Light from Light

For weeks, I wondered what “Light from Light” really meant—until one night, it became clear.

In our midst

During Mass, Catholics recite either the Apostles’ Creed or the Nicene Creed. The Nicene Creed, formulated by the early Church in the fourth century, summarises the core beliefs of the Christian faith about God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit and salvation.

This is the first part of the passage about Jesus:

I believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only begotten son of God, born of the Father before all ages, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father; through him all things were made.

For several weeks, I found myself returning to the phrase “Light from Light.” What would I say if someone asked me what it actually meant?

I didn't know.

Each time the question surfaced, I would think about it briefly, and then it would fade again. The answer never came.

Until one evening.

It was around midnight, and as usual, Naomi was still awake.

At night, her discomfort always intensified, making it hard for her to fall asleep, even though she was exhausted. Sometimes she stayed awake until six in the morning. So each night, we sat with her for hours, trying to comfort her and help her rest.

That evening, Paulina sat beside Naomi, praying over her. I lay at the foot of the bed, following the prayer with my eyes closed.

Then suddenly, I saw a beam of bright white light emerging from the wall.

It passed between Paulina and Naomi and extended toward me—like a searchlight in misty air, the entire beam luminous. It didn’t move; it simply remained steady.

There was no source. No lamp. No window. Only a wall.

I felt the urge to open my eyes, but I didn't. I was afraid the light would disappear.

Then I realised something even stranger.

Although my eyes were closed, I could see Paulina. I could see Naomi. I could see the entire room—as if my eyes were open.

But they weren’t.

And I wasn’t asleep.

I just watched.

The light was bright, but not blinding. Gentle, yet unmistakably present. It didn’t overwhelm me. I calmed me.

Then suddenly a second light appeared.

This one was different—not a beam, but a swirling mass, like a bundle of fibre-optic threads shaped as a wreath. Bright points glowed at the ends, while the whole form radiated a warm white light.

It moved actively over Naomi’s body, alive with motion, tiny points of light sparking in all directions.

It was beautiful. I watched in amazement.

Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it swept away.

Moments later, the beam of light gently faded and disappeared as well.

While I was still trying to process what had happened, Paulina stood up, looked at Naomi, and quietly left the room.

I opened my eyes and sat up.

Naomi was asleep.

Not restless. Not tense. No eye twitching, no teeth grinding, no contractions—none of the usual signs of discomfort.

Just peace.

I stayed for a while, expecting her to wake. But she didn't.

So I quietly left the room and went to our bedroom, where Paulina was already in bed, just about to turn off the light.

“Wait,” I said. “I think I saw something.”

“What is it?” she asked, tired.

“I saw a light…”

Unimpressed, she pulled the blanket up. “Okay, I’m going to sleep.”

I wasn’t ready to sleep.

I went to the study and sat down, trying to make sense of what I had seen.

As I tried to describe the beam of light, one word came to mind: steadfast. It reminded me of Christ’s steadfastness, and His promise to be present when we gather in His name:

“For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.” (Matthew 18:20)

Then something became clear.

The beam of light was Jesus, present in our midst. And the active, moving light was the Holy Spirit.

That explained the peace.

If someone were to ask me now what that phrase means, I would say this: I have seen that Light. Jesus is Light. The purest and most beautiful Light. A Light that comforts, heals, and gently drives out darkness, doubt and fear.

I felt grateful to have been given a glimpse of the invisible. To experience once more that Jesus is truly present—and that his presence is not distant or symbolic, but real, dependable and unwavering.

Steadfast.

In times of joy, in times when he feels absent and perhaps especially in times of suffering.

We might not see him, but he is there.

________

The gift →