Something Feels Light

I wake a few minutes later than usual sensing light. Something feels light. 

My husband is still sleeping. The dog, too. And I think, maybe the worst of it is over. Maybe we survived. 

The sky out my kitchen window, tucked between barren trees, glows pink. And as I carry coffee toward my favorite chair—I see it. Full moon shimmering over frozen waters. No wonder I’m feeling light. 

I fill lungs, exhale, breath-prayer: thank you. 

We made it. Again. Like every year. We survived. 

January in Minnesota. 

Cold and darkness. 

The first month of this new year felt especially dark. Freezing dark. Chaotic dark. The dark of dying. 

Is this how it is when you reach a certain age? There is just more dying? 

Day before yesterday, on the last day of the month, I sat crossed-legged on my library floor, flipping pages of a hardcover book. Home inspiration for our maybe move and twice it happened. Then again. A fragrance or a feeling. Something stirred. For a nanosecond. Imagination or some scent embedded in those pages. All I know is I could smell it. Briefly. But it was enough. It smelled like Spring. 

And then, this morning, I woke feeling light. 

My father-in-law died just before Christmas, and each time we visit Grammy, she shares another note from another card. So many notes in so many cards. So much love. 

There’s this one. One long letter, different from the others. A family friend. All of us know him. We know his story, at least in part. But here, in his condolence, he shares the most astonishing secret. His own story and a secret I’ve not asked for permission to share, so I’ll need to be vague. The man—this friend—he died. A life-threatening illness, a hospital stay, a death survived. And when it happened God gave him a glimpse through the veil. And this man we know saw people he knew, and something else, too. LIGHT. Light like a Person. Light like a Presence. Utterly peaceful and utterly real. It wrapped him. Went right through him. Penetrated all that death and this light was ALIVE. The Light was Life. 

This world’s latest darkness has been especially heavy. Heavy with confusion. Heavy with lies. My husband says this is the primary distinction of third world nations. Predominance of lies. I sit for a minute in this gloomy picture. And then, it hits me. In the darkest places, light shines BRIGHT. 

Eucatastrophe. My advent word. Per Tolkien: a sudden, joyous turn. An epic plot-twist. Last Sunday, and yesterday again—the word comes up in sermons. And we’re on our way home when Kyle applies it to LIGHT. 

Eucatastrophe—a breakthrough of beautiful light. 

In him was life, and that life was the light of men. That light shines in the darkness, and yet the darkness did not overcome it. John 1:4-5 

We fear we won’t know what the truth is, and I am more convinced than ever—surely we will know TRUTH. 

We know Light and we know Life and He is TRUTH. 

We know the Actual Truth. 

Yesterday at church I was struck again by the story of trees. The story of fruit. Such amazing imagery and I think to myself—

That’s it. From this day forward, by the grace of God, I am choosing the better tree. 

What a temptation we face. What enticement. This allure of knowing good from evil. What is truth and what is lies? 

That tree deceives us. And yet, I believe 

We can choose it again

We can choose the Tree of Life. 

February dawns and slowly but surely I continue memorizing Paul’s letter to the Colossians. Today’s text hangs between a shimmering moon and a pinking sky—

Be careful that no one takes you captive through philosophy and empty deceit based on human tradition, based on the elements of the world, rather than Christ. For the entire fullness of God’s nature dwells bodily in Christ, and you have been filled by him, who is the head over every ruler and authority. Colossians 2:8-10

Eat the fullness of all God’s nature and you can be filled, filled, filled. 

My husband comes downstairs, and I ask—how did you sleep, and how’s your new hip? 

Because this too happened in January. The miracle of modern medicine. An old thing made new. A brand new hip, and a new lease on life. 

I feel great, he tells me. He kisses my lips and scoots in close and we pray. 

And we fill up on Light.