Saturday, May 31, 2014
Reaching for the Light
It's my favorite houseplant.
It started as a few clippings off the huge and luscious plant of my friend Carol. When you walk in her front door, there it is, a curtain of green spilling down the side of her kitchen cabinets.
Now, six months later, my baby plant has started to fill in well. It looks like a genuine houseplant now, not just a few sorry twigs stuck in soil. I had to move it around the house until it told me where it wanted to live, and that place was right in front of the western windows.
It always grows toward the light.
Like the faux wood blinds and the century old glass and the ripped and sagging screen are in the way of what it really wants -
Like the only thing it cares about is catching every dimple of light -
Like it wasn't meant to live in here where sunlight comes secondhand -
Like it knows somehow that its very life is in the light -
Give me the light, it says, with every creeping tendril stretched westward.
And I want a heart like that,
A heart that grows toward the Light.
Like this crusty old world with its bobbles and big ol' storage barns and prizes for the powerful is blocking the view of what I really want -
Like the first thing I think about when my feet hit the floor is the Light -
Like I'm an expat in a dim-lit land and I belong in the country where the light of His face replaces the sun -
Like I know somehow that my very life is in the Light -
That I would say, give me the Light, with every part of my heart stretched toward Him, and that there would be no part left to dally in the darkness, no stem of my soul that does not hasten towards Him.
Oh Jesus, Light of the world, Light and Life to men, may I find the spot that is closest to You, and may I say, this, this is where I want to live.
The western window. Right in front of the Light.