From a column for The Ontario Farmer. For those outside Ontario (or Canada), Boxing Day is the day after Christmas. My drive took me into the province’s “snow belt”, where cold winds coming off the Great Lakes generate hefty snowfalls and “whiteout” conditions. 

It’s tougher to keep track of dates as the years pile up, but I think it was 31 years ago, this Boxing Day, that I saw the Christmas star. Not the Christmas Star, mind you – not the one that drew Wise Men from the Orient. This was just a Christmas star, lit by electric light, mounted high on a silo on a farm south of Grand Valley.

It was a beacon, nonetheless. I was in my mom’s old Pontiac LeMans, spinning north in a snow squall so thick you could hardly see the yard lights in farms along the road. Other drivers were virtually non-existent. Once or twice, I saw a snow plough.

It was a stupid time to be on the road. But I was heading north to meet my girlfriend (now my wife, Sue) and a combination of love and youth had disabled the risk-management centre in my brain. Danged if a little snow was going to keep me from getting to Grey County. So after the dishes had been put away at a Christmas dinner at my aunt’s in Oakville, I excused myself, hopped in the car, found some leftover Christmas carols on the radio, and took off.

Visibility was bad. At one point what I thought was a flashing Christmas light display turned out to a snow plough parked on the shoulder of the road. In fact, it was tough to see most light displays, except for that star on the east side of the road. There, someone had climbed a silo, and hung a bright white star over the farm.

Oh beautiful Star of Bethlehem,                                                                                                                    Shining far through shadows dimmed

I was impressed, even though I could only spare a passing glance. It must have taken some effort to climb the silo to make this single, eloquent gesture. And then I drove on.

A year later, I repeated the drive on a cold, clear night. The star was back. I realized I had been looking for it, and the star had become a way station on my journey.

And so a modest tradition was born. As the years multiplied and Christmases passed, Sue and I drove past the star together. First, we were, as they used to say, “an item.” Then we were newlyweds. Then we were young parents with two little boys in car seats.

Twenty years ago we moved north to our own farm, meaning we didn’t drive that highway near Grand Valley so much. But every few years, when we were on that route, we continued to look for the star.

Star of wonder, star of night                                                                                                                                   Star with royal beauty bright

Now I fear the star has disappeared. I can’t remember when I last saw it – maybe ten or 15 years ago? Maybe it’s because we drive that route in the daylight, and so don’t notice the light. Or maybe I can’t remember the right location.

A lot can change in three decades. Did the owner sell the farm? Is he (or she) no longer able to climb the silo and replace bulbs? I wish I could thank the person who put that star up. That small, meaningful gesture has enriched our Christmas travels.

It has also inspired our own farmstead Christmas tradition. When my boys come home from university this Christmas, they’ll see the star over our own barn – one we’ve being lighting for almost 20 years. The fixture begins to glow on the first night of Advent, and shines down on the sheep and cattle inside the barn and yard until Epiphany. It’s a reminder of that first Christmas, of how wondrous things can emerge from unexpected places, and how good news travels even to be such lowly folks as shepherds.

But it’s also in appreciation of the unknown farmer who added light to my Christmas route in 1985. In this season of hope, here’s wishing we will all share in peace and goodwill. As we travel snowy country roads in 2017 and beyond, let’s appreciate the efforts others have made to light our way – and let’s reflect some of that light, ourselves.

Christmas morning sunrise, 2016

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