Golden Moment

I was driving south on Highway 45. Going home to my parents’ house for Thankgiving with the children. The trip is only about 45 minutes, not enough mileage to be considered a real trip, I guess. Still, it was a symbolic trip of sorts, the opportunity to step away from my weekday surroundings and our normal work and school routines. I had spent much of the day working on last minute design projects and gathering clothes, toys, movies, and bedtime favorites for four days away from home. The short drive was my first moment to relax. It’s funny how powerful those moments can be sometimes.

The children had already spent much of their excitement about the trip that morning and one by one drifted off to sleep, lulled by the tires on the pavement. I was alone with my thoughts in transition from the busy-ness of the week and ready for a few unscheduled days. My mind was pressed. It had been a full week of thinking crammed into only two days. I had been in a period of thinking and creating, dealing with stressful situations and my own wrestling leading up to the Thanksgiving holiday. It’s hard to quiet myself during those times.

It had been raining off and on during the morning, so the sky was striped with clouds. The sun had finally dropped below the cloud lines enough to make its appearance. The timing was golden. It was a perfect sphere of light hovering just before its decent into sunset. The glow was what distracted me.

Suddenly, for the first time that day, I was bathed in sunlight. It felt like the first time that week. The first time that month. My light blue shirt was aglow as the western sunbeams streamed into the car window. It’s interesting when light presents itself. It’s unmistakable. It commands attention. It demands to be noticed and given its due. That one shaft of light stunned the noise in my brain into silence.

It made me take a deep breath.

As I looked in the rear-view mirror, I could see each of my gifts. Their faces were turned in odd but restful angles in their seats and shining. The sunlight set them aglow. The same glow I see constant in their spirits through the changes, through the stages, through the brotherly love and scuffles, through the first words and moments of learning, through the bedtime kisses and cheeks pressed against mine. Life. Aglow. A glow that brought into sharp perspective all the efforts of the week, all the commitments, all the decisions, all the needs and wants, all the challenges and joys.

Suddenly, I wasn’t alone with my thoughts anymore. I was alone with the three most precious hearts I’ve ever known.

Moon Shine

Yesterday was an interesting day. I was watching moon shine.

I was actually watching someone watch others in their difficult hours. But it’s sort of like watching moon shine. I’ve been observing and listening to the reactions of a friend who’s been challenged by the troubles of others. It’s an interesting third-party perspective–one that has opened my eyes a bit to the nature of shining.

For those engaged and entwined with the world around them–the people around them–there is an inherent risk. That risk is the inevitable reality of being touched by that world, by those people. The reality is being affected by what rocks that world or what disturbs the peace in those people. I’ve called it the downside of investing in others. It makes you vulnerable to the acute impact of ups and downs. It’s a by-product of giving yourself, your time, your energy. That reality is the true cost of paying attention. And it’s hard to take sometimes. It’s risky. It makes us vulnerable. It renders us helpless in times when we most want to make an impact. Yet, it offers us the greatest opportunity to shine.

Earlier in the week I was driving home and in a bit of a funk. I was frustrated by various situations and taking it out on the steering wheel. Dusk had just slipped by, and the full impact of the darkness had taken control. I had experienced a minor and temporary disappointment, which turned the actual dark of night into a metaphorical darkness of spirit as well. As I made that typical right turn on to Hwy 12, I saw the moon (at the risk of repeating myself). Hanging there in a brief visual respite from the signage and neon found between Taco Bell and the junction at Lousiville Street, that “ruler” of the night was completely full. It was a perfect circumference of light in a sea of cloudless midnight blue. Stunningly bright. Even in the presence of street lights and neon signs and car high beams, it was outstanding.

That full moon simply invaded the night of my mood at that moment. I could not escape the fact of how noticeable it was. I could not escape the fact that I wouldn’t have noticed it at all during the day time. I wouldn’t have noticed it without the pervasive darkness surrounding it. But, thanks to the night, I could see moon shine.

