Wherever there is Light

The North Texas storm had left its mark. The fierce winds brought down trees, left electric poles hanging at odd angles and flung lawn furniture around like toys. In the aftermath of the storm, we were counted among the 100,000 inhabitants left with no electric service. As the sun slowly set, we decided to leave our darkened house and explore the neighborhood. Most of the houses were unlit so we headed off to the commercial areas where a few stores were running on generator power. After taking full advantage of whatever stores offered us a lighted refuge from the night, we headed back to see if our power had come back on yet. As we drove towards our house, I recognized a familiar glow in the sky; it looked like the local high school had the stadium lights on. “Look!” I happily pointed out, “It looks like the stadium has lights!” It was then that my son chuckled as he said, “Mom, you are just going wherever the light is!” His statement struck me. Only a few hours earlier the last thing on my mind was a search for light, but now here I was rejoicing over a dimly lit Target store and flying like a moth towards that lighted stadium. The power outage had left me acutely aware that I was the denizen of a dark world and I longed for the comfort of light- even the stark light of a Wal-Mart store. The world is getting darker as each day passes. People are running from the nightfall. Where will they go? Where will they flee? Just as the stormy experience showed me, they will go wherever there is Light.

Photo credit: Full Moon in Oia by Κλέαρχος Π. Καπούτσης. Retrieved from Wikimedia Commons.

Ugly Love

   Hello! My name is Love! I am everywhere. You may have noticed me in the glistening eyes of the young couple, in the demure face of the beaming bride and in the sweet sleep of a newborn. I am brilliant, enchanting, seductive and mysterious. I am the stuff hope is made of. I am the essence of all that is beautiful to the human heart. I am the invisible substance that every person longs to embrace, experience and possess. Nothing can really compare to me. I stand alone in my power. I reach to the highest pinnacle of human idealism; however, my greatest power is that I also sink to the lowest depths of earthly despair. I am not as easily recognized in the lowlands of the human experience. I don’t look so beautiful when I am contained in the heaving chest of a patient wife, or in the silent resolve of the committed husband. I no longer seem so attractive when the hands that hold me are arthritic and trembling. I can seem downright ugly when I stand in the midst of bellowing pain and hurt, feeling the whip of injustice tear into my soul, yet I remain. I am manifested in the blood on the hands of the rescuer, the fear in the eyes of the kind confronter, the sweat on the brow of the struggling provider and the bloodshot eyes of the vigilant parent. Contrary to popular belief, I am not always lovely- sometimes I am downright ugly- standing there quite disheveled in my tattered apron of reality. Often I find myself covered in the blood, sweat and tears of the lover. The greatest example of this was when I hung on a Cross. I am not the stuff that movies are made of but rather the stuff that moves people to believe that life is worth living- that there is always hope. I am Love!

Photo credit: By Louise Docker from sydney, Australia (My heart in your hands) [CC-BY-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Leftovers

You either love ‘em or hate ‘em. Some people love leftovers! To them, the cold pizza left over from last night’s social is even more delicious the second time around. Other people hate leftovers. They feel the restaurant doggy bag is just that- a bag meant only for the dog! In our house, my mom was the leftover queen of Pennsylvania. Not a speck of food was to be wasted! It was destined to be recycled as leftovers. Leftovers are the result of abundance, blessing and prosperity. They are the manifest overflow of what we could not consume. Needless to say, we live in a society that is filled with leftovers. Our garages are overflowing, our closets are stuffed and our refrigerators hold rotting food. We claim that we are “not rich”, but our leftovers testify against this claim.  If you have ever seen true scarcity, then you know that there are no leftovers there. Every crumb is valuable, every drop of water is precious, and every pair of shoes is treasured like gold. Those trapped in poverty dream about luxuries like soft pillows and real cooking utensils. We might see our extra stuff as worthless, but they look like riches to those who know no surpluses. My mom’s supper rule is a good life rule- all excess is to be used! We have become good at recycling our trash, but what if we became just as good at sharing our oversupplies? Leftovers have the potential to make the world a more beautiful place. It’s up to us to share them.  

Photo credit: http://www.ethicalfoods.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/tgtw.jpg

The Wing Man

You admire the beautiful butterfly and wait for it to take off into graceful flight, but it doesn't. It just sits there. You look closer and discover the reason why: a broken wing. Grief enters your heart as you realize that any attempt you make to fix its delicate wing will probably make things worse. This is a butterfly in need of redemption. A creature that is unable to buy back the ability to function as it was created to function. Many times when we look into the mirror, we are looking at a creature with a redemption wish. We long to restore power, reawaken what is dead, regain health, revenge wrongs, relieve pain and redo mistakes made. We scratch our heads in confusion, and since we have not yet found the Idiots Guide to Redemption in the overloaded self-help section at Barnes and Noble, we continue to make pitiful jabs in the dark at this fiery dragon called Brokenness. We take up the armaments of anger, defensiveness, helplessness, addictions, ambition, pride, materialism, aggression and selfishness to try to fix our broken wing or at least to preserve the good one we have left. But over time our weapons only break more wings. What to do? Redemption is not just an event; it is a journey. It is a journey about understanding love, taken on the back of a man that was beaten for our failings, and crucified for our disobediences. A man that knows about brokenness. A God and Creator that is able to restore our broken wings and redeem the designs of our lives so we can fly heavenwards again when we allow Him to be our wing man. 

Photo credit: http://www.sfexaminer.com/imager/monarch-butterfly/b/original/2639877/4b1f/butterfly.jpg

The Mirage

As I looked down the long, tarred stretch of highway, the glimmering pools of water that lay before me on the road were undeniable. This was Death Valley, one of the least likely places on the planet to offer multiple pools of water. The puddles glistened and danced before my eyes, almost daring me to question their existence. I could have easily been a believer in their authenticity, but I knew that these aqua apparitions were only mirages. Mirages are incredibly tricky things. Our eyes tell us their existence is real, our thirst fuels our belief in them and our hope rapidly embraces them. How many dying desert travelers bless the oasis mirage, only to curse it once they realize it is a lie? We don’t have to be lost in the desert to experience mirages. In fact, they pop up all around us. One of them is the mirage of perfectionism. We each tend to subscribe to a mental image of what the ideal body, house, car, job, social circle and bank account should look like. Sometimes these dreams and goals become mirages to us because we feel we must drink of them or our lives are not satisfied. However, even after we achieve a certain ideal, we find that we still feel empty, unworthy and driven to continue the maddening search for what will satisfy our dehydrated sense of self. Every human is vulnerable to the seductive beckoning of what lies around the bend, but mirage chasing is an exhausting sport. I was entertained by the appearing and disappearing acts of the mirages of water on the road through Death Valley, but when I became thirsty I did not get out of the car and run toward a mirage. Instead I reached for my ordinary plastic water bottle and drank long and deep. May we be wise enough not to lose our lives in the clutch of a sparkling mirage when the life-giving water we crave sits humbly by our side.

Photo credit: http://ckphu.com/site/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/water-bottle-pouring.jpg