Midafternoon light streams through slitted shades, escapes through my office and bounces off the wall, my desk, my sweater, and the open Bible that sits nearby. I pause to watch the light as it moves, as it slides from everywhere to somewhere to nowhere. This is the light’s liturgy in the cold, dark part of the year. I’m not sure where it disappears to from here. All I know is how much I long for its return, to illumine the still spaces, to open my eyes to see what I have otherwise missed
My phone’s screen shows a picture of my daughter when she was younger. She’s standing in a field full of sunflowers. She wears a yellow dress. A yellow bow is tied in her hair. Her smile is bright and open. Her eyes squint as she looks directly into the sun. She grabbed my phone a week ago, announcing she was going to change the picture on the screen. “I want you and Mom to have the same picture,” she said. “That’s why you two are married.” I don’t tell her that we should then use a picture of all three of us. At her age, symmetry rules. In her mind, a picture of her beaming face declares not only the glory of God but the love we share.
As I glance at this picture, I notice how the wind gently blows, how the flowers nod a bit in her direction, and how the sun’s rays reflect off her dress, her bow, and her smile. I remember how warm the sun was that day as its rays bounced off the top of my balding head. “You should have worn a hat,” I remember her saying. “You’re going to get burned.” We had applied sunscreen on her arms and nose and legs earlier in the day. We used the last of it on her forehead.