Yesterday was an interesting day. It was an enlightening day. There is a brightness of spirit sometimes found in people that can be quite rare. It shows up as an ability to offer light, peace, hope, or companionship in dark situations. It shines in the ability to be moved by the pain of others–to be moved to simple action. A phone call. A visit. A word to enstill courage. A tear on behalf of another. A shared sorrow. A renewed perspective. A bolstered possibility. I was a third-party to it in observing my friend. A hidden witness to that circumference of light standing in contrast to the night. In being privy to the darkness, I saw moon shine.

It inspired me.

It reminded me of some lessons on the nature of dark and light from last July. A portion of them bears repeating here, in “light” of yesterday’s witness to moon shine:

“Amazingly, light dispels dark rather quickly, efficiently and indiscriminantly. Light is generous, and despite the unfortunate efforts we sometimes impose on ourselves and others, it is uncontained…. the blackest dark loses its way in the presence of even the smallest light. Even a weak light reflecting its true Source spreads with uncommon power. The light I have to share, though small, can and will impact any sphere in which I choose to shine it.”

I aspire to that light. To that kind of shining.

[#17: Just shine.]

5th Day of Thanksgiving: Slices of Light

I saw the crescent moon tonight on my way home, the tiniest sliver of bright edging the shadowed sphere. It’s waxing toward ever more brightness as the days move through this month. It’s just a slice tonight shining for all it’s worth. I can see the whole, but only a tiny piece is lending it’s light. That’s all I need to know it’s there. And that the full brightness is coming.

I’ve been thinking lately about the experiences and relationships that have added their slices of light in my life over the years. Just passing phases and appointed times, fleeting moments and unexpected interruptions. The people and situations that have, for a brief moment, moved me, edging me closer to what I already knew was there. I’m finding it incredibly hard to articulate the impact. And, in some ways I’m processing the loss of their sheer brevity. Times that may have seemed wasted, but were powerfully not.

Whether a word well-spoken, a push in a new direction, an open heart, an unsolicited gift, a need met, a humble correction, a time set aside… It goes on. I’m undeniably thankful for each one–for different reasons, with different outcomes, of course. But thankful nonetheless. Shining all the light you can muster into a moment is an incredible gift. It’s a sacrifice and a risk worth taking.

I’m inspired toward generosity of spirit. In the moments. Toward shining.

Even the Darkness

On Saturday, through a series of perplexing and frustrating circumstances, someone very dear to me almost died. I apologize for neglecting a gentle preface, but I’m still in the state of emotionally catching up. For the last two days, I’ve been in the slow process of processing, switching out of the auto-pilot mode that allowed me to be calm, rational and supportive during a dicey 24-hour period. It was a 24 hours that held wondering, worrying, judging reactions, discerning causes, weighing options, and a few instances of minding somebody else’s business. Confusion is a dark and unknown place. It’s full of fear and concern and resignation.

In the warm light of two days later, our dear one is on the mend. I have been blessed with the opportunity to stand with my mother in support and strength, and I’ve had the chance to fill a gap in serving my father when needed–all the while watching the movie Cars a few times and conducting some of our own hot wheel races. Gentlemen, start your engines. In this warm light, I am also witness to the truth of one of my favorite verses in all of the Bible (psalm 139:12). Again.

“Even the darkness is not dark to You”

Through the weekend, we were blinded by the darkness of confusion, of not understanding what was happening, of not knowing what to do, of not even knowing whether something needed to be done. We found ourselves in the place of being forced to let go, to let it be what it is, to release a situation into more capable Hands. I saw with gratitude (and at the same time horror) that our dear one’s life was probably saved because we decided to hold our ground on one simple act. It could have easily gone the other way. It was the difference between joining the family for supper or going to bed early. As seemingly insignificant as that, life and death are intertwined, light and dark. On your mark, get set.

“and the night is as bright as the day.”

I tend to forget how undeniable and unquenchable the God who is Light really is. Where light is, dark cannot remain. Where God is, there is no dark. And, where isn’t God? There is no confusion that can circumvent His knowledge. There is no dark that can cloak His vision and understanding. Thank God.

