Turning on the Light

I walked into the familiar room at my old campus. With lead-paned windows, plaster walls and oak paneling, the room felt familiar and perfect . . . until I reached over and turned on a lamp. Suddenly, I saw the imperfections in the plaster, windows in need of repair, and scratches across the paneling. Like a bubble popped by a needle, the ideal setting was ideal more.

I was on campus for my forty-fifth reunion. I was excited to be back, but also anxious. Such events shine light on my life, and the imperfections become visible. I see who I was when I was a student, both good and bad. I see what I’ve made of my life since graduating, both impressive and not.

This weekend my stepdaughter is getting married. Like a reunion, it is a wonderful and exciting event, but it, too, is a light-shining event. Family imperfections become visible, old wounds rise to the surface. Beside the beautiful flowers, inspiring words, and abundant love and support, are the people who have died, the friendships that did not last, and relationships unable to weather the storms of life.

Our church is about to have a capital campaign. It is a special place, one worthy of support, but capital campaigns turn on the lights and cause people to wrestle with what they see. Why does the church do this and not that? I thought the church was supposed to care about this, but all our money if going toward that. In the light, we notice and discuss the imperfections we see.

I get that our lives are imperfect, that there are holes, broken panes, and scratches everywhere. No wonder we prefer dimly lit rooms. At least there we can deny the imperfections and ignore the needed repairs. But no matter how hard we prefer the dark, the lights get turned on. It might be an event, comment, or action, but the switch is going to be turned, the light is going to shine.

Then what?  

I don’t have an answer. I only know that I need God’s help when I’m overwhelmed by the brutal truth of the light. “In him there is no darkness at all,” goes the familiar hymn. “The night and the day are both alike.” Somehow because of my faith, I accept both the dark and the light, the good and the bad, the pristine and the messy. In doing so, I have no choice but to rely on a power greater than myself. That, in the end, may be the answer.

If only . . .

“If only . . .” Two words I wish I’d never learned to put together. Alone, they’re fine. But when combined, they create regret, sorrow, and perpetual discontent. If only I had done this, if only I hadn’t done that. If only I had made the most of this opportunity, this friendship, this experience. There’s never been a situation where the two words can’t twist and pollute whatever was. They’ve been my constant companion all my life, and I can only try to purge them from my life.

I recently returned to my high school for a reunion. It was where I spent four dramatic years of my life, and, as I walked the campus, the familiar refrain wanted to sing for all to hear. Visiting a 10th grade English class, I wished I had made more of my classes. Wandering the expansive facilities, I wished I had appreciated the campus. Playing in the alumni soccer game, I wished I had pushed myself physically when I was a student. “If only” was spoiling my weekend.

Fortunately, I was with some of the people I’d known longest. Despite the miles we’d traveled since graduating, they were still incredible gifts I’d been given. Standing in the senior dorm and looking out at the lacrosse field, I was thankful for the campus and experiences I’d had. Handing the school librarian a copy of my novel, and the chaplain a copy of my meditations, I realized I’d learned more than I thought when sitting in those classrooms.

“Acceptance is the key . . . ” says a wise book I know, and slowly I used it to unlock a new perspective: Instead of regret, I found gratitude . . . instead of embarrassment, I found compassion . . . instead of sorrow, I found joy.

Perhaps I can use that in the rest of my life.

Once and for All

The stone’s rolled away,

Sunlight lies beyond,

But there’s comfort inside the tomb.

Dark and small,

I’ve made it my home.

Mistakes I’ve made lie like a body wrapped in clothes of shame.

I retell stories that keep it dark,

Stories that keep me small.

Better to stay in the tomb, I cry, and point to the light.

Easier to dream of a resurrected life than live it,

And sing of grace I’ve only heard about.

And yet life beyond the tomb beckons.

It’s the life that belongs to God, not me,

Of God’s creating, not mine.

Its light blinds, and horizon overwhelms,

But, somehow, I must follow.

The risen life waits for me (and you) as it always has.

Like a gift, I must rise and walk out to receive it,

Out of the darkness and into the light,

Out from the known into the unknown,

Out from death into life,

Out from false into true,

Once and for all.