If All Is Grey on the Outside

Yesterday I attended the fourth funeral of my summer. Often it’s wedding after wedding, but this summer I have sat four times next to grieving families. So many tears. So much pain. Missing people I love very much. People who leave a big hole.

This morning the air quality index is at 222, and we can look directly at the sun made red by forest fire smoke. A few years ago we hosted a young couple at our dining table who, we found out, went camping last week and came back to Spokane to the shock that their recently purchased home and all of their possessions had burned completely to the ground. 

It is Sunday morning as I am writing, and the weather shows hope of rain coming on Wednesday, but Wednesday is a long time away when you can’t breath in the air today.

I bought spiral-bound index cards last week, and you may laugh at me and my life-long obsession over 3 x 5 cards. Slowly I have been reading through the book of Romans, and I came to a chapter that was one command after the other. Piles of commands.

How can I obey all of these? I thought. Each command deserved my attention, so I went to Target. Now I am writing one command per notecard, with plans to make this collection a flip calendar for my laundry room shelf. A lot of praying happens in that room, and I’m hoping God will grow my obedience to his laws while I fold socks in the future.

The larch tree we planted in the back yard a few years ago, a spindly little thing that was only inches taller than me when it went in the ground, has more than doubled in size. Matt and I tried going for a walk last night, but the smoke was just too bad. We turned around almost immediately.

“You know, by the time we retire, the larch tree will be so tall we’ll be able to see it from the front of the house,” Matt said as we approached the house. I thought of the tree and the fact that it is well watered where we planted it in the grass. Like the tree the psalmist talks about that puts down its roots near water and flourishes. 

His delight is in the law of the Lord, I thought to myself, as I began to write down one command each day on my notecards. Read these commands, write them on a card and on your heart and obey them, and you will flourish like your larch tree

“Put on the armor of light” is the command I scribble down today. Writing the word “light” is a simple act from a hopeful heart. Can I obey this?

Put on light.

When you’re putting on dress clothes to go to yet another funeral and you’re stuck inside to avoid smoke inhalation and you wake up in the night praying for a young couple who just lost all of their possessions, put on light.

We can look directly at the sun this morning –the hot August sun. It feels apocalyptic and oppressive. The sun’s rays can’t reach us because the atmosphere is so polluted.

But light can come from within.

Delight yourself in the law of the Lord, and you will put down roots and grow tall and produce fruit.

Put on the armor of light. Love those who are grieving. Give thanks when others are complaining about the smoke. Weep with those who weep. Help where you can. 

If you know Jesus, the light is in you. This dark world needs you to be obedient and shine.