In the ICU, the atmosphere felt heavy, save for the faint rise and fall of the monitors tracking Ham and his wife. She lay there—pale from anesthesia—her body showing the wear from years of procedures.
Mike Tyson once said, “Everyone has a plan until they get hit in the face.” And really, until that moment, I thought I knew what I believed. The light of Christ felt bright, but suddenly, dealing with reality left me feeling a bit blind.
The tumultuous sounds of chaos can masquerade as wisdom, horrific events can feel powerful, and headlines can be mistaken for the truth. It’s in God’s light that all this is revealed.
So, Christian, what do you actually believe?
This question tends to surface in the oppressive silence of stark fluorescent lights, lingering in the sterile air of a different ward. I’ve carried this question for four decades. The answer I gave back then felt almost alien to me now. The surgeon’s warning to Gracie about protecting my eyes as he went to work has stuck with me.
The First Glimpse of Light
The light? It’s remarkable—even disorienting. Nathan’s words to David come to mind: “You are that man” (2 Samuel 12:7, KJV). In an instant, the piercing light of God shattered David’s soul—he wasn’t unsettled by the darkness; he found purification.
That initial flash of light—it’s blinding; we’re often left uncertain about the next steps. I’ve learned how followers can stabilize one another at these challenging moments. Many have stumbled in darkness, but when the light comes, I often don’t notice the ones that flounder.
Paul experienced this. On his way to Damascus, he was blinded by Christ’s light. For three days, he couldn’t see, eat, or drink. He didn’t start his ministry on high ground; he was flat on his back, reliant on help.
Moving from a dark room into sudden brightness, or even stepping outside into sunlight only to retreat back into the shade—your eyes struggle to adjust. God’s Word does the same, revealing things hidden from us or exposing what we can hardly bear. As C.S. Lewis once said, “Just like the sun, by it, I see everything else.”
However, acclimating to the light takes time. Lewis captured this disorientation in “The Last Battle,” when Eustace unknowingly entered Aslan’s country through a terrifying portal—it was a realm of wonder, yet felt bewildering. But with the presence of his friend, he managed to face his fears.
The beauty around him had remained unchanged; all he had was the ability to stand still.
In Mark 8, we find a man who felt the same disorientation. When Jesus looked at him, caught in the sunlight, he remarked, “I see people, but they look like trees, walking.” He recognized the light, yet needed another touch to see clearly.
Do We Crave Light?
We live in a culture rife with disorientation, yet it often rejects healing. The clamor of chaos can easily be mistaken for wisdom or power; headlines become our perceived reality. This is why we need to ask: Christian, what do we genuinely stand for?
And am I willing to be a light in this world that often stumbles through darkness? Will I share the truth about how I’ve been hurt in healing? Do I dare to reach towards someone like Saul, who once rejected faith, yet was touched and had his vision restored, becoming like Ananias?
Through my observations, I’ve seen that the call of Christ remains strong, pressing us to step into the light and bring others along too.
The psalmist wrote, “Your words are a lamp to my feet, a light to my path.” It’s not about floodlights illuminating everything at once; it’s about small lamps guiding our next steps, one at a time.
As I reflect on four years as a caregiver, I remind myself daily: “Stop floundering in the light!”—just breathe. It’s about finding solid ground in what the light reveals.
Once I gather my strength—often with the help of someone else—I’m then called to support the next person still grappling with the brightness.
