A Light in the Window: The Kind of Love I Still Believe In

A dollar and seventy-five cents, an unexpected conversation, and a Christmas spent alone became a song about hope — and the kind of love I still want to come home to.

I wrote a Christmas song called “A Light in the Window.”

It began with $1.75.

Last Christmas Eve, I was standing in a store when the man ahead of me was struggling to pay for his things. He was short, so I gave him the $1.75 he needed.

It felt a little like one of those moments from “The Christmas Shoes” — a small exchange at a checkout counter that suddenly becomes something much bigger.

Then he started telling me about his life.

What he shared was gut-wrenching. A moment earlier, I’d known nothing about him. Suddenly, I was listening to someone carry years of his life into a conversation neither of us had planned.

That encounter stayed with me.

A Christmas Alone

I spent last Christmas alone. Completely alone.

There’s something about being alone at Christmas that makes you notice the space around you. So much of the season is built around being together: the meals, the traditions, the photographs, the familiar voices coming through the door. You understand how much those things mean when you’re spending the day by yourself.

Between that conversation in the store and my own experience of the holiday, I had feelings I wanted to put somewhere.

The encounter became the starting point for a song about a man, a light, and the hope that someone he loves might still find their way home.

We ended up recording “A Light in the Window” in June. Months away from Christmas, the loneliness, the kindness, and that stubborn little bit of hope were still there.

And now, the song is making its way into a Lifetime movie.

It’s remarkable to think about how far a small moment can travel. A dollar and seventy-five cents. An unexpected conversation. A Christmas I spent alone. Those things became a song, and that song is finding a place in another story.

A Light in the Window — Song Preview

A Light in the Window — The Lyrics

Christmas Eve, snow coming down, Last store open on the edge of town. I was standing in line with a cart full of things— Wrapping paper, toys, and a spool of string.

There was an old man standing ahead of me, Holding one candle and a plastic wreath. The cashier said, “Sir, you’re a little short.” He smiled and whispered, “I don’t need much more.”

I reached in my pocket, laid the money down. He looked at me like I’d turned his whole world around. Then he held that candle close to his chest, Said, “Son, you don’t know what you just helped me get.”

I thought it was just a candle, ’Til he told me why it burned.

He said, “I leave a light in the window every Christmas Eve, Just in case somebody I love still needs to find me. Through the snow, through the years, Through the miles and through the tears, Hope’s the one thing I still believe.

“So while there’s breath in these old bones, Nobody I love is ever too far gone. I’ll leave a light in the window Every Christmas Eve.”

He said, “I had a boy about your age, A hard-headed kid with a heart full of rage. We fought one night; I said things I regret. He slammed that door, and I ain’t seen him yet.

“Thirty-one Christmases have come and gone. Still, I leave that window light on. My wife used to tell me, ‘Let the past be past,’ But she went to Heaven two winters back.

“She made me promise before she closed her eyes, ‘Don’t let that light go dark outside. He may come home when you least expect, And if he does, make sure he knows he’s welcome yet.’”

“So I leave a light in the window every Christmas Eve, Just in case somebody I love still needs to find me. Through the snow, through the years, Through the miles and through the tears, Hope’s the one thing I still believe.

“So while there’s breath in these old bones, Nobody I love is ever too far gone. I’ll leave a light in the window Every Christmas Eve.”

I helped him load his things outside, Watched that old Ford disappear into the night. Something about him wouldn’t leave my mind, So I followed those taillights a little while.

He pulled up slow to a weathered home, Hung that wreath by the door alone. Lit that candle, set it where it shined, Then stood on the porch looking down the drive.

I was turning around when headlights came. An old pickup stopped at the end of the lane. A man stepped out with silver in his hair, And that old man froze when he saw him there.

No words at first, Just thirty-one years Breaking loose In two men’s tears.

“Dad, can I come home?” He pulled him near. “Son, you never stopped Having a home here.”

There was a light in the window that Christmas Eve, And a lost son finally found his way home. Through the hurt, through the years, Through the miles and all the tears, Love was waiting there all along.

So if there’s someone you still believe Might come home one Christmas Eve, Leave a light in the window. Leave a light in the window This Christmas Eve.

Leave a light in the window. Let it shine through the night. You never know who’s out there Looking for that light.

