In the spaciousness of the large conference room where moments before we had eaten dinner together, each mom walked to the front of the room and lit the candle she was carrying. And then, with the emotion borne of loss and remembrance, each mom spoke into the microphone the name of her child who had died. From babies who died in the womb to young adults whose lives were shortened by tragedy, each name gave reality to the child who would never be forgotten, and whose abbreviated life had altered dreams and hopes and expectations, and was impacting still in incredible ways. For some the impact was one of intense grief, a grief that was still fresh. For others, the impact had altered, but the impact was giving impetus too to passionately making life different, and prayerfully better, for someone else. Each mom spoke, and each mom remembered, and each mom wanted to honor the memory of her child.
As the candles were lit, and after each mom spoke, a circle of lighted candles began to wreath the room. Grief was being shared; lives were being remembered; comfort was being extended. And in the darkened room illumined only by the lit candles, we began to sing, “This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine. This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine... Won't let Satan blow it out. I'm gonna let it shine.... let it shine, let it shine, let it shine. Let it shine til Jesus comes. I'm gonna let it shine. Let it shine til Jesus comes. I'm gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.” It was a song for children, a song for our children, and I had never heard it sung so beautifully or with such meaning.
The profundity of meaning touched some place deep within me. “This light” represented my child. “This light” captured the eternality of my child, an eternality I am still able to embrace here on earth, and an eternality I will embrace forever in heaven. My child may have died physically, but she is very much alive within my own life, very much alive as her memory continually speaks to me in thousands of ways, and very much alive as I love and as I give compassion. It is an eternality I will not allow Satan to snuff out, but rather an eternality that has become a light to still others who walk the journey of grief. I long for that light to shine, brilliantly and profusely, until Jesus comes to reunite me with my child. And within that reunion, I will be even more aware than I am today, that the only reason my light could shine, was because of Jesus. He is the one who brings light into the darkness of grief, and He is the one who allows the brevity of life to find purpose and meaning, even as His arms of compassion bring comfort.
– Bev
(Related Bible reading: 2 Corinthians 5:1-9
