Light.

Day.
The powerful Texas sun is shining down.  We are busy, fingernails quite black, planting flowers in places they might not get mowed down.  We are a family of black thumbs!  But we do love flowers and playing outside in the dirt with a stick (Toddler's roll in gardening).  


After an unusually long time in the brilliant (often relentless) Texas sun I meander into our little garden shed to find some seeds and gardeny stuff.  Oh, the sudden darkness!  I cannot see!  I turn on the dim light and there is no helping it, I am blind.  It is so awfully dark my eyes ache. I close them, open them.  I can see just fine.  There is plenty of light to see with.


Night.
There are no lights on in the house, the blinds are shut, alarm clocks with lit displays must be covered over. (Actually, that species of alarm clock has been long extinct in our corner of the world.) Lights at night drive me crazy!  Little lights: Stereos, alarm clocks, phones, or, cursed blindingly bright night lights in the bathroom that light up the entire hallway as well as our bedroom. Little lights at night burn through my eyelids and beam into my retinae.  Little lights make the room obnoxiously bright as day.


Traveling.
All the lights in the house are on.  One by one, Toddler and I turn them off.  We did not plan our route well. The light to his room is on, but we are far away in the kitchen, standing by the last light switch to be turned off.  There is a minefield of tables and couches and chairs and blocks to be stepped on in our journey to Toddler's room.  I flip the switch off, it's pitch black.  "Whew!" I exclaim. The light goes back on. I look to see if Toddler is startled, not in the least. "You ready?" I ask.  "Go toward the light ok?"  Taking a last look to plan our route to avoid pre-bedtime bruises and tears, I flick the switch and we travel our happy little journey in the dark, hand in hand.  When we get to his room, the light is momentarily blinding.  


His Light
Day. I enter from glorious worship--study, a beautiful time of silence and prayer, a moment of song-- into the mundane routine of diapers and dishes. The contrast is wrenching and vast.  I feel suddenly forsaken, beneath an eclipse of routine so thick I am overcome. "Where are You, God?" I ask,  "Where did heaven go?"  In a pause and a prayer He is still there. There is plenty of light.


Night. In a time of darkness and anguish I am weaker, more susceptible to sin, true. But, I excuse sin during dark times as though it is an accident, like stubbing my toe in the dark.  His light is brighter than that oh-so-annoying nightlight in the darkness.  His Light cannot be covered or unplugged.  I shut my eyes and say "Leave me be." His light is so bright it burns into my soul and I remain without excuse: All my sin is willful.


Traveling. "Hold my hand, it will be dark for you." He says.  "Here is the light, a moment of holiness and ease. Keep your eyes open, read, listen. It will be dark soon, but only for a little while. I will not leave you. Hold my hand. Keep your eyes on me."  Even the darkest times hold such precious, happy moments of trust.  I am His child.

Psalm 119:105-112

Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light for 

         my path.

I have taken an oath and confirmed it, that 

I will follow your 

         righteous laws.

I have suffered much, preserve my life, O LORD, according to 

        your word.

Accept, O LORD, the willing praise of my mouth and teach me 

          your laws.

Though I constantly 

take my life in my hands, 

        I will not forget your law.

The wicked have set a snare for me,

but I have not strayed from your precepts.

Your statutes are my heritage forever;

they are the joy of my heart.

My heart is set on keeping your decrees

to the very end.