Those are the opening words each day in the daily devotion I copy as part of my morning meditation. (Read post here.)
I have thought about those words during my morning walks. Have you noticed how the bright and clear first thing in the morning light of summer has faded somewhat and seems slower to slide into the day's beginnings? Now as we enter the day, we may need some extra light, and we turn on a lamp before settling in to read the newspaper or before walking into the kitchen to fix a cup of coffee.
When we moved to Ohio one fall many years ago, I often walked in our charming old neighborhood in the early evening. That was the time of day I felt most lonely, the interval between dinner preparations and when our son came home from football practice and my husband returned from a day's work. I filled the day with home tasks and errands and found ways to keep myself occupied until, that is, the hour when the day turned into evening.
That's when I walked the winding, tree-lined streets of our new neighborhood. I often paused in front of homes where I noticed the light of a table lamp glowing through a window. "Does someone live in this house who will become my new best friend?" I mused. "Is there someone in this house who also waits for a football player son to return from practice, sweaty and hungry?" I wondered about the people who lived there, their story, the ways they gave each other light.
Seeing the occasional light inside a home somehow comforted me on those lonely days. I felt welcomed and even hopeful, as if someone was waiting and watching for me, too.
I write this post sitting at my desk in the garret and even though it is not necessary, I have turned on my desk lamp. Doing that simple act feels like a sign of hospitality, a kind of embrace for the work I will do today.
I know I need lamplight to guide my way, and I send blessings for the light and for all those who share their light.
Light a light.
An Invitation
Where have you found light recently? I would love to know.
Thank you for inspiring a long-buried but well-beloved memory! The first year Steve and I were married, we rented part of the main floor of a huge Victorian (and possibly haunted) house near House of Hope Presbyterian. Since we had only one car, Steve would drive me to New Brighton to teach on his way to Luther Seminary. We often drove on Summit and every morning passed a house with the family gathered for breakfast in a four-season porch. It looked warm, cozy, and almost impossibly welcoming, especially in the winter. I hoped that we would one day have such a lovely space to gather for breakfast. Had I known your mantra at that point, I would have breathed, "May all be well." Thanks for warming my heart--you often do!
ReplyDeleteMyrna
What a wonderful memory. I will think about you whenever I walk on Summit Avenue now.
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