It was time to practice my sermon as I do every other night that comes before Sunday morning, so toward the guest room I strolled.
Shortly after entering, I stopped only a pace or so inside the door, taken aback by the dwindling golden sunlight softly falling thru the window that was only partly curtained onto the carpet that was only partly vacuumed.
As I breathed in the room with my eyes, I said quietly to myself,
"It looks heavenly in here."
Never once in my existence have I used "heavenly" as an adjective, but I feel as though my first time was warranted.
Something about the shadow-clad room itself and the ever-so-slightly cracked closet door made the light seem that much more voluminous, more breathtaking, more sacred...somehow different from every other time I've watched what's left of the sun pour into a room around 5 in the afternoon.
Perhaps when we most yearn for light to shine brightly into our surroundings and into our souls, we are better able to appreciate light for the seemingly simple yet quite extraordinary gift that it is.
For light has the ability to turn every head in a room.
It welcomes us into its space.
It assures us that shadows aren't forever.
It extends warmth into the coldest of corners.
It elicits a peace we didn't know we needed to infiltrate the most hidden parts of who we are.
And thus, we make friends with the light and bask in it as much as we can so that we might remember its power during the shadowy moments of our lives and be it for others during the shadowy moments of theirs.
