No, the line on the map is not the “lucky strip of the US that will be within view of the total solar eclipse this April 8.”
Rather the line on the map is my flight to New Orleans for a conference I am attending this same weekend as “the great American eclipse,” a conference where I learned today about another eclipse, an eclipse just as total, just as darkening of an otherwise bright and sunny disposition, just as completely shrouding, and obscuring as the moon passing between the earth and the sun.
I am attending a school board director’s conference.
As school board directors – and I am speaking for myself here, not on behalf of my fellow school district board members – when we assign blame for poor academic achievement, we have eclipsed – hidden, obscured, obfuscated – not only what needed to be clearly seen in the broad light of day but we very likely at the same time may well have discouraged even angered, those who were trying their very level best to shine, to succeed, to achieve.
Assigning blame, pointing fingers, and doing so with disparaging remarks, also happens in almost all, if not all, relationships.
The eclipse of which I am writing concerns the words we sometimes say, opprobrious words, hurtful words, words that cast a darkness, a shadow, a sadness between acquaintances, co-workers, friends, and even, and maybe especially, lovers.
These are words, writes Benson in his commentary on Proverbs 12:18, “which grieve the spirit, cutting to the heart, which separate those who have been very dear to each other.”
The “great American eclipse” this April 8, will last several minutes but will not be seen again over North America for another 20 years.
A greater eclipse happens every day, having effects which can last a lifetime, cast a pall, create pain, and even catastrophically perpetuate grief piled upon grief, severely damaