I tilted my head at various angles trying to figure it out.
I wanted to leave—needed to leave—but wonder kept me from walking away.
And I knew I couldn’t responsibly leave for work without checking it out.
“Great!” I self-muttered, as I checked the clock for time. Wonder quickly faded to annoyance. I couldn’t just leave, something might be horribly wrong.
I begrudgingly headed to the garage to retrieve the ladder when my imagination decided to butt in.
I made my way lugging and laboring with the ladder, thinking some psycho had taken up residence in my attic. Or maybe I would find a gaping hole in the roof. Or could it be that a light has been on up there ever since we moved in?
“Grab something to use as a weapon, just in case I have to club some squatter over the head.” I armed myself with a flashlight for self-defense.
Hindsight finds my fear rather laughable.
But at that point I was more compelled by the light. I was curious beyond fear. Solving the mysterious source of the light was greater than my anxiety. Who has a light and hides it, right?
Heart pounding, mind racing, flashlight firmly gripped in hand, I climbed . . . drawn to light. I was pleasantly amused to see streaming rays of sunlight. I noticed a few missing slats in the gable vent. The light that streamed, casting beams through even the slightest crack, was merely the sun rising . . . strong and proud. And the way it filled the space warmed with more than simply relief.
I put the flashlight back. I returned the ladder to its place. But the wonder . . . I took that with me.
Then, another “light” came on as I had an even greater realization . . .
That was the third time in those few days that I had been drawn to light.
It was the night of Good Friday (early Saturday morn, actually). I was awakened by light pooling on my bathroom floor and shining across to my bedroom. It was bright enough—even through the closed wooden blinds—to disrupt my slumber. I lay dazed, trying to figure out where that light could be coming from at that hour. The digits on the clock read 2:18.
I half-rose and shuffled to the window—captivated to see what I could see. I peered between the slats to see where it was coming from. And there in the night sky hung the moon, full as can be. Somehow I was surprised by it. I don’t follow the moon phases, so I wasn’t expecting it to coincide with Easter weekend (label me “uninformed”). “Cool!” was all I could come up with—hardly the verbal response to match my joy.
Recall of something I had very recently written echoed as I smiled my way back to bed; “This same moon—with a grand story to tell—shone over the Cross.”
The next night I again had the same experience. From a deep sleep I was awakened once more by light streaming in through the bathroom blinds and spilling into my bedroom. It was 2:22 Easter morning. I now knew what it was—but still, I was drawn to rise to see. The light compelled . . . called. And there shone the moon as Resurrection Morning.
I felt. I’m not sure what, exactly. I can’t find words to describe what I felt. I just felt. I guess I felt . . . blessed.
Light coming from above has a way of doing just that.
Who is not moved by mysterious light shining at Easter? Who isn't roused from a dead sleep to feel . . . feel alive . . . awakened.
I welcome these interruptions—these blips in the norm to chase after light.
After all, who can deny a light burning brightly?