Love That Makes Room

As we come up on Christmas again, I keep thinking about that light. What it means to leave one burning. To believe somebody might see it. To make a place feel welcoming before you know whether anyone is coming.

That is the kind of love I still believe in.

Love that makes room.

A place at the table. An invitation someone feels comfortable accepting. A familiar voice on the phone asking, “What are you doing for Christmas?” and taking the time to hear the answer.

When I gave that man $1.75, I had no idea a conversation would follow. He needed a little help, and I could give it. Then he chose to tell me something about himself.

I keep thinking about how many people we pass without knowing what they’re carrying. We see someone standing in line, loading a car, walking through a store. There may be a whole history behind the most ordinary moment of their day.

Sometimes a little kindness gives them room to speak. Sometimes being willing to listen is the most important thing we can offer.

We’ve Got Room If You’d Like to Come

Christmas brings those feelings closer to the surface. People remember who used to sit where. They think about traditions they’ve kept, places they’ve left, and people they would love to hear from.

A song can bring someone back to you for a few minutes. So can the smell of something cooking, or an ornament you’ve unpacked for years without thinking about why you always keep it.

The season holds a lot of memory. It also holds a lot of expectation: full houses, crowded tables, people coming home. When you’re spending Christmas alone, those pictures can make the day feel especially quiet.

Having spent last Christmas completely by myself, I’m more aware of that now.

I think about the person who hasn’t mentioned their plans because there aren’t any. The person who says they’ll be fine and means it, but would still be grateful for an invitation. The person who would love to hear, “We’ve got room if you’d like to come.”

There is so much warmth in that sentence.

The Home I’m Still Hoping For

And this kind of love is something I long for in my own life.

I want a wife. I want a family.

I want the shared life inside those words: familiar voices in another room, plans made together, a table with places that belong to the people I love. Christmas traditions we make our own. Ordinary evenings that become precious simply because we spend them together.

More than anything, I want the joy of coming home and having someone to hold.

I picture walking through the door, setting down whatever I’m carrying, and reaching for her. Feeling her arms close around me. Holding her long enough to feel us both settle into the embrace.

I want to be glad to see her and feel that same gladness coming back to me. To ask about her day while my arms are still around her. To feel her lean into me and know we’re both happy to be there.

I want to hear her coming through the door, too, and turn toward that sound with the kind of happiness she can see on my face.

I want us to build a family around that warmth. A home where affection is easy to find, where people are listened to, where there’s room for laughter and room to arrive tired.

I think about a Christmas evening in that home: dinner in the kitchen, lights glowing against the windows, the comfortable sounds of a life being shared. Somewhere in the middle of it, I get to pull my wife close and feel grateful that this is our life.

That is a future I want with my whole heart.

I want someone to feel wanted in my company. To know I’m glad she came, that I’m interested in what she has to say, and that there is room for her to be herself.

There’s a tenderness in becoming a place where another person can rest.

I think the light in the song carries some of that feeling. It gives someone a direction. It says there is warmth here. Someone has thought about you and made room for the possibility of seeing you again.

For me, it also shines toward a life I hope to build.

Someone to Share the Light With

I’m in Hawaii now, surrounded by a landscape that gives me plenty of reasons to stop and pay attention. The water, the changing sky, the way an evening can soften everything for a few minutes.

Sunsets are my favorite thing.

There is always a point when I wish I could turn to someone and say, “Are you seeing this?”

I think that question holds a lot of love inside it. Wanting to share something beautiful. Wanting to know what another person notices. Being glad that, for a little while, you’re standing in the same place, watching the same light.

Leave a Light in the Window

As Christmas gets closer, I hope I remember to make those moments available to other people. To reach out. To ask about someone’s plans. To listen closely enough to notice when I might have something to offer.

It might be dinner. A phone call. A few minutes of attention when someone has something they need to say.

Or it might be $1.75 at a checkout counter.

That small exchange gave me a conversation I carried with me, and eventually a song.

“A Light in the Window” grew into a story about hope, belonging, and a welcome that lasted through the years. Writing it gave me somewhere to put the loneliness I felt last Christmas, along with the love I still wanted to express.

And now, as another Christmas approaches, that is what I want to carry forward.

A little more attention. A little more room at the table. A willingness to say, “I’m glad you’re here,” and make someone feel it.

That’s the kind of love I still believe in.

And it’s the love I’m still hoping to come home to.

— Topher Ryan

topherryan.com