Darkness is here—and more is coming.
There, I said it.
Whichever way the election of 2020 would’ve gone, we need help. We lie and afflict to get our way, and I don’t understand this repetitive coercion.
Whichever way the George Floyd trial would’ve ended, we’re in trouble. We can’t get past skin color, and I don’t understand this sticky sin.
Whatever the truth is about the virus and its ultimate remedy, we’re fumbling. We’re a ball of shifting answers, and I don’t understand this swirl of confusion.
We’re all in this together, as they say—and it’s a mess. We’re a mess.
But I push myself from dusky thoughts this morning into the transformative Word, into one of my favorite passages—one I can’t read aloud without crying.
If you do away with the yoke of oppression, with the pointing finger and malicious talk, and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday. The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail. Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins and will raise up the age-old foundations; you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls, Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.
Oh, to have these descriptors in my obituary: “She was a Repairer of Broken Walls, a Restorer of Streets with Dwellings, and a light.”
Please hear this today, dear people: there’s hope out there.
Darkness may come, but if we grab onto The Light, we’ll shine forever.
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.