How love shown in the darkest nights can lead to brighter days

This is a column by Mark Murphy, a Savannah physician, author and a regular contributor to the Savannah Morning News.

The worst Christmas I can ever remember wasn’t one marked by the COVID-19 pandemic. Instead, it was 40 years ago this month, during a dark time when the last embers of my childhood were snuffed out in a single instant.

It started with a phone call.

When the phone in my Athens apartment rang—a nondescript Ma Bell landline, because only rich people had cell phones in those days—I picked it up immediately, because that’s what you did.

“Hello?” I said.

On the other end, I heard my mother’s voice. She was crying.

“Mark, Larry Dillon died today,” she said. Her words were barely a whisper.

Dumbfounded, I sat down, disbelieving.

Larry Dillon was the father of my soon-to-be wife Daphne. A popular high school football star at Benedictine during the 1940s, he ran the Outpost Lounge (now the Six Pence Pub) downtown. Everybody knew him.

Just like that, he was gone.

Up to that point, I had led a blessed life. My parents loved me, I had good health, and I had somehow avoided all the adolescent traps that ensnare so many young people. My life ‘s greatest blessing, just as it is today, was the love of the young woman who would eventually become my wife. Daphne was only 19 then. She was beautiful, intelligent and incredibly sweet, and she loved her daddy. He loved her back, too.

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I remain convinced that unconditional parental love is perhaps the most critical element in molding children into well-rounded adults.

You must understand something here: I knew even then that Daphne’s destiny and mine were inextricably intertwined. I first told her mother we’d marry someday when we were only 14.

As a result, the burden of Larry’s unexpected death hit me hard. No longer just the boyfriend, not just the guy who took Daphne to Pizza Hut and movies on Saturday nights, I was suddenly the most important man in her life. Henceforth and forevermore, I would have to be her protector, her confidante, her sounding board and her rock—all roles her father had served so well for nearly two decades. Would I be able to do these things for her? Could I be that man?

I honestly did not know.

At Larry’s funeral, on a cold, gray winter’s day a few days later, I stood at his graveside in the Catholic Cemetery with my arm around Daphne’s shoulders, holding her upright as they lowered the heavy metal casket into the ground. At the very moment that my father-in-law’s body was consigned back to the earth, I made a silent promise to Larry that I would I indeed be that man, honoring his legacy by taking care of his daughter until the end of our days.

Grief consumed Daphne and her mother that year. There was no wreath, no Christmas tree and no holiday decoration of any sort. Everything in their lives had turned to ashes in an instant. They had lost even the faintest glimmer of hope.

On Christmas Eve, I drove my Chevy Monza over to Daffin Park and snatched up the very last tree on the Jaycees’ Christmas tree lot.

“Just take it,” the tree vendor said with a grin. “Merry Christmas.”

Early Christmas morning, in the predawn darkness, I motored over to Daphne’s house and erected the lopsided, crooked little tree on her front lawn, decorating it with tinsel and a random assortment of second-tier ornaments which had not made the cut at our house. As the sun came up, I rang the doorbell and hid behind a hedge at the edge of the yard

Daphne and her mother came to the door in their bathrobes. I could see their breath congealing in thin trails of vapor around their heads. At first, they looked puzzled. But then I heard something wonderful.

It was laughter.

I’d not heard Daphne laugh in weeks. That sound was the most joyous thing I’d ever heard.

The last 40 years have gone by rather quickly. Daphne and I went away to school, married and raised two sons, then shared our sons with two wonderful women. I returned home to Savannah 27 years ago to begin my medical practice, and I’ve been able to help a few people to heal along the way.

We’ve been blessed, for certain, but life hasn’t been perfect. My mother died unexpectedly at age 50. Daphne was diagnosed with lymphoma and breast cancer. The COVID pandemic, going on for nearly two years now, has been especially difficult for those of us in the medical profession.

Just this past year, we’ve lost good friends like David Byck, John Davis and Herbie Curry, each gone far too soon. Dealing with that sort of loss this time of year can be particularly difficult.

The holidays are a curious amalgamation of joy and stress. We put up our trees, buy gifts and host family members. But there is a certain critical element of the Christmas season which does not reside in decorations, tinsel or twinkling lights.

That critical element is love.

Love is God’s greatest gift to humanity. God’s love for us, and the reflection of that love amongst ourselves, represents the ultimate victory of light over darkness, and of life over death.

As Daphne and I discovered 40 years ago, the profound power of love resides in its ability to remind each of us that even in the bleakest of times, there is always hope.

So here’s a recommendation: If you are able to spend precious time with loved ones during this holiday season, utter a prayer of thanks. If you encounter someone less fortunate, try to do something to brighten their day. And if you are sad or depressed, remember that the night is always darkest just before the dawn.

Merry Christmas, everyone, and may God bless you all.

This article originally appeared on Savannah Morning News: Christmas is about reflecting God's love to one another