In this morning’s Fruit of the Vine, Kay Wilson writes about being afraid of the dark as a child: “I always wanted a night-light so I could see if anything or anyone was in the room that might cause me harm.” All these years later Kay still has a night-light but “for a different reason. Without the light I ... run the risk of stubbing my toes or falling.” Her point, reflecting on 1 John 1:5-7, is that “light brings clarity and allows me to see what is otherwise unseen.”
I know from experience that light can also overwhelm. I have a photo of Thor's Well, a feature on the Oregon Coast where waves at high tide rush onto a shelf of basalt just south of Cape Perpetua and put on a dynamic show of sound and spray. I wanted to capture a particular effect, the way that waves rushing into this hole create the impression of a waterfall in the middle of the ocean. But a slow-shutter setting on a bright September morning captures too much light, washes out the image. Instead of waterfall, my first photo was all bright white.
God is light and in him there is no darkness at all. But I sometimes live in the darkness, and I am frequently surrounded by it. So even though I need the light, it can be overwhelming. Too much.
Kay reminds us that walking in the light is to “walk in blessed obedience with clarity of the truth ... [to] walk in a manner consistent with the character of God.” Kay also reminds us that walking in the light is to “walk in fellowship with the Father and with each other.” What if this asks too much? What if it overwhelms? What if instead of being able to see more clearly, we are blinded?
Kay reminds us that we can pray: “God fill me with your light and then give me the strength to walk in it.”
And God does.
Eric Muhr
Stories from a cemetery
There’s a Friends graveyard across New Garden Road from the Guilford College campus in Greensboro, North Carolina. Max Carter, recently retired as the William R. Rogers Director of Friends Center and Quaker Studies, leads tours of the cemetery (when he’s not leading tours to Palestine and Israel). This week in Fruit of the Vine, Max tells stories about some of the dead “who, having led vibrant lives, need others to tell their stories now.”
Yesterday, Max wrote of Baptist evangelist Vance Havner – “qualified to reside in a Quaker burial ground through his wife, Sara Allred, born into a North Carolina Quaker family.” Tomorrow, Max shares the story of a mother and her three children dying together and the effect of this loss on surviving family members. This morning, Max introduces us to George and Emily Levering. They established the Friends school in Ciudad Victoria before returning to the U.S. from Mexico. George is remembered for his “stand against purchasing war bonds during the popular First World War.” Emily, for her service “at Guilford College as matron of a women’s cooperative residence hall.”
These stories Max shares don’t include any heroes. Just faithful people who lived the lives God gave them. Who did the work God called them to do. As Max puts it, life “was an uphill climb for the Leverings ... but their Christian witness led to mountain top experiences for many.”
I hope, someday, the same might be said for each of us.
Eric Muhr
On forgiveness
Steve Diehl writes in this morning’s Fruit of the Vine about a poster in a computer programming class he took years ago: “‘To err is human, but if you really want to mess things up it takes a computer.’ Of course it was a play on the famous quote from the English poet Alexander Pope’s 1711 poem An Essay on Criticism part 2, in which he wrote, ‘To err is human; to forgive, divine.’”
I know what it feels like to be forgiven. When I was ten years old, my dad entrusted me with driving his brand new pickup truck down a narrow alley between two warehouses at the fertilizer plant where he worked. I adjusted the seat while he demonstrated how to work the clutch, and then he ran inside to load up the forklift and meet me at the other end with the load intended for the back of the truck. Except I didn’t get to the other end. On the way there, a sharp turn to avoid a stack of pallets got mixed up with my as-yet-undeveloped sense of depth perception, and I plowed into the side of one of the buildings. I didn’t die in that accident. But I suspected I might die. The passenger-side headlight was smashed. I’d knocked off the mirror. There was a deep gouge in the shiny paint on the truck’s right front fender.
My dad must have heard what happened because by the time I got out of the vehicle, he was already running toward me. I wanted to explain, but I didn’t get to. He hugged me. He said he was glad I wasn’t hurt. And he gave me permission to not say anything about what had happened to my mother. As it turns out, that last part wasn’t necessarily for my protection. But still, that feeling. A weight lifted. The freedom to breathe again. It was good.
Forgiveness.
Steve reminds us that “forgiveness is not something we make happen.” And I’m convinced that’s why it feels so good. We cannot free ourselves. “God made forgiveness happen.... We are just catching up to what God has already done.” Technically, we don’t free others either, but in forgiving them, we give them a glimpse of the freedom God has provided for all of us. Together.
Steve offers this prayer: “Lord, please help me to not rely upon myself, or my own ideas about forgiveness, but to learn from you.”
And I offer this: Take a breath wherever you are right now, and celebrate the freedom that God has given you to start over, to try again, to live.
Eric Muhr