This Little Light of Mine

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. – 2 Corinthians 1:3-4 (NKJV)

I have struggled for over a week to put words together following a recent school shooting here in Colorado. The focus on this blog is hope and at times like this, I feel like we owe it to each other to just sit with one another without words like the friends that surrounded Job when he lost his home, his kids, and his health all at once. “Now when Job’s three friends heard of all this adversity that had come upon him…they sat down with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his grief was very great.” (Job 2:11-13)

Not only did our community and the families of the kids at the STEM School Highlands Ranch go through a horrific tragedy last week, this week we observed Peace Officer Memorial Day. Having lost one of our own Sheriff’s Deputies, Zack Parrish, a little over a year ago, people are overwhelmed, angry, hurting, outraged…insert a synonymous adjective…and as the pendulum swings, others are flat out numb.

Is it guns? Is it humans? Is it humans with guns? Is it evil? Is it mental illness? And is it ever going to stop?!

How does one sprinkle hope in situations like this, at times like this, in a society like this. The only way I know how to overcome darkness is to turn on the light -– like lighting a candle in a midnight black room, it creates a gentle glow. That gentle glow is what I endeavor to share with this post – kind of like when you attend a Christmas Eve church service and you pass the light of a small individual-sized candle repeatedly down each row, sharing the light until it fills the whole room.

Look for hope in the soft glow of a friends’ eyes reminding you they are with you in it, or share hope in a soft whisper of encouragement about the thing God carried you through. It’s like a San Diego ocean breeze lifting, just slightly, the discomfort of a sticky summer day.

It reminds me of mothers that pick up the habit of rocking back and forth on their hips, the motion they learn to use for comforting a crying baby. Even when our kids grow up, if there is a baby in the room, we are swaying right along with that mother like a Polynesian dancer. The rhythm of comfort is one that is learned, and it can become our hope habit in a world like this, in moments like this.

God comforts us so that we are able to comfort one another. “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine,” the old Sunday school song goes. “Let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine.”


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