This little light of mine

But God’s walls surround us August 31, 2023

Isaiah 26:1, 3, 8, 12, 19 We are surrounded by the walls of our salvation. … You will keep in perfect peace all who trust in you, all whose thoughts are fixed on you! … Lord, we show our trust in you by obeying your laws; our heart’s desire is to glorify your name. … Lord, you will grant us peace; all we have accomplished is really from you. … For your life-giving light will fall on your people like dew.

I woke up at 4:00 to the rhythms of my husband snoring beside me and my son snoring in the next tent over. My heart filled with thankfulness for these two men, for who they are, for the richness and depth and beauty of what each of them contributes to those around them.

On this early Saturday morning at Raccoon Creek State Park, almost a week ago now, the day before our 46^th anniversary, my mind wandered over God’s faithfulness to us, so amazing. Our marriage had every reason to fail, and honestly, but for David’s stubbornness and God’s grace, it would have. Our life together was off the charts traumatic and stressful for so many years that I came close to an emotional breakdown—long before I was diagnosed with PTSD after Karis’s death. Dave went through periods of depression. The kind where I might open the door to his office to ask him a question and find him lying on the floor in the dark staring blindly at the ceiling.

But God …

Friday evening our family had sat around the campfire singing silly songs, telling stories, even reciting “Jabberwocky.” We had joined our daughter Rachel singing “This Little Light of Mine,” which she had taught three-year-old Liliana to sing when she felt afraid of the dark. Valerie quickly followed with the Portuguese, “Minha pequena luz, vou deixar brilhar …”—so appropriate, because when Val was a teenager, her friends called her “Pequeno raio de luz”—little ray of light.

Here’s the thing: I could so easily have spoiled this precious time together. Not because I got distracted and the sausage hobo meals I had labored over with the “help” of Caleb and Talita—supper for ten of us—burnt to a crisp in the coals of Rachel’s fire. But because of my reaction to this fiasco.

Can you relate?

Everyone else took it in stride and ate more watermelon and s’mores made with Brian’s ginormous marshmallows. Caleb, Talita, and Liliana shrieked with laughter as Uncle Dan chased them around our tents. Baby Juliana blessed us with her marvelous smile and her enthusiasm for crawling not just in the grass but in the dirt.

I was so disappointed though that internally, all kinds of buttons were pushed—the perfectionist button, the “how could you” button, the “you are such a—” button, even the “could this be an early sign of Alzheimer’s” button. I was tempted to make my camp cooking failure an issue for the whole family. To make it about me.

Please tell me I’m not the only one to experience this temptation!

But God let me see instead the family laughing, talking, sharing what we did have to eat, even Cesar finding a consumable bite or two in the cinders of my burnt offering. The light of their smiles, each one of them, shone into the darkness of my heart and chased the shadows away.

This little light of mine … Minha pequena luz … surrounded me like a wall as Rachel and Valerie sang in the glow of the campfire Friday evening. I felt its protection still as I eased through the door of our tent into the dewy grass at the first lightening of the sky the next morning. As we hiked through the lovely woods and the kids swam in the lake. Even as we broke down our camp and said our goodbyes. And as Dave said “Happy anniversary” to me early Sunday.

Borrowing Isaiah’s words, Lord, you have granted us peace; all we have accomplished—even our emotional healing and growth—is really from you. My heart’s desire is to glorify your name.