Winter's light Feb. 2007
The anticipated snow began to fall earlier than expected and my drive home in the early winter dark is on roads slick with a deadly mix of fresh snow and sleet. The cars creep over slick overpasses and follow one another in just one narrow lane of the wide roadway, a lane visible only by tracks on the dirty brown surface. I pass cars trapped in the snow-filled median and soon I meet an ambulance slowly pulling away from a tangle of cars caught in an icy patch.
I'm anxious to be home yet I can't help but wonder what will greet me. Will my teen age son be silent and sullen again? When will it feel good to go home? My heart feels heavy as I carefully enter our long, dark driveway and pray my way up the hill. And as I turn the corner, the house stands welcoming, the lights gleaming softly in the gently falling snow. Home--where the lights beckon.
But home is too quiet now. The older children are gone and my husband's death only months ago has left this house much too large for a single woaman and a teen age boy. I call to him and he briefly pops his head outl to acknowledge me, to decline food and to retreat again to his room.
I sigh and switch on more lights. A small lamp gives light to a corner near the stairs. A cabinet light highlights the collected treasures of the past and also fills the shadows in the foyer. I turn up the lights in the kitchen and find soup to warm and a book to read. The evening passes, the night falls and the dark envelopes house and presses close to my heart.
Rising stiffly from my chair, I resign myself to bed. Even without school in the morning, I am letting Paul stay up much too late. I need to connect with him and now it is too often awkward, fragile. Lamps in a house does not insure we are still family; my husband's illness and death has left such a gap. And as I turn off the lights, one by one, I pray for light, for clarity, for the hope that light represents.
I pause before heading upstairs to wrestle another night and remember my own words to a friend, "I so need beauty in this season, to know that there is order and loveliness in this barren time." My heart is heavy as I step to the patio door and look at the gray scene. The deck is covered with new snow, the chairs have full white seats, the railings are capped with their narrow ribbons of snow. I know in the morning, when the sun eventually returns, I will see beauty. Tonight, it is just cold and dark. But impulsively I reach for a switch and the scene is transformed.
The strings of Christmas lights, left over from a summer celebration, twinkle like strands of stars around this sudden sanctuary. The warm light bathes a deck covered with a blanket of purity and the scene is full of beauty and promise. The railings are friendly boundaries, steady tracks topped with pristine white. The light shines down on the wall of stacked blocks and reveals the pattern and texture in the orderly rows. The trees become sturdy sentinels with lights wound around their trunks, guarding my secret garden. The beauty is revealed when I chose to turn on the light.
Can I choose light for my dark heart as well? God's light is always available, His face is always turned to me. His light beckons me to again; He waits to welcome me and He is patient with me as I struggle to light the dark corners in my mind with my own strength and determination.
We refer to Jesus as the Light of the world. Such familiar words but I forget that means MY world; following Him means I will not walk in darkness but that I will have the Light of life. The light that reveals the beauty that awaits under the cloak of darkness, the cloak of my sorrow.
I choose to turn once more to Him, to choose the beauty of His presence, the life of His light and the warmth of that light floods the garden of my heart. I know once more that I am safe, I am home. For this night, I can both lie down and sleep in peace.
I leave the light and go up the stairs to Paul's room. I hesitate but when I enter, he is laughing at something and we share the story he finds so funny. He fills me in on details that I care little about, I'm just grateful to hear his voice, to connect over something, anything. I remind him of the new fallen snow and the canceled school day. He comes with me into the darkness of the hall and together we look out the windows and see the glow of the tiny lights filling the small space just outside our house. We talk of light and space, of the future-abstract and complex, of snow and winter. We say nothing and stay, our arms lightly touching as we lean on the railing and we connect as the light shines its beauty on our deck and our Lord shines His beauty in our hearts. We are home.
The anticipated snow began to fall earlier than expected and my drive home in the early winter dark is on roads slick with a deadly mix of fresh snow and sleet. The cars creep over slick overpasses and follow one another in just one narrow lane of the wide roadway, a lane visible only by tracks on the dirty brown surface. I pass cars trapped in the snow-filled median and soon I meet an ambulance slowly pulling away from a tangle of cars caught in an icy patch.
I'm anxious to be home yet I can't help but wonder what will greet me. Will my teen age son be silent and sullen again? When will it feel good to go home? My heart feels heavy as I carefully enter our long, dark driveway and pray my way up the hill. And as I turn the corner, the house stands welcoming, the lights gleaming softly in the gently falling snow. Home--where the lights beckon.
But home is too quiet now. The older children are gone and my husband's death only months ago has left this house much too large for a single woaman and a teen age boy. I call to him and he briefly pops his head outl to acknowledge me, to decline food and to retreat again to his room.
I sigh and switch on more lights. A small lamp gives light to a corner near the stairs. A cabinet light highlights the collected treasures of the past and also fills the shadows in the foyer. I turn up the lights in the kitchen and find soup to warm and a book to read. The evening passes, the night falls and the dark envelopes house and presses close to my heart.
Rising stiffly from my chair, I resign myself to bed. Even without school in the morning, I am letting Paul stay up much too late. I need to connect with him and now it is too often awkward, fragile. Lamps in a house does not insure we are still family; my husband's illness and death has left such a gap. And as I turn off the lights, one by one, I pray for light, for clarity, for the hope that light represents.
I pause before heading upstairs to wrestle another night and remember my own words to a friend, "I so need beauty in this season, to know that there is order and loveliness in this barren time." My heart is heavy as I step to the patio door and look at the gray scene. The deck is covered with new snow, the chairs have full white seats, the railings are capped with their narrow ribbons of snow. I know in the morning, when the sun eventually returns, I will see beauty. Tonight, it is just cold and dark. But impulsively I reach for a switch and the scene is transformed.
The strings of Christmas lights, left over from a summer celebration, twinkle like strands of stars around this sudden sanctuary. The warm light bathes a deck covered with a blanket of purity and the scene is full of beauty and promise. The railings are friendly boundaries, steady tracks topped with pristine white. The light shines down on the wall of stacked blocks and reveals the pattern and texture in the orderly rows. The trees become sturdy sentinels with lights wound around their trunks, guarding my secret garden. The beauty is revealed when I chose to turn on the light.
Can I choose light for my dark heart as well? God's light is always available, His face is always turned to me. His light beckons me to again; He waits to welcome me and He is patient with me as I struggle to light the dark corners in my mind with my own strength and determination.
We refer to Jesus as the Light of the world. Such familiar words but I forget that means MY world; following Him means I will not walk in darkness but that I will have the Light of life. The light that reveals the beauty that awaits under the cloak of darkness, the cloak of my sorrow.
I choose to turn once more to Him, to choose the beauty of His presence, the life of His light and the warmth of that light floods the garden of my heart. I know once more that I am safe, I am home. For this night, I can both lie down and sleep in peace.
I leave the light and go up the stairs to Paul's room. I hesitate but when I enter, he is laughing at something and we share the story he finds so funny. He fills me in on details that I care little about, I'm just grateful to hear his voice, to connect over something, anything. I remind him of the new fallen snow and the canceled school day. He comes with me into the darkness of the hall and together we look out the windows and see the glow of the tiny lights filling the small space just outside our house. We talk of light and space, of the future-abstract and complex, of snow and winter. We say nothing and stay, our arms lightly touching as we lean on the railing and we connect as the light shines its beauty on our deck and our Lord shines His beauty in our hearts. We are home.
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