Shortly after 5 a.m. this morning a truck hit a light pole and our community was instantly dark.
No street lights, no neighbor’s lights and, in our own home, no wall night lights.
There was coffee though. Set to perk at 5 a.m., the pot preempted the pending predicament by enough minutes for me to stumble that way and pour enough (I know, priorities, right?) to accompany me, feeling my way along, to where the battery-powered candles were.
Which didn’t light. Six decorative candles on the hearth and not one of them did its job.
It was only then that I thought of my cell phone as neighbors evidently already had, wandering out in their yards where twinkling lights indicated perhaps their battery-powered candles didn’t work either.
It was too dark to see whether or not they cradled a cup of coffee in one hand, their light in the other.
All to say that it is very dark when that which is meant to light our way – and that of others – doesn’t.
As feeble our attempts, and flickering our efforts, with long past or more recent failures suggesting we’ve not contributed much to dispel the gloom, still, we are that light.
And we have today.