It’s my evening alone. The house is quiet. I move through the darkened hall, pass the window. A sparkle, a beam of light catches my eye, and I stoop to peer out this rear view-frame. A bright star burning? Or Jupiter reflecting? No… Venus? Strong little light in the darkening night. But the moon… there is moon, somewhere… for I see its dim glow spread around, its cast shadows.
I stand a while and just soak it in. Beauty in darkness.
It’s later. I leave the upstairs room adopted for my solitude of late, a “guest room” seldom used. And I enter that same darkened hall, part-lightened from behind me, but still dim enough for outdoor night lights to show up. So I shuffle over to that window before going down the stairs. To see again the stars, moon shadows…
But oh! Now there’s this.
He must have set a spotlight and a timer. And there it is, predominating countryside and road, for those few souls who pass this way by night to see.
And in the morning I ask its purpose, although I’m sure I know it.
And yes, I do.
That folk might know, or be reminded, what this week is all about. Not eggs and bunnies. Not beans in baskets. But a man who walked the earth awhile, a perfect man, the only one, embodying God Himself: walking, working, healing, teaching, agonizing through the week of will and testament, of death and darkness — and then, of incomprehensible sudden burst of life and hope anew! The unbelievable that happened.
A weathered cross on a weathered barn, barely visible, yet spot-lit. Reminder of the barely visible, humanly incredible Truth that still, even in this present darkness, shines through at times. A death on a cross, one of many, yet none like it. And a Life resurrected, like none other, for us to share and live ourselves.
May we see it in the shadowed hollows of our lives. May its light shine in and keep us in hope.