Wednesday of the Second Week of Lent

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It is difficult to see in the dark.

When my daughter cries in the night, searching with her mouth for her lost pacifier, I frantically feel my way across the sheet, unwilling to turn on the ceramic whale lamp that could disrupt the rest of her sleep. During these times I experience intense anxiety, as if the dark has consumed the elusive pacifier, and taken with it my daughter’s peace, and then, necessarily, my own. I scurry out of the room and flick on the hall light which, when I return, helps me locate the pink pacifier against the gray whale pattern on the sheet, and I am quick to return it to the child’s open lips, immediately quelling her cries.

***

In today’s readings, we see reflections of how many of us have undoubtedly often felt: that others do not have good intentions regarding our well-being, that we are helpless against forces that attempt to prevent our thriving—whether individuals, groups, or institutions. We can each, I imagine, point to our own personal persecutors. Sometimes the voice causing us the most anxiety may even come from within ourselves.

In these times, we may not be able to see a path forward, or to feel that any safe avenue exists.

Juxtaposed with that which causes us fear and intimidation is God, who is described as our light, the one who can rescue us. In the darkness, we may cry out as we strain to see God's light in various ways, seeking safety, understanding, order, a way forward. When security and peace of mind seem to be obscured, elusive, we are reminded through today’s readings that we have a refuge in the light of God, to whom we may turn as we throw up our trembling hands in resignation, seeking a heroic gesture, a savior.

I wonder, though, if in the seeking, in the pursuit of light, we may become, in a sense, part of that light itself. We consider, again, our searching eyes, our reaching hands, and that perhaps, in our movement toward light, we have already left the darkness.

***

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, if I lean long enough over the crib for my eyes to become adjusted to the unlit bedroom, I perceive the rounded shape of the pacifier against the sheet and I grasp it gratefully. It is comforting to know that even when I am not inclined to look to the nearby source of light for assistance, though the switch is so close, I may still be able to find the way in time, patiently adjusting my sight to the dimness, feeling my way, reaching for what seems to be right. And in these times, I’m able to step joyfully from the room, moving into the light if I need its sustenance to continue to work, to be, or disappearing into the dimness of my own bedroom, sliding my fingers across the dresser to find my way, and accepting, even welcoming, the darkness for a few more hours with eyes closed. I do this knowing that, in the morning’s sunlight, I will be able to see again.

Lisa M. Paolucci, PhD

Assistant Professor of Education

St. Francis College