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The Light

A cloudy sky, but a tiny bit of light seeps through. I want to feel that light, its warmth. I want to stop the car right now, stand in the middle of Push Mountain Road, and let a ray of light touch me. God’s light. Clouds are thick, but the sun lies just beyond them.

I don’t deserve the light, but I want it. Especially in the darkness, aloneness, broken times. Just knowing some light will be there each morning helps.

I was a church-goer as a child, and at some point I figured out that I was a sinner. When I surrendered to God at thirteen, I understood that He was my heavenly Father, that He now belonged to me and I to Him. I was His kid. A mystery, but somehow I belonged to daddy and mama and Him. Now I am 72 years old, and that’s what still fits for me. I am His daughter, and He will not leave me, no matter who my neighbor is, who I vote for, what I do or don’t understand. My relationship with God is not dependent on any of those things. He even wants me to be close to Him. Unbelievable, I know, but He does.

Seems impossible that Jesus, the Light of the world, would be willing to love me, to even die for me. I’m certainly not worthy of that. None of us are. This world has been broken since Adam and Eve. How can any of us take that kind of love into our hearts? I don’t know how, but children do it every day.

The light I saw in the broken clouds stays with me. I think on how the Holy Spirit eases into my heart, probably through all the cracked, broken, fragmented places. How does that happen?

I go in the back door at home and let myself be wounded, broken down. I ask God for wholeness and to use and heal my brokenness. We have that Father-daughter kind of relationship. I can ask for anything. He can say Yes or No or Later.

God placed the star of Bethlehem in the sky. I must trust like a good shepherd or a wise man and follow the star to the manger.

Suddenly, the clouds break to the north. I am trusting Jesus with my heart. If I need to understand something with my head, that will happen later.

Photo by Pat Durmon, near Norfork, Arkansas. 2016.

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