“For you are my lamp, O Lord, and my God lightens my darkness.” 2 Samuel 22:29
Last year I was on a trip to the Oregon coast, riding along pine-lined roads that weave above the rocky coast line. One road, in particular, was a mere stone’s throw off a main street through a small town. Not much could be seen other than trees, followed by a slight glimpse of some water below. After another bend there was a view that made me marvel aloud. It was the Yaquina Head Lighthouse. Nearly 150 years old, towering above tide pools and the rock-laden shore, she shines a light that reaches nearly 19 miles out into the Pacific Ocean.
Even with my limited nautical knowledge, it was evident the water below was hazardous. There were serene sections of tidepools close to the jagged shore, but further out, waves violently crashed on large rocks. Treacherous lurking obstacles of nature that can easily take down a vessel in the night were abundant. The light is necessary.
This lighthouse is one of eight that are grouped in succession along the dangerous coastline. They are located at appropriate intervals so their light beams will overlap. When a ship is out at sea, as it exits the far reach of the beam from one lighthouse, it will enter the far reach of the beam from the next one. This way, the ship is never in total darkness as it travels.
You’ll face times in life when you exit the beam of a light that is familiar to you. Sometimes this is due to your own choices and decisions. Sometimes you find yourself there due to no choice of your own. Sometimes you are excited about the journey with clear eyes. Sometimes you are in deep pain and can barely see through tear-swollen eyes. Sometimes you have a next destination in mind. Sometimes you’re simply hoping you don’t sink. Sometimes you’re on a boat shared with a large community. Sometimes you feel you’re on a tiny lifeboat, alone, or only with a few others.
However you find yourself there, it can feel dangerous. These are times when you leave a proverbial 19-mile light that has illuminated your way. You leave the waters you knew how to navigate. The waters where you once felt safe.
In this liminal space, as you move away from a familiar lighthouse, the light you once lived in is at your back. It is difficult to see what lies ahead. Things are dim. The shadows more difficult to make out, masking hazards. The water feels unfamiliar.
As you exit that beam, you enter the radius of a new one. It is faint and distant. Impossible to see what is ahead. Continuing on, though, that light will get brighter. More of the water can be seen. More of the geography can be learned. And, eventually, you’ll be in the full beam of the new light that has been guiding you. You’ll know you are at your new home. You’ll know you are safe.
Seeking and courageously following God’s lead may take us different places. But, it will never leave us in the darkness.
I keep the picture I took of the lighthouse that day on my desk. It reminds me no matter where my journey takes me, I’m never fully in the darkness. I need that reminder. We all do.
So true. Special piece, Kim. Love it.
Raylene