this little light of mine

Life, she runs. She runs hard and fast and she takes our breath away. Sometimes, this life, she falls. She bleeds and she cries out surely there is more.

I think today that life is looking for her saving grace because she sees children dying and countries fighting, mothers weeping and fathers lying.

Little pieces of tragedy flit across our screens daily – body counts and impending crises stacking up like dirty dishes. And the thing about dirty dishes is we’re good at ignoring them. Perhaps we are in danger of growing desensitized to the mass hurt afflicting our world. Because, if we’re honest, life is uncontrollable and it’s easier to find a friend on the sidelines than to lead the charge on the front-lines.

I am not suggesting that you and I are capable of fixing this bruised place we call earth. Fortunately we are unequipped to play savior.

Neither am I suggesting that we are to blame for Hamas, Ukraine, missing flights or the neighbors’ divorce. 

The pain in breaking stories does not emerge overnight. Pain begins as a small pang somewhere deep inside – an indignation or an insult, a rejection or an unhealthy relationship. Pain finds company and flourishes alongside other hurts and it becomes this animal of overwhelming proportions.

What if, instead of feeling oppressed by heavy headlines, we found a way of looking that animal in the face, saying we are not afraid and we will not be moved.

Instead of scraping ourselves on the grit of self-loathing, what if we made an active decision to wake up each morning committed to something greater?

See, we are not called to be the light of the world. We are simply called to shine and to shine on his behalf. We are welcomed into his starry nights, invited to glow because in his sight, we. are. good. When we clothe ourselves in humility, we are filled with his deep love for people – an all consuming fire that burns brighter and longer than any other antidote this world might offer.

I cannot hold the hands of Palestinian children who smiled at me or grieve beside those whose families are victims of other peoples’ sins. But I can pray break my heart for what breaks yours. I can choose hope.

He promises peace and healing and I am forever thankful in return.

“Let me tell you why you are here. You’re here to be salt-seasoning that brings out the God-flavors of this earth. If you lose your saltiness, how will people taste godliness?” Matthew 5:13 (the MSG)



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