Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Nightlight ~


There’s a light, there’s a light in the darkness
And the black of the night cannot harm us
We can trust not to fear, for our comfort is near
There’s a light, there’s a light, in the darkness

(Beth Nielsen Chapman)


There is a light, a light in the darkness.

I bought it at Ross a few weeks ago for $4.99. My first nightlight since I was toddling around in diapers. It’s crafted out of cut mocha-brown glass, and when darkness falls on my 830 square feet of living space, the mosaic pattern shimmers against the periwinkle color of my bedroom walls.

My need for a nightlight has come on slowly over the past few years. I’ve always been a girl who doesn’t mind the dark. Oregon is a good spot for me. I can be the tiniest bit grouchy when the temperature creeps up past 80 degrees. Give me some cloud cover, a little mist, a bit of sun playing hide-and- seek, and I’m just fine. I am comfortable under the steely-gray of a blustery sky. I savor a dark, chilly night with a blanket, a latte, and my puppy dog.

And yet, over the past few years I began to sense a change. The dark started to feel, well, really, really dark. I imagine there are a few reasons that account for this change: the “bad” news being “extra-extra-read-all-about-it-bad”, the false comforts I may have relied on showing themselves for the counterfeits they are, and the fact that I’m on the short list to receive my invitation to join AARP (hey, I’ll take a discount where I can get it, but really, AARP?! I’m there already?) It’s possible that some of the neurons firing around in my brain, the ones that have made me a lover of the cozy-dark are, how can I say this delicately? …changing.

I mentioned my unsettled night-time feelings to a friend, and she took me nightlight shopping. I plugged in my mosaic Ross-find late that night after everything in my house was tucked in. I loved how the reflection danced along the vase across the room, the mirror above my dresser, even the brushed nickel accents of the ceiling lamp. I settled in and went to sleep, easily, for the first time in several weeks. The shades, the shadows, the weight of the darkness didn’t bother me for the first time in many bedtimes. There was light.

A few months ago I went to see the ‘Narnia’ exhibit at OMSI. I was captivated enough by the maps and the movie props, the interactive displays and the life-size costumes. But Aslan, that good and wild lion, was nowhere to be found, his presence in the fantastical stories given hardly a mention. I expressed my disenchantment to my sister, who has read the C.S. Lewis books several times. I told her that all I really wanted was to walk into the exhibit hall and see Aslan; to hear his voice, to bury my head in his mane and to hear him say that all would be well soon enough. When I told her how I felt, she replied with a quote that may have come from Lewis himself: “Just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean he wasn’t there.”

I’ve heard preachers declare that the phrase found most often in the Bible is “don’t be afraid”. My own version of an in-depth Biblical word-study (Google) tells me that the word “afraid” does appear over and again in Scripture. It shows up like this: “He was afraid”. “She was afraid”. “They were afraid”. I can’t imagine God the Father, the Son or the Holy Spirit being fans of preaching to the choir, so “don’t be afraid” must have been words of comfort, encouragement and hope to fearful people.

“God is light; in Him there is no darkness at all.” (I John 1:5)

God is light. There is darkness. That’s the tension we live in. There are shades and shadows; there is a weight to the darkness that we all encounter. And yet, I believe that in the dark, those good and wild words, “don’t be afraid”, aren’t so much a marching order but an invitation: “I know you are afraid, come to Me.” “I’m afraid.” “I know.” “I’m afraid.” “I know.”

The nightlight doesn’t make the bad news any better. It doesn’t change the truth that I’ve let myself be misled from time to time about where my comfort lies. And it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not getting any younger. And yet, the shimmer of the nightlight reminds my heart that God is present, even in the dark.

I don’t see Him, but that doesn’t mean He isn’t there.

God is light. And in Him, there is no darkness. None at all.

There’s a light, there’s a light in the darkness
And the black of the night cannot harm us
We can trust not to fear, for our comfort is near
There’s a light, there’s a light, in the darkness