Light.

I guess if I had to choose, I’d say that I’m a morning person.

Besides the fact that I feel dulled -unhappy with myself, and lazy – if I sleep in too much, there’s something lovely about the first light creeping up as I putter around getting ready. (Besides, oatmeal! – I love the stuff.)

Let me rephrase this morning bird/night owl dichotomy: one of my aunts told me that she and her freshman roommate just  never really worked out, because she was the kind of person who liked to throw open the shutters and sing in the mornings. Her roommate was not. Most days, I’m that kind of girl – I throw open my curtains as fast as possible. (However, I don’t sing – when I’m up quiet hours are still going on.)

Here’s a scene from a Sunday morning. Aren’t my plants lovely, all lit up?

Plants Lined Up for the Morning Light

up close with lit up rosemary

 

(You’ll have to bear with me on this rosemary photo – I really wanted to share it. I have no kids, no pets – just plants. And I really like rosemary.)

But I didn’t intend to write about plants. I want to talk about light.

Sunday night I spent some time in a prayer room. It had been a while since I’d been to the prayer room. Some changes have occurred since I’ve been there last. When I first walked in, I noticed a sign on the wall that read,

I pray that your hearts will be flooded with light so that you can understand the confident hope he has given to those he called–his holy people who are his rich and glorious inheritance.

Ephesians 1:18, NLT

I could use some light. Spiritual light. It’s been too easy for me to close windows lately, and to refuse to wait for God’s light – refuse to acknowledge the signs of it on the horizon – refuse to acknowledge that it’s been permeating my life and will continue to do so.

I’m also intrigued by the linking of light with hope in this verse from Ephesians — it seems as though much of my hopelessness may be due to a need for light. Remember when I posted about fog? That’s the kind of thing I’m referring to here, a need for light to permeate fog and darkness.

The fog won’t go away. I would even suggest that it’s good for me to recognize it, to face it, to wonder about why it’s there, and how we as humans deal with it in different ways. But not always. When I’m too consumed by the presence of the fog, I lose hope.

Instead, I need to direct my eyes to be open to light and hope, even as I walk through fog.

 

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