"Let there be lights... to mark seasons and days and years..." (v. 14b)
As I've said to a couple people in the past few weeks--thank goodness God had more stick-to-it-iveness about performing Creation than I have had about blogging it, or the world would have water and a few plants, and that's it... LOL
But I'm still here, a few weeks older and a good bit sadder and maybe even a little wiser than the last time I posted. And somehow today's reading seems right, right now. In a season of my own life that feels (frustratingly and unendingly) transitional. In a season of personal waiting, wondering what will be next for my own becoming. In a season of motherhood when, for the first time, I have started to worry about the dangers, dramas, and "fine learning opportunities" my children will face as they learn to live in a world where not everyone loves them.
And in a season when, even as I watch my young children grow, a friend of mine is mourning the death of her son, who was an Army Ranger in Afghanistan. She held his hand the way I do my boys'. She worried about him on the playground, and on his first day of school. She invested in the everyday of his childhood and prayed for the future adult he would become. The way I do for my children. And I'm heartbroken for her, and for all mothers, because this is what it is about, isn't it? Loving them, putting everything we have into them, lifting up every prayer we know how to put into words (and even those we don't), and then trusting--hoping--that the God of light and darkness is unendingly, unfailingly good. Even when this life, this messy, joyful, painful life, isn't.
The God of light is also, thankfully, the God of the darkness. The Creator shaped them both, named them, and gave them purpose. In light we open wide, we grow, we green, we bloom. But in darkness we rest, we gather in, we cocoon, we wait. And the fullness of time is made of these: light and dark, twisting into days, years, seasons.
May the God of all life's seasons bring peace, and soon.