“In the lion of trial we find the honey of communion.” Charles Spurgeon {1834-1892}

“Pull the curtain back,” I whispered.

Isabella, my daughter, uncurled her body from the vinyl foldout bed the hospital provided for overnight guests, stretching as she stepped toward the expansive picture window.

The view from my fifth-floor trauma ward window was stunning. We faced a faded indigo southern sky infused with a predawn glow pricked by black pine and maple tree silhouettes now paling into green.

Sunrise again.

The honeyed light cut through sleepy low clouds and touched the tips of nodding trees and quiet rooftops, like a mother brushing a stray curl from her child’s forehead.

Even the busy hospital was quieted by early morning. It seemed we were in on a secret, as if we were invited to an invitation-only premier.

I pressed a button and raised the back of my bed, adjusted my pillows and waited.

I imagined the chatter of birds, awake long before the sun made its appearance. I imagined the distant turn of a car engine. I imagined the watery, green scent of dew-drenched grass.

I watched fire rise and change the world with a newfound gratitude and tried to breathe deep, slow breaths. The lung was healing.

This interval of sunrise eclipsed the pain from my injuries, a gift of grace savored silently.

“Do you want coffee?” Isabella asked, but her movements told me the question was rhetorical.

She pulled from her bag of whole bean coffee, a grinder; she began boiling water in a traveling teakettle. I broke from my reverie and turned to watch my girl—almost a woman—and the decade of ballet training revealed in her every movement. Unaware of my gaze, she seemed to me a dancer on a stage, performing this domestic task out of its homey context.

The coffee ground and released its perfume.  Steam swirled above a low rumbling boil.

My hospital room smelled like home and I swallowed tears.

I grasped for each second as it passed, but my hands held only mist that evaporates with the rising sun.

Isabella placed a mug of freshly pressed coffee, rich with cream, into my hands.

With my daughter at my side and the honeyed light of dawn set alight on our faces, we watched our future rise.

“I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth. These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them.” Isaiah 42:16b-17

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Friend, sometimes we find ourselves in the dark. Death looms, disease destroys, obligations overwhelm and fear threatens to flood our souls. But there is a light, the Very Light proclaimed to Israel long ago:

“Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord rises upon you.” (Isaiah 60:1)

Your light has come. Jesus, the Light of the World, came for all of us. As the glory of the Lord rises upon us, we only need to arise and reflect his light.

Arise. Sit up and take notice. Set your face to the dawn, take the cup given to you.

Partake of this honeyed communion, borne of this lion of trial…or loneliness…or loss.

Be saturated in the light of his glory and face this future, even this exceeding darkness, illumined by the truth of God’s promise: He will turn your darkness into light and smooth your rough roads. These are the things he will do. He will not forsake you.

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Share your story with us. What darkness are your facing? What promise has become your light? What is your honey?

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