Looking for light

I sat alone in my car in a Panera parking lot with a cup of warm potato soup today. The familiarity of that place (a parking lot near my children’s school) and that lunch (a favorite on dreary days) made me almost feel normal. But life is still anything but normal. I was in that particular place in the middle of a weekday only because my husband came home long enough to let me leave the house for a bit in hopes of saving my sanity. I know, and he knows, that I’m teetering on the edge.

I don’t typically struggle with writer’s block. But in these past few weeks I have come so face to face with my ugliest and darkest sins that I feel fraudulent writing anything intended to offer help or hope to a reader. I assure you, I’m not who you think I am as a parent or a person. Moreover, I’m not who I thought I was as a parent or a person. I’m aghast at my own weakness, selfishness, and total lack of self-control. And I don’t share any of this in search of consolation or commiseration. I share it as confession in hopes of bearing witness with you to the grace and goodness and patience of our God.

We have not been physically or financially hurt by this pandemic as of yet. But we feel the more subtle effects of the distancing and the bizarre new normals in a thousand other ways. Mainly we’re tired of ourselves and each other. Like most everyone else, we’re weary of doing school from a distance and doing life without the comforts and conveniences and all the people we took for granted only a few months ago. I vacillate between feeling anxious about resuming normal activities when our livelihood depends on staying healthy enough to run a pharmacy and feeling exhausted by the thought of a summer without camps, pools, and structure. Some days I’m just sad for all that is being missed. Trips, celebrations, send-offs, retirements, and graduations. Other days I’m just tired. Even the quest to find accurate data and trustworthy news is exhausting.

I wish it weren’t so, but the days feel longer and the nights feel darker right now. Partisanship pollutes most any conversation on the topic, but surely we can all agree on one thing: this is no way to live. We were made for interpersonal interaction. We crave hugs, handshakes, and high fives. We enjoy restaurants and routines, people and parties. We need closure when things like school years and seasons come to an end. We long for things to look forward to in the days and weeks ahead.

When I can’t sleep at night or when I feel overwhelmed by the messiness and madness of our house and my heart, I ask myself: where is the light in this situation? What in the world is going on around me that is good or funny or happy or hopeful? And to be honest, too often I don’t have any answers. The losses seem to outnumber the gains. But I think the constant pursuit of finding the glimmers of hope and light or being some small part of things that are life-giving is what is keeping me afloat.

I was reminded last week of a verse I had pasted to my mirror in college:

“Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love,
for I have put my trust in you.”
Psalm 143:8

Those words give me hope. And they give me words to pray when I can’t find the energy or the faith to pray my own.

After my pull-yourself-together lunch, I went to the mailbox this afternoon to discover a small cellophane bag holding a stuffed pink flamingo. The card attached to it simply reads: “Hollie: Just thought you could use a flamingo to brighten your quarantine.”

Wait… How did they know? I’m not sure who put this flamingo in my mailbox. But I’m certain of this: they are a light-bearer, and they reminded me to hold onto hope today.

I want to be a light-bearer and a hope-keeper, too. I want to pray, even when I can’t voice it because I’m so disgusted by my own sin, that God will have His way with this time, using it for our good and His glory.

Using it for…

Renewal. Of our minds and ways and priorities.
Restoration. Of our time. If He can restore the years the locust have eaten, He can surely restore the months the quarantine has stolen.
Redemption. Of our words. Of our families. Of our hearts. Making us less like ourselves and more like Him on the other side.

Andrew Peterson’s lyrics to Is He Worthy? seem particularly powerful right now. Maybe because the song is usually sung in a responsive style in worship gatherings we can’t yet fully resume, or maybe because the lyrics themselves are so rich. Whatever the reason, the words feel truer than ever.

Do you feel the world is broken? 
(We do)
Do you feel the shadows deepen? 
(We do)
But do you know that all the dark won’t stop the light from getting through? 
(We do)
Do you wish that you could see it all made new? 
(We do)
Is all creation groaning?
(It is)
Is a new creation coming? 
(It is)
Is the glory of the Lord to be the light within our midst?
(It is)
Is it good that we remind ourselves of this? 
(It is)

It is good to remind ourselves of this. Most especially now. The Lord is still in our midst. We still have humor and hope. Friendship and flamingos. Love and light. We just have to keep turning toward it. Even when—maybe most especially when—we feel our darkest.

And the light shines on in the darkness,
for the darkness has never overpowered it.
John 1:5, AMP