I’ve been yearning for a spotlight. I don’t mean a brash stage light, as in “Light me up for all the world to see!” (Far from it these days.)
But what I want is a massive overhead floodlight. I want one that will illuminate the entire path in front of me so I can see what’s coming, where I’m going, where this off-kilter, careening world is headed.
But a spotlight just doesn’t seem to be coming my way.
Instead, it’s as if I’m standing alone in a pitch dark room when a tiny door opens in the ceiling. In the filtered cone of light shining down through this portal, I see a small object being slowly lowered down in my direction on a string.
I reach up to grasp it–this compact, cold, metal cylinder–no bigger than my hand. I feel a soft rubber button on one end. Ahhh! Yes!… Of course. Relieved, I push it, and there appears a small, welcome circle of light on the floor. I step into it and watch it wrap around my feet like a blanket.
And just as I feel myself exhale, feel my shoulders drop, I hear a click, and look up to see the ceiling portal snap shut.
I study my tiny flashlight. So this is it–my one tool to equip me in this room as black as night. But this is what I have. This needs to be enough.
And my memory pulls up these words of direction–words for a time of churning anxiety, a time like this: “So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s own trouble is enough for today.” (Matt. 6:34, RSV)
And so, trusting in the giver of this light, I shine it in front of me and take a step. One step into this new day.