The Joy of Light

As I was transporting a busload of kids to school this morning, I could see a wall of fog approaching from the north. I looked to the west and had a breathtaking view of the Stansbury Mountains. A bank of clouds obscured the snow-capped tips and the glittering snow on the peaks below were tinged pink above a bank of silver gray fog. That view of light reflected on the peaks brought a surge of joy and gratitude to my soul, and I pointed out the scene to the kids in the van. I wasn't sure they were as impressed as I was, but I was grateful for the vision of beauty to start my day.
As I drove into the fog, I pondered about what it was I found beautiful. Was it the patterns? Was it the contrast? What was it that gave me joy at that moment? I realized I found beauty in knowing the sun is still as warm and clean and bright as ever somewhere beyond the rolling wave of fog I was driving into.
Then I thought about all the people who have reflected the light of a living God in my life. When I meet someone who is reflecting the light of Christ in their lives, the same spark of joy I felt when I saw the sun on the mountains brightens my soul. Mother Teresa was like that. So was Ghandi. Many of my personal friends and family reflect that same light. We can find great happiness in simply serving those around us. Isn't that what the light of Christ is? His light is reflected in us by our actions.
During this holiday season, someone somewhere may be needing just a moment of reflected light to find the courage to head into their own wall of fog. May we be aware of the God that gave us light and be the reflectors of his love to those around us.

Thanks, Mom

I just wanted to be on record as appreciating my mom. There isn't anyone else on this planet who knows me like she does.

From my first skinned knee to my sorrow as a parent, Mom has been there for me.

My earliest memories are of Mom stopping to point out simple things: the magic of shapes inside clouds, the delicate wings of butterflies, the fascination of watching a pill bug roll into a ball.

My mother also introduced me to the magic of the written word. I remember lazy afternoons where I was glued to the floor next to her knee while she read from Freckles by Jean Stratton Porter. I lived those moments in the forest with the characters. Or Heidi by Johanna Spyri. I mourned with Heidi when she missed her grandfather. I listened with fascination as Mom's voice changed in pitch or tone according to who the character was.

Mom also shared with me her love of good music. I might not have been able to pronounce Tchaikovsky, but I knew how to dance to "The Nutcracker."

Like me, Mom didn't have a college degree, but she taught me the value of constant learning. We had a library in our home that we were expected to use. Bored wasn't even a word in our house. If any of us said we were "that word," there were always plenty of activities to fill the time. Not only did we deliver the local paper, we devoured it - cover to cover. The funnies always came first. I'm not talented at writing humor, but I know where I can find it; and I lived in a home where there was always laughter.

I know I've been able to find joy in the moments of life from the example of my mother. When I find joy in driving my kids to school, joy in having a house despite the piles of laundry and dishes, joy in watching an ant carry a leftover crumb my kids have left on the sidewalk, I know I can thank a mother who took those moments to stop and find joy too.