“Darkness and light are alike to You.”

Now, there’s a radical concept. I’ve noticed how much time we tend to spend classifying people and things and situations into the light and dark categories– wrong, right, good, bad, yes, and no. In the warm light of this day, the shift of dark to light is refreshingly uneventful. My dad has a favorite memory he shares about his training in the National Guard. He talks about his whole unit being gathered into a pitch black room. He always marvels at how quickly their eyes adjusted, and how easily surroundings and people came into focus after just one small flame was lighted. Amazingly, light dispels dark rather quickly, efficiently and indiscriminantly. Light is generous, and despite the unfortunate efforts we sometimes impose on ourselves and others, it is uncontained.

Of the lessons I can boil down from the dark experience of July 4, the foremost is that people are an all-too-brief gift, treasured daily to glean their full worth. The second is that “God is light and in Him there is no darkness at all.” (1 john 1:5) The third is that the blackest dark loses its way in the presence of even the smallest light. Even a weak light reflecting its true Source spreads with uncommon power. The light I have to share, though small, can and will impact any sphere in which I choose to shine it.

“Even the darkness is not dark to You.” Go.

Saturday Evening, Uncomposed

The loss of our ordinary.

Baby Girl and I drove home at sunset tonight.

A brilliant ball of yellow-hot fire melting into a stoic treeline.  Radiating red giving way to lavender and a nearly cloudless subtle blue sky–the last vestiges of a waning day.  A day representing change.  Complete sentences are hard to muster.

It’s Saturday night.  The night we’ve come to take for granted as a night for family suppers.  Most recently wedged in between loads of laundry, mop sponges and Barney movies.  As has become our habit.  

But this night is different.  Last Saturday my father rocked Baby Girl to sleep in his special way, and then drove home.  The next morning, he had a stroke.  This night, we are not enjoying a family supper.  This night, he’s in a hospital room.  My mother is by his side.  They are not with us.  As had become our habit.  Though, he thinks and speaks more like himself each day, he cannot move in the way he did six days ago.  We hope and plan that he’ll regain most of his skills, but I’m still numbed by the sudden change in reality.  The servant, for the moment, becoming the served.  The strength I’ve assumed my whole life in a weakened state.    The final release of any tightly-held fragments of childhood.  I’ve already begun the thought- and writing-process of recording my testimony of God’s steadfastness, but this comes first.  The mourning of the loss of our ordinary.

I covet the mundane reality of Dreft and Gain alongside conversation and ballgames. In the span of six days, I’ve come to covet the ordinary of a walk down the hall, a drive down the street, sitting at the table for a meal, an unencumbered smile, the familiarity of blue jeans, the sop of bread against your green bean juice, the hand-off of a sleeping baby, the balancing act of carrying five full take-out cups and a drink box, the simplicity of a kiss on the cheek.

The blazing sunset–an ordinary occurence–this night, signals a new ordinary for me and mine.  Maybe temporary, maybe not, but we hope.  In this moment, near is made far by the lack of a physical presence we’ve come to assume.  But, oddly, far of spirit is made near by readjusted priorities and the loss of the ordinary time together we almost forgot to cherish.

It’s Saturday night.  The night that marks the shifting of our ordinary.  The sun setting on the complacency of extraordinary habits that had come to be ordinary.  In the span of 20 miles, the solar spectacular giving way to halogen beams marking the yellow lines to home.  A reminder of the invariable constants.  The comfort of the familiar.  The hope and promise of rising in the morning.  To embrace a renewed ordinary.

It’s not that unusual 
When everything is beautiful 
It’s just another 
Ordinary miracle today 

The sky knows when it’s time to snow 
Don’t need to teach a seed to grow 
It’s just another 
Ordinary miracle today …

Sun comes out and shines so bright 
And disappears again at night 
It’s just another 
Ordinary miracle today 

It’s just another 
Ordinary miracle today

~ from Ordinary Miracle by Sarah McLachlan