nods, agrees, counters with recollections of her own. I listen and wonder how many parades they’ve watched pass down this thoroughfare, how many Christmases they’ve borne witness to in this fearless mountain town.

The loudspeaker booms to life, the announcers’ voices crackling over the PA system. Necks crane, searching for the source of the sound, until the man to my left points up—we’re standing in front of the broadcast building for the legendary Rocky Mountain Channel, and the voices are being transmitted from the announcers sitting inside by the plate-glass window. The woman begins by introducing herself and her fellow announcer, who also happens to be her sister. “We’ve seen so many parades. We were born and grew up not too far from here.” An eager playfulness tugs at her next words. “How many of you come every year to the parade?”

A chorus of support rises, hands shooting skyward, smiles wrapped around words.

“How many of you believe that the holiday season doesn’t really start until the parade?”

Again, cheers rising toward the starry sky.

“How many of you have come from out of state?”

I whoop this time and am shocked to hear how many voices echo mine. The locals smile encouragingly at us. We’re welcome here, tugged from all directions by the same love for the mountains that beats inside the hearts of those who live in their shadows.

“How many of you have come from out of the country?” Now the announcer is laughing, expecting little response to this absurd question—but a family across the street from me cups hands to mouths and cries, “South Africa!”

South Africa! “They win the prize,” my mother laughs, shaking her head. Others agree, and a cheer rises for the family who’s traveled so far. And then the announcer returns to her script, detailing the first floats we’ll see. But as a wreath-decked SUV leads the parade, the Estes Park mayor waving wildly from its window, I’m still caught on the significance of what I’ve just witnessed.

It’s a small-town parade in a humble mountain community where the year-round population is under six thousand people and the closest sizable town is thirty curvy mountain miles away. Yet this single evening—this homegrown celebration—has drawn a family from across the world.

And not just them, but twenty thousand others. That’s the number they told me, the prediction I read on the blurred-ink pages of the Estes Park newspaper last night in the grocery store. Twenty thousand—the average attendance for this parade.

And what an odd assortment we are, disciples in our mountain mecca tonight. The two women to my right—the faithful devotees who’ve seen dozens of these parades but never let the magic die. The couple to my left—the young lady who’s lived on the fringes of the Front Range yet never embraced belonging until tonight. The tourists who chanted the name of their state in response to the announcer’s question. And of course, the family who’s come from nearly ten thousand miles away.

And what about me? I’m no exception. My family and I loaded up our motorhome and drove a perilous and patience-testing route—braving the bitter winter winds of Kansas, single-digit temperatures across the Plains, and an ice-pelting snowstorm on the outskirts of the Rockies. We traveled eleven hundred miles into the harsh teeth of winter, all to celebrate this holiday in the mountains, all to be here, now, at this coordinate in time and place.

And I can’t help but realize the truth, the obvious one, dangling in the winter air. This is about more than a parade, isn’t it? No mere Hallmark movie moment could pull us so hard, could collect all these scattered souls so irresistibly. What has beckoned us all here?

The fire trucks drive by, the scarlet splashing over us on the sidelines, and I think I know the answer. For a parade that promises we’ll Catch the Glow, we’ve come for one reason only—the light.

Because winter in the mountains, or anywhere, isn’t the most joyous season. It’s stubborn like frozen door hinges, hostile like a slap from subfreezing winds. It’s bitter like the crust of snow along the streets, sharp like the ice that slices the streams. Even here in Estes Park, the night is black, deep-dyed in darkness, and the cold presses numbing fingers against my face. But in the midst of this darkness, twenty thousand people have gathered to celebrate the light—to light a spark and Catch the Glow.

And isn’t that what we’re all looking for anyway, in these dark and desperate times?

We’re looking for light because we’re frantic to find it. We’ve reached the end of our rope or the bottom of our barrel, and the moment is just too black to bear. We crave only one thing—just one—the light. The light that can dent the despair and lay a soothing touch on our souls. I am here. I see you. Things will get better. You are not lost. You will be okay.

And so we begin our quest for that light. Maybe we don’t fly around the world to attend a parade, but we still have our strategies. We search for it in our circumstances, certain some external source can stifle the void. Perhaps we collect achievements or possessions or accolades. Or maybe we pine for the dreams that ache just out of reach: the parents we always wanted, the job we can only dream about, the sibling we should have had, the love we can’t seem to find.

But no matter where we look, the sobering fact remains—no external source can yield a permanent light. The artificial spark we might coax from our surroundings is simply too fragile to stand up to the dark. And just as a single burned-out bulb can short-circuit an entire strand of Christmas lights, just one disappointment or disaster can blow out our manmade light and leave us blinking in the dark.

So where do we go? When we can’t find enough light in our circumstances? When not even a holiday parade that draws twenty thousand people is enough to jumpstart our joy? What do we do then?

We pause—and we hear the promise.

“The people dwelling in darkness have seen a great light, and for those dwelling in the region and shadow of death, on them a light has dawned” (Matthew 4:16 ESV).

Don’t you hear it? The way God’s smile curves around these words? The way His light shatters your darkness and spills over your night sky and rains down upon you like a rescue of shooting stars?

Because notice who has seen the light. Not the people who have traveled great distances. Not the people who look flawless on Instagram feeds. Not the people who have deserved it by their noble actions.

No—the light is promised not to the perfect, but to the pained. To the people who have sat in darkness. The people who have huddled with heartbreak and limped with loss and wailed underneath their own starless skies.

I’ve been one of those people, and I’m sure you have too. We’ve all sat in suffocating shadows. We’ve all broken with despair in the darkness. But it’s for us—for us who dread the darkness—that the Light has come.

And what freedom that brings! No more searching. No more yearning. No more useless hopes and dashed dreams and futile pursuits. No more reaching for the Light—because He has reached for us.  That’s the hope of Christmas. No matter your dark night—He comes. No matter where you’ve looked for false light—He comes. No matter how lost you feel—He comes.

In Him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

I stood there at the parade and felt myself catch the glow, felt the light warming my own shivering soul. And I looked up—beyond the sparkle of the parade—to where the stars were brighter still.