One of those dark spots in the road

There are those dark places in the road. When I was a kid I would get nervous where the light of the street lights on our little town failed, or where the yard light faded from view on our country road where I lived. Nothing ever happened there. Nothing ever came out of the dark. But my heart and my feet both moved much faster anyway.
It felt a little like that on Saturday when we heard of the bus crash. Was that our daughter’s bus? Was she hurt? What about the other kids and parents? How can we find out? The answers came slowly out of the darkness; it felt a little like ooze creeping into our hearts when fears were realized and hospitals called and more questions followed what little information we had.
Prayer words were few; mostly it was unformed emotion, churning under the surface, or erupting into tears; sighs too deep for words.
The extra light we talk about showing and sharing at Light of the Cross eventually found its way into the day. People, mostly, who shone with hope, or compassion, or competence, or confidence, or (in our daughter’s case) stubborn assertiveness, or (in the chaplain’s case) simple Christ-like presence. It was all more than we needed. It was all Jesus. It was light.
It has taken me a couple days to be totally aware of it. It took gathering with the people of the Church and “breaking the bread” to feel the light soak into my soul.
Hannah is fine. She was released from the hospital on Sunday night, hardly a day after being admitted. Nothing broken. Internally mending. Hardly limping. Eager to face, well, I guess, her own unknown. Eager to be light in the lives of her friends who will need her. Eager to walk with the rest of her town through the darkness of grief for a friend lost.
She (we) will need your prayers.