The eclipse was two weeks ago today, and I’m still thinking about it. Smiling. Feeling so thankful that we got to be a witness to the beautiful spectacle of it all.
In the hours leading up to the beginning of the eclipse – those morning moments before any tiny portion of the sun was covered – the moon is totally invisible. Not there. No hazy blue and white daylight moon. Nothing. So that first time I put on the protective glasses it was because my research told me that it was time, not because of anything I could see. Yes! There’s a hint of black at the sun’s edge. While I understand the science of this, it’s still a surprise. For the next hour or so, the blackness slowly advances. Silently. Slowly. The world without the glasses on begins to look different. The light changes. The world around becomes dimmer, but in a substantially different way than when it’s cloudy or stormy. The light is diminished. The air cools. Birds quiet, head off to their roosts. The closer to totality, the odder the world appears. Then. Darkness.
I’ve been anticipating this moment for weeks, I understand the process. Yet, somewhere deep inside I am afraid. I’m cold and cut off. I hold my breath, hoping. My eyes well up with unplanned tears as I stare at the heavens. I reach for Karl’s hand. Though my world is now unwillingly, uncontrollably plunged into darkness, the sun refuses to be vanquished. The bright circle of the sun’s corona remains. For three and a half minutes I take quick glances at the horizon, the stars, the scudding clouds, but I can’t take my eyes for long from the thick black circle ringed with silvery light.
Then miraculously a ray of light shoots out, breaking the dark, severing the hold of blackness. I cheer. Nearly instantly, the birds, who had gone completely silent, begin twittering from the tree tops. In mere minutes the day returns and within an hour we are back to normal. But also changed. Total eclipses of the sun are relatively rare and we celebrate them. Eclipses of the heart and soul, sadly, not so rare. Often the dark smudge begins imperceptibly – an unseeable moon against a blue sky. A seemingly innocuous choice, perhaps even one with good intent, that honors something other than Him. The blockage from God is unnoticeable at first, but eventually the light changes, perception changes, attitudes and lives are changed. As the eclipse continues, the eyes of our hearts adjust, accept. The darkness comes and instead of looking upward in hope, we retreat like the birds, satisfied when the automatic night lights click on. If we keep our heads down and become accustomed to the dark, we miss the corona, the hope, the assurance that pain has a purpose, trials and darkness can strengthen us and grow us. The hope that we need not stay in the darkness. With our heads down, we miss His glory, His provision, the hope He provides
