I have found myself thinking alot about light today. About the importance of it. The neccesity of it. The joy of it.
The church my family and I attend has amazing stained glass windows along the sides and back of the nave. When 21-month-old Gabriel becomes antsy half way through the service, Andrew or I walk him to the back of the church and balance him on the large window sill – nose to nose with the bright blues, purples and greens of the stained glass. He is delighted every time, and will remain there with mom or dad for the remainder of the service–peering through the colored glass at the shapes and patterns created by sun light and solid objects outside.
The winter has been incredibly long this year. While we have, technically, been in the midst of spring for some time now, it has not felt like it in my little part of the world. Not until this past weekend. The sun shone down on us for two lovely, God-sent days in a row. I had forgotten how delicious then sensation of sun-soaked skin can feel. I savored every minute of my two-day Vitamin D bath. And the tender leaves of my flower bulbs –now just courageous enough to poke their head’s above ground–seemed…happy. Can a consciousless plant be happy?
Five-year-old Ellie has inherited something of an internal weather gague from her mother. In the chapter entitled Princess D, in my book, I laughingly tell the story of how, when Ellie was around three, the nature of her first exit from her bedroom each morning predicted her mood and thus the atmosphere of our entire household for the next hour. At the time, Andrew and I had just assumed the Princess Dragon and Princess Darling episodes were nothing more than manifestations of her extremely sensitive and highly dramatic personality. But in the past two years, I have come to realize it is so much more than that.
Ellie can sense the weather–in particular, the amount and quality of sunlight–within moments of waking each day. As can I. The mornings that present themselves with blizzards or overcast skies are equally challenging for Ellie and me. Snow flurries beneath partially sunny skies present a whole new lease on life.
But now that spring has, seemingly, arrived in our part of the world too, Ellie and I are finding the courage to poke our heads from beneath the soil, stretching up toward the light, bathing in it’s radiance, and hoping for another sunny day tomorrow.