shine

To shine is to flood with light, to steal away the dark from its hiding places, to warm, to nourish, to feed. To shine is to make something gently manifest, to make plain what is present, to offer a truth that ushers in flourishing. To shine is to tend to the seedling, to uphold the body, to set one’s face toward the beloved.

The sun inclines her head, and the earth sprouts with new life. In the dark and deep beginnings, you began with light, with evening and with morning, and the garden began to grow. Like a wise teacher, a good farmer, you give all that is needed for the earth to do its work, to bring forth its good fruit. Each nut-brown seed and green fern, every twirling tendril on the vine and new bud on the branch – with head thrown back and arms open wide, the fields and forests clap their hands for the life they receive from the sun that shines.

The white-gold sun bares her face, and our bodies grow strong. In the depths of the earth, you Jesus knitted and you formed, you saw, you wove bone and marrow, substance and skeleton. Like a wise physician, a good counselor, you enfold us in a secret regimen of goodness and mercy that follows us through the arc of each day. With each blue-gold retreat, each brilliant red rising, you nourish us – you mend what is fractured and you secure what is broken.

“Thus you shall bless the Israelites: You shall say to them,

‘The Lord bless you and keep you;

the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you;

the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace.’

So they shall put my name on the Israelites, and I will bless them.”

Numbers 6:23-27

The father smiles, and the child blooms. The Lord Jesus loves with a shining countenance. He commands blessing, he communicates delight, he conveys his affection whole-heartedly, in song and in poem. He holds nothing back.

Perhaps it was the light of your face, Jesus, that made these infant parts strong, these dormant parts newly alive – perhaps it was the warmth of your smile, the blaze of your delight, the fire of your pride that instilled in this little one the will to survive, the fight, the anger, the strategy, the vulnerability, the safe-keeping. Like a child, still, we fumble and let go with clumsy fingers, but see, see the lips purse and the brow furrow! Perhaps it is the distant light of your smile that gives us the courage to try again, the strength to withstand our suffering, the grit to stand even as we grieve.

In the light of your shining face, O Jesus, might our sun-starved parts feel our way toward you and find you. Might the tender shoots that have felt claw and beak, crowding weed, and the searing burn of a counterfeit sun – might these parts know the orange-lit hearth at the end of the long, gray path. Even on the far side of the wilderness, in the shadow of a mountain, draw us to the bush that burns, the lamp that is the Lamb.

some questions to hold

• When have you felt safely enjoyed by someone? Take a little time to remember what happened and how you experienced these moments. Think particularly about your physical, sensory experience – what did you feel in your body?
• What brings you such delight that it shows in your face, in your gestures, in your posture, or in your tone of voice? What is it like for you to feel this delight? What is it like for you to express this delight, to allow it to be seen and known?

---

If you’d like to continue on this journey with me, please sign up below to get email updates when I post something new. I am very grateful for the time you give to reading these, and would be glad to hear any feedback or comments you have about how we can risk a next, slow step toward Jesus together.

– Amanda