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

For the Love of St. Francis ~

by Kathy Douglass

I took my 3-year-old terrier-who-knows-what-else-mix mutt to the park last Sunday for the Blessing of the Animals. Maggie’s been mine for about eight months now, and because she’s been such a gift, such a blast, such a comfort and source of laughter to me, I figured, hey, sure, we’ll do the Blessing.

The Episcopal tradition offers me an invitation to remembrances and celebrations that are new to me, and this is one of my favorites - a chance to thank God for the life of St. Francis of Assisi, and while doing so, to thank God for His creation, for the life of His creatures.

Um, yea, “creature” about sums it up. As the good Reverend approached, my gentle, fun-loving, scratch-my-belly-would-you-please puppy dog stiffened, growled, snarled and bared her teeth at the hand that would bless her.

I was mortified. I wanted to yank at her leash and make a quick getaway. I sifted through the excuses that quickly flooded my thoughts, all beginning with “she’s never done that before, I can’t imagine what…” I wondered what happens to dogs who bite the clergy. Sigh.

It didn’t go at all like I had planned. I’d spent 45 minutes the evening before, brushing her coat so it would be soft and shiny. I got her to the park in time to run off some spunk, chase a few squirrels and sniff about the grass to find her spot.

I’d told her what we were doing, and while I understand she doesn’t know the meaning of my words, (I dorealize she’s a dog), I do believe she understands my tone and she knew that this tone meant we were off to do something fun together. She had to know.

Yea, not so much.

When my eyes are open and I can see beyond what I am “seeing”, I find that there a story pictures, snapshots, collages everywhere. Any given moment can present itself like the next page in a pop-up book, springing off the flattened surface with nuance and color and dimension, revealing a bit of truth we may not have otherwise noticed.

I can be a little cranky sometimes, out of sorts, anxious. I would like to receive a blessing, a prayer, a kindness, a bit of light in the dark, a pathway out of a dead-end, but I can’t see beyond the present circumstance to understand that what I long for is actually happening. I can be like Maggie, not trusting that the hand that’s reaching toward me is good and kind, and bearing what I hope to receive.

The gospel of Luke records that Jesus, aching for the people He loved, spoke these words: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem…how often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, but you would not.” (Luke 13:34)
　
Maggie would not. All the Reverend wanted to do was touch her gently on the head and offer a word of blessing. But Mags would not have it. She would not.

Sometimes we won’t either.

We stiffen, we growl, we snarl and bare our teeth at the One who would simply come near to lay a hand of gentleness on us, but… we… will… not.

She wasn‘t as animated as she usually is about the car ride home, she lay quietly on the passenger seat, and later that afternoon she rested her head on my lap, all “you still love me, don’t you?”, emanating from her big, brown eyes. I rubbed her ears and remembered the blessing the Reverend had offered Maggie, albeit from a safe distance, earlier in the day: “May the God of all creation bless and keep you, and fill those who love and care for you with joy and thanksgiving.” Amen. Yes Mags, I still love you.

We’ll try it again next year. The Reverend is willing, so am I. Hopefully Maggie will be too.

Receiving can be hard. “I will not” comes so easy. We all need another chance to give “I will” a try.

God bless St. Francis, who loved the Creator
God bless the kind Reverend, who loved my cranky dog
God bless Maggie, who got her blessing despite her behavior
God bless all of us, when we are growly, snarly, reluctant receivers of His goodness

by Judy Bevilacqua

“Free will:” it’s one of the most attractive and liberating doctrines of the Christian faith - but it’s also one of the most maddening and frustrating. It’s can feel like a divine marketing ploy: “free sample,” “free test ride,” “free estimate,” “free carpet cleaning.” How many of us have gone for the free vacation stay, only to have to listen to a 3-hour, high-pressure sales pitch for a time-share condo. We vow: “never again!” We learned that free isn’t “free.”

Decisions have never come easy for me. I was a child who was not allowed many choices. They were made for me, and I learned to be passive (resistant!) and complain and criticize under my breath, rather than risk and take responsibility. It was quite late in life that I came to learn to be “the adult” and choose for myself and bear the required results. I still agonize over the outcome of every bad decision and feel shame and guilt over not getting it “right.” So free-will is a double-edged sword for me. It’s designed to produce grown-ups, but I still find myself with these pesky pockets of adolescence.

The scriptures are abundantly clear about the necessity of making choices:

“Choose this day whom you will serve…” Joshua 24:15

“I would that you were either hot or cold…” Rev. 3:16

“Let your yes be yes, and your no be no...” Matthew 5:23

“Be you doers of the word and not hearers only…” James 1:23

“Put your money where your mouth is…” (oops, I guess that one’s not in there!)

God’s desire is that we choose….He leaves so much up to us. But there’s an overarching grace that accompanies this learning curve of decision-making. I think being parented by God allows me a large space in a less condemning environment. Our proof-text is to see the line-up of bad choices represented in the stories in the Bible. And yes, there’s hell to pay, sometimes! But primarily it’s a classroom atmosphere of “let’s try that again.” King David and Peter made some rather poor and consequential gaffes. Moses and Paul made some stellar blunders! In this journey of faith, it seems we are surrounded by a “great cloud of witless-ness.” Ahhh, what a comfort! It takes some of the pressure off. It turns the heat down and the shelves the shame. I’ve always loved that proverb: “A righteous man falls seven times and rises again.” Proverbs 24:16. It’s that do-over principle. This “free will” thing would be completely scary without the knowledge of God as a loving, forgiving, nurturing and completely realistic father-mother. We get to make this very human choice…and yet, in that finite moment, we brush against the infinity of the One who is with us and in us….and over time we learn we are still “on the way home.” We find our will is slowly getting conformed to His. Whatever unique and hidden road we may be taking, it’s still a pilgrimage of faith ….He is on the road with us!

Recently I read again a favorite poem. This time, I came away with a fresh view - like a glance in the rear-view mirror - perceiving that “way has lead onto way,” in that mysterious and transformative path of free-will…and “that (God) has made all the difference.”

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I Had a Father ~

by Kathy Douglass

Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened. For what man is there among you who, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him? (Matthew 7)

I had a father who lived at my house

He was my hero, he was my friend

Turned on the lights when the dark left me scared

Laughed at my stories, cuddled and cared

And every good gift that a father could give

Was mine for the taking as long as he lived

I had a father who lived at my house

As I grew older, wiser, I knew

This body I’m in is the same that he wore

He suffered, he struggled, he failed and he tore

My father needed a father too

We found the Father we needed in You

When I need my father

You are the one who won’t be gone

When I need a shoulder

Your love is the shoulder that I rest my life upon

If I ask You for bread,

You don’t go throwing stones

You’ve given me a home

And I am not alone

You are my Father, You are my Savior, my Lord

You are the One who loves me so much more

I’ve lived most of my life without my father. He left us when I was a little girl, and died a few years after that. I saw him just a handful of times in-between.

All that means is that I belong to a community too numerous to count, a community of names and faces and stories, a community of children who’ve lost their fathers. Death, abandonment, neglect, abuse, chasms of emotional distance that seem impossible to bridge, never-knowing-his-name… there are so many ways we “lose” our dads in a world hell-bent on loss.

“When I was a child, I talked liked a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became grown, I put childish ways behind me.” (I Corinthians 13:11) What we see, what we perceive, what we interpret as children can’t help but grow into something more as we grow into who we are. From childlike naiveté to weathered understanding, the view of my dad as “my hero, my friend” has taken on layers of meaning and perspective in the years since he went away. As I’ve had to confront and contend with my own brokenness, I’ve had to confront and contend with his.

Brennan Manning writes “blessed are those who know they are broken”. In knowing this truth about ourselves, about one another, a pathway toward wholeness opens up. I don’t think that God’s promise to bind our wounds (Hosea 6) means that healing isn’t going to hurt. Wounds ache, it can hurt to apply balm, to change a dressing, the journey toward rehabilitation is painful and long.

I don’t think God wanted to be my earthly father. I believe it was His heart, His hope, that my dad would do that. And yet, in that failure, in that loss, God has been intimately present, just like He was at the beginning, when I was fearfully and wonderfully made.

I miss my dad, I do. I’ve allowed myself at times to wonder about the impact of his decisions on my life, to consider what might have been had he stayed with us, to feel the starkness of the empty space where he was supposed to be. And yet, with time and God’s grace, I’ve been able to experience the things that a father can provide: a sense of being cherished, an awareness of protection and shepherding. These good things have not been withheld from me in my fatherlessness. I’ve not been left alone.

It’s not okay that I don’t have a dad, and yet… it is… okay.

When I need my father

You are the one who won’t be gone

When I need a shoulder

Your love is the shoulder that I rest my life upon

If I ask You for bread,

You don’t go throwing stones

You’ve given me a home

And I am not alone

You are my Father, You are my Savior, my Lord

You are the One who loves me so much more