Tears of light

 The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. (John 1:9)

I’m told the sun converts four million tons of its substance into light every second of every day, giving life to this blue and green marble that is our home. But today, Old George Way receives little from the sun’s constant generosity.

Ashen rays filter through the leaden gloom of winter clouds, heavy with rain, hanging low on the bare oaks at the end of the street out my west window.

Dreary as Old George feels this morning, places too many to number languish and despair, bereft of the faintest glimmer of any light capable of lifting human hearts to believe that the life of joy and beauty for which they hunger can ever be theirs.

Darkness covers the earth and thick darkness the peoples; so wrote the prophet Isaiah, 2500 years ago, give or take. I’d have thought he’d just watched the evening news, sitting beside me on the couch.

Maybe that is why tears warm my eyes as these words cross my lips: ‘The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.’

I long for this light … and die when I feel its absence.

I want to feel the light of an eternal loving presence when the light of life grows dim and when the news is darker than gray December mornings.

I need to know there is a light that never dies, never fades, a light that was already present when this improbable universe exploded into existence in an unimaginable burst of splendor—so that the improbable reality of my own existence might be possible. I want to feel the miracle of this light (even more improbably) alive in my own confused and conflicted heart, making me glad to be alive, loving my loves and knowing theirs.

I need to see and feel this light so I can believe that the light who is Love is always shining, even when my heart is dim and my eyes do not see.

Knowing: Its goodness glimmers in great and common moments, in all that is good and just, beautiful and lovely, in all that is love and that delights the heart with gratitude for the joy of being alive and able to feel creation’s wonder touching the gentle senses of your flesh.

The One who is the true light, who enlightens everyone and everything, this Jesus, the Light made flesh, reveals the beauty of the divine face. Born amid the poverty of a dark time and place, we seek and look for his light in every time and place, knowing there is no darkness that he will not invade and bathe with the loving light of his presence.

Seeing his face, the light he is awakens the warmth of his beauty in the depth of our souls, and we discover exactly who we are and for what we are born.

And this, I suppose, is the meaning of my morning tears. The light I seek has found me … once more.

It never grows old.

David L. Miller