A few weeks ago, I wrote about the moment I realized I should return to camp in ’97. Today, I want to share a specific moment from that summer that came to mind as I sat in my church sanctuary last night.
Late one evening, I was praying on the recreation field at camp, I noticed a beautiful moon peaking through a window in the trees. As I continued praying and looking at the moon, I noticed clouds beginning to appear, covering up the light. I knew that I could learn something from the experience, so I decided to stay and learn…only I had already decided what I was going to learn. I had decided that once the clouds moved away and I was able to see the beauty of the night sky again, I would make the parallel that sometimes we cannot see God because circumstances cloud our vision but if we wait patiently and constantly seek God’s face then circumstances will pass and we will see God’s light again.
I was wrong. I didn’t need to sit there to witness that parallel because I didn’t need to learn something I already knew. I needed to learn something else:
Fireflies.
As I sat and waited for the moon to reappear that night, I noticed a firefly. Then I noticed another and another and another until I realized that I was surrounded by little lights. I noticed how small the flickers were but now much light each radiated. I observed how the fireflies’ locations were completely unpredictable. I witnessed how beautiful the fireflies made that summer night. And then it hit me: God was trying to tell me not to forget the little things; God was trying to show me that even in the midst of darkness, there is always light.
I wrote a song about my firefly experience that night and have sung the song countless times since:
Fireflies, fireflies
Rays of hope, short feelings of peace
At the right time they come
To carry us through until the day we see the sun
But I wasn’t thinking anything about that song or experience last night when I went to drop off something in the sanctuary.
After a full morning of getting back into the swing of things at church and after a very busy praise team practice, I decided to take a few minutes for myself and sit in the holy silence of the sanctuary. If you’ve never been alone in a sanctuary at night, then I highly suggest you arrange the experience. It is a truly sacred experience.
When I first walked into the space, I couldn’t see anything. I used my phone to guide me to the first pew where I placed the clipboard I was carrying and then I sat down to breathe in the silence.
A few moments later, I noticed shapes beginning to form. The communion table. The pulpit. The piano. The organ. The chairs in the choir loft. Until eventually I could see everything in the sanctuary. Slowly, very slowly, my eyes adjusted to the darkness and the light from down the hall had seeped in enough for me to see.
As I reflected on last week and the darkness that presented itself following little Sam’s unexpected death, I realized that this is how life would be for the next little while—that as we sit in darkness, breathing in holy silence, our eyes will slowly begin to adjust and we will slowly be able make sense of it all.
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,”
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
--Psalm 139: 7-12
There is no darkness too dark to consume all of life’s fireflies and sacred moments.
Praise be to God.
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