Second Monday blessing: glimmer

The Season of Light

Movies, if written and acted well, have the potential to end like either Cinderella or Life is Beautiful. Unless G-rated or promoted as feel-good movie of the summer, a good film that accurately portrays real people with real feelings in real lives can wind up leaving us exhilarated, devastated, sad, angry, thoughtful or … you know, the list goes on and on.

When anticipating that a devastating or sad outcome is more than likely, I’m not ashamed to say I will wiki the title, quickly read through the “Plot” section, and decide whether or not I’m willing to see it through to the end.

That’s why I appreciate seeing TW:—– at the beginning of articles and postings, indicating the subject matter may trigger powerful feelings a reader may want to avoid, either for now or for always. Trigger warnings for stories about child or spousal abuse, suicide, addiction, and other difficult or controversial topics are the ways compassionate writers tell us…

Um, this may be something you’ll want to read
when you’re in a good place or
when you’re not alone …
or maybe never.

Then there are those triggers “in the wild” – the ones with jack-in-the-box-like qualities. Even when you put up your defenses while turning the crank, you can’t anticipate when or what will pop up. It may be as simple as entering a room, the smell of after shave, or those first few notes of a song. Long-forgotten sights or sounds that bring unrest. Painful memories best left in the box.

But then there are other, sweet tiny little flashes that each of us alone can see – delightful moments that dance around us and past us. The first sip of eggnog, the Northern Lights, fresh pine, a grandmother’s soft, frail hand, the local elementary band’s slightly off-key Christmas medley.

They’re called glimmers… fleeting, personal reminders of those times when we felt connected, grounded and safe. Thoughts and feelings that move us from anxiety to relief, from sadness to joy, from helplessness to hope.

The more public glimmers of this season of light have the same effect. The faint, wavering candle glow we see on dinner tables and mantels, through frosted windows, and in mittened hands of carolers brings sheer magic to a time when feelings of recent or long-ago loss, heartbreak, and bitterness seem simply unbearable.

Unlike the festive hoopla and fa-la-la of the season, however, our own glimmers offer something quiet and intimate. They sink deep within. They gently wake those memories either too old to see clearly or too small and fragile to share with others. They whisper words of delight and comfort no one else sees, knows, or hears …

• The first time we could have sweetened eggnog was after my brother came home from the war.
• The last time I saw the Northern Lights was the night we got engaged.
• My dad and I cut down our Christmas tree every year – just the two of us.
• When my grandma prayed for me, she always held my face in her hands.
• Playing with the band ignited my lifelong passion and career: helping kids find themselves in music.

I can’t even explain most of my own glimmers – the faded memories so tightly stitched together in my soul that I can’t separate one from the other. The feelings so strong that I can’t keep it together, yet so tender and faint I cannot put words to them. They come without warning and overwhelm me with both peace and an increased longing for more gentleness, grace, and mercy in the world.

Glimmers are especially abundant during this Season of Light – both the kind we all see and the kind we notice secretly and only if we are paying attention to the glimpses that catch us off guard in the very best ways.

I pray that you will discover your own collection of memories, both strong and those dream-like, as they are revealed in the every-day and the special occasions, while out and about, in the kitchen, napping by the tree, or reading the best of books. I pray that your glimmers far outweigh the heaviness of seasonal triggers and that they bring you contentment and warmth during the long, cold days ahead.

And until next week, as always, I pray for you light and life and

Photo by Bundo Kim on Unsplash