The shadows of the day

On my walk this morning, I noticed (not for the first time) how the shadows are so long in the morning. The sun shone brightly and warmly--a welcome change from last week's snow, rain and chill. But still, there were long shadows, dark places where it was still cold and damp.

I thought about our lives--how they are like the hours of the day. In our youth, we may play in the shadows, hiding from the light of our parent's wisdom, often getting into trouble--sometimes being exposed by the light of truth, other times successfully avoiding the pain, but the needed exposure--of the light. As we come to our mid-life years, we are in the noon-time sun--where the shadows cannot find us. But we seek to bring our children out of the darkness into the light that we have found--sometimes being burned by the heat of the moment. It will take time, we sometimes realize, before they can see the light completely. Indeed, we can't see the light all the time--even though we are warmed and sometimes blinded by its rays.

At mid-life, as in mid-day, we feel the hours waning--we look to our parents who are in or approaching their twilight years. Their shadows are long, too, but they have enjoyed the sun and grown and been nourished by its rays of wisdoms for many years. They may return to playing in the shadows as in their youth--enjoying their days as they become fewer, yet not seeking the trouble that youth finds. Their shadows are often physical--the constant reminder in their bodies that we are not meant to remain on this earth forever. Our bodies wear out, and the time comes when we can rest in the shade as we wait for the eternal sun.

Our lives are fleeting--like the hours of a day. But in Christ, we have hope for an eternity of his light and truth. While we are here--in whatever season of life we find ourselves--we reach for the warmth of his love and strength for whatever challenges we find in the day. And one day, every tear will be dried as we see Jesus face to face in our eternal home.

Till next time,

Suzi