God – sethlewis.ie

It Isn’t Night for the Moon

Winter in Ireland. The time of year when the sun keeps shortening his hours, and the darkness encroaches steadily. It wasn’t late, but as I passed through our town that evening the sun’s face had already been missing for hours. And yet, I could still see his light. I saw it reflected off the full moon, beaming in the sky in all of its silver glowing glory.

Learning by Experience

The moment I met our first child, everything changed. It happened as quickly as a heart can beat, with a force that took my breath away—my eyes and my heart were suddenly opened to understand love in an entirely new way. I had heard about the love of parents for their children. I had experienced it from the other end, as the child of truly wonderful parents. But none of this prepared me for how it feels when your hearts bursts with absolute, unconditional, unfathomable love for a human you don’t even know, who can’t respond, and whose needs never seem to end—and none of that matters at all.

Thanks in Advance (a poem)

I thank you
right now
for the light you will bring
though I sit in the dark
where I can’t see a thing

I thank you
right now
for the peace you’ll command
though I wait in a storm
that I can’t understand

I thank you
right now
for the gold you’ll refine
through the fire and heat
in my heart, in my mind

I thank you
right now
for the good that you’ll do
for your promise and presence
that carry me through
for this long night of mourning
will end with a dance
so I bring you my thanks
in advance

Clouds (a poem)

As clouds diffuse
the sun’s great light
and drain the world of colour
my restless thoughts
have covered up
your glory and your power
at times a ray—or two—breaks through
at times I think I’m glimpsing you
and suddenly the world explodes
in living colour I behold
all things as they were meant to be
(it’s in your radiance I see)
and then my anxious thoughts return
and then my anxious heart unlearns
the beauty of your majesty
the goodness of your plan for me
and in the clouds (the glory-thieves)
I cry, “Lord, help my unbelief!”

I Miss The Stars

One of the advantages of growing up in the country in Alabama was the clear view I had of the night sky. As a child, I got used to seeing billions, maybe trillions of stars—I don’t really know, there were far too many to count. Stars were a given for me, along with the noisy nighttime chorus of cicadas, crickets and frogs. Now I live in Ireland, where most nights the clouds pull themselves over me like a duvet. Under these covers my town is equipped with rows of man-made lights that imitate and compete with the stars, so even when the duvet is lifted, I might—on a good night—be able to count a dozen stars. But I know better. I know what’s really out there in those seemingly dark, empty spaces—I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I remember the sparkling host, the glittering crowd, the innumerable army of light with its clustered regiments and flag-bearing constellations. Can I be honest? I miss them.

Life Is Not For The Faint Of Heart (But God Is)

I feel the sunlight streaming through the windows onto my skin, yet somehow the world still seems dark and cold. The headlines this week have fallen on me like long shadows, cast by the unrelenting clouds of hatred, violence, death, and evil, and in this chilly climate my heart responds with dismay. We like to think we’ve progressed beyond our ancestors, but when I see ordinary people dancing and celebrating the death of someone they merely disagreed with, I despair. How can we ever move forward like this? When the answer to open debate is a bullet, we’re all finished. Meanwhile, wars, atrocities, and injustices continue unchecked around the world, many of which we barely hear about. Even if we did, we wouldn’t have the capacity to track them all. There are too many.

The Eyes Of The Old And The Young

As my wife and I were walking, we caught ourselves identifying wildflowers beside the path—or at least as many as we could. There are a lot of wildflowers in Ireland, and it’s hard to keep all the names straight. As we wondered about some of the varieties, we also began to wonder if such wondering about flower names is a sign of getting older. We feed birds in our garden, after all, and keep track of which kinds of songbirds visit us. Caring about such things is often associated with age, isn’t it? If so, we’ve decided that this is clearly a benefit of aging, not something to be avoided. Noticing the beauty God put around us is always a good idea, and if it’s associated with getting older then I reckon that’s a sign that older people are generally wiser and have figured out more about what is really important on this planet. It’s not only the old who notice these things, either.

Songs Of Trust

This week I’d like to share a few songs with you that I’ve been enjoying recently. These songs are diverse in musical style (I know musical tastes are different, so I won’t be offended if you don’t prefer them) yet all of them share the theme of trusting God. Trust is not always easy, especially when God’s ways and times are different than what we want or expect. These songs have encouraged me as I’ve waited for the Lord. Maybe they could encourage you, too.

Appreciation Grows With Knowledge

The car windows were open, and Carlos Santana was making his guitar sing out of our stereo in ways that few can imitate. With the wind in her hair, my wife commented from the passenger seat that she reckoned people who play guitar probably appreciate his solos more than she could. She’s an experienced musician herself, but her instrument is piano. I play guitar—but I wouldn’t claim such a thing in front of Carlos. Still, even my amateur knowledge makes me see the truth in what my wife said. I’ve tried to learn my scales and unlock the hidden order of the fretboard and train my fingers to move freely along it—and I have not succeeded. When I hear someone whose mastery of the instrument is as complete as Santana’s, I think my own attempts—as small as they are—really do make me appreciate his abilities in a different way. My limited experience with the instrument gives me the beginnings of a context for the kind of work he must have put in day after day and year after year to develop his seemingly effortless (yet in reality hard won) talent. I’d imagine if I was more accomplished at guitar myself, I would appreciate the skill of masters like Santana even more. As my knowledge of music grows, my appreciation grows along with it.

Three Castle Head

On a sunny day in the Spring, we pulled the car into a gravel parking area at the end of a remote peninsula in Ireland. The sea shimmered in the light beyond the deep green fields lined and dotted with grey rock walls and white sheep. We opened the gate and crossed a field, and then another, and another, carefully following the faint paths worn by the feet of those who had come here before us. Sometimes we had to make a choice—it seems not all of our predecessors had gone the same way. Or did hooves make one trail, and feet another? Eventually the grassy fields gave way to rocky hills, and we scrambled up one side and down the other where the grass and mud and boulders and the sound of the sea all blend together into a kind of otherworldly magic and I had to remind myself that I wasn’t looking at an illustration of the Wild Lands of Narnia—I was in the real, tangible, wild of the actual world.