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.