Saturday, May 14, 2016

For a Sister, Sitting in Darkness

I don’t claim to know how you arrived in this dark and desolate place. But I do know where you began:

In the Light that shines so steadily, relentlessly, brilliantly, that it casts in charcoal shadow everything else. In the midst of an evergreen copse, Light glows: Source. Life. Purpose. Joy. Hope. It shines on you, around you, in you.

I don’t know what injury was so painful that it averted your gaze, shifted your footstep, onto another path. What could make you wince at the Light, at your Light? As you walked along that ever-dimming path, checking and re-checking your wound, rehearsing the pain, you began to declare the Light to be the Source of it - declaring Light to be Darkness - instead of knowing Him as the only Source of your healing.

Every twisted rabbit trail only brought denser fog, deeper confusion, as you spiraled, stumbling, your wound festering in damp darkness, your vision clouded. Finally, you just settled into the muck, and called my name.

This is where I find you: stuck in the greasy mire of unbelief, your wound more visible than the rest of you, your eyes transfixed by it. I stand next to you, squinting and searching to see Light’s rays through death-black, mud-caked leaves. The Light remains. Always. “Look!” I cry to you. “Get up and walk; He’s that way!” I grip your arm.

“But I don’t see,” you say, refusing to rise. “I’m done. The Light hurts too much. I’m not moving.” Hope, or even just curiosity, does not move you to seek the Light. All you see is bleakness and shadow. All you recognize is your pain.

I know better than to think that I can drag you, kicking and flailing, toward that Light. Some might say that I should at least try to do so. I know better. Until you are willing, I can’t make you see the Light right in front of you, the only source of healing for your splintered mind, crushed spirit, weakened body.

Some might say that I should stop gesturing toward the Light, plop down in the muck next to you, hold you close, just be with you. That that would be love. But settling into that grim place with you would mean moving my eyes away from the Light. I won’t do that.

This I will continue to do: I will point toward His Light, your Home. When you refuse to look up, and when you cling to my arm, pulling me toward the filth, wanting to share it with me, I will say no. Even if that feels like love’s opposite to you. I will call upon the Light to blaze through all the blight of your imagination and emotion. I will trust that He will move your gaze toward Him, like a compass moving toward true north; that He can do nothing less than pursue you, for He is your One True Love.

I will love you no matter how deep you sink or how loud you scream. No matter what you say, no matter what you do, I will pray that you will choose to lift your eyes toward the Light who is your Light.