Discovering God at the Festival of Lights Parade

Sometimes we feel like what we offer is such a very small thing. What possible difference can it make? But for those who are struggling ... for those who have forgotten ... for those who can't seem to remember what the love of God is like in dark places ... that small thing can be all that is needed to tip the scale between hope and despair.

A story from last year (2013)…

After long travels from far off places, the Wise Men arrive in Jerusalem with one question, "Where is he?"

Where is the purpose of the quest? Where is the destination of our adventure? Where is the one we have heard about?

If the Wise Men are considered wise because they come seeking answers, then are we also wise when we question in our own journeys of darkness looking for the light?

All I know is that I don't feel wise. Helpless would be a more accurate term.

In a week marked with chemo and the worst day yet in this struggle with pain, I watch my mom try to hide it from me, but some pain cannot be masked no matter how hard we try.

When moans escape from the depths of being, we can't help wonder in the darkness, "Where is he?"

In the pain. In the suffering. In the agony.

"Where is he?"

I have participated in arguments in the past about the goodness of God and purpose of pain and the evils of a fallen world, but theology pales when it is more than theory,

when it is MY MOM who is suffering.

"Where is he?"

In the book, The Problem With Pain, CS Lewis prefaces, "I was never fool enough to suppose myself qualified, nor have I anything to offer my readers except my conviction that when pain is to be borne, a little courage helps more than much knowledge, a little human sympathy more than much courage, and the least tincture of the love of God more than all."

Tincture: a tint, a slight trace, the smallest bit.

"Where is he?"

In matters of pain, sometimes all we need is the smallest evidence of the love of God.

Saturday was Mom's 78th birthday. We went out for birthday breakfast, a fairly normal morning.

We returned home to queasiness, exhaustion and more pain. Mom spent the late morning and afternoon resting. I was unsure if she would be up for the planned evening activities, but she declared herself ready to go when 6:00 pm rolled around.

We drove to downtown Chandler, maneuvering our way through masses of people to find our reserved spot in the parking garage near city hall. My husband met us and we walked a few blocks to our destination - an old fire truck, the fifth entry in the Festival of Lights parade.

We settled Mom next to the driver and found our places in the back, next to other city councilmembers and their families.

It was Mom's first ride in a parade since she was a candidate for homecoming queen in high school.

She smiled and waved her beauty queen wave to the gathered throng.

This alone would have been a special birthday memory.

But my husband had other things in place.

Earlier, when he had been out collecting campaign signatures, he whispered a secret plan to those claiming turf along the parade route.

When our firetruck came driving down Arizona Avenue, right behind a dancing group decked out in purple with white lights and their music blaring, "Let it Snow," a lady in a folding chair off to the right, all bundled in blankets, yelled out above the music, "Happy Birthday, Lois!"

My mom turned in surprise.

A few feet later a man holding a toddler shouted, "Happy Birthday Lois!"

Mom smiled and waved back.

"Happy Birthday Lois! Happy Birthday Lois!"

All along the parade route we heard the words, strangers who agreed to participate in a birthday surprise, calling out greetings to a woman they had never met, shining like stars on a difficult day.

In their smiles, in their shouts, in their mittened waves, I saw more than just a little human sympathy, I heard more than just a tincture of God's love,

I experienced the answer to the question, "Where is he?"

There on the back of a 1936 fire truck, in a parade aptly named The Festival Lights, I knew the answer. He is right here.

Today,

on your journey of faith,

I pray you discover him

in your own questions

and your own darkness.

Maybe you will see him on a stranger's face.

He is right here.

At the parade.

Waving her beauty queen wave.

This story is an excerpt from the book Under a Desert Sky: Redefining Hope, Beauty and Faith in the Hardest Places. It would be a great Christmas gift for those who desire to live a life of legacy, beauty, and purpose--even in the midst of a difficult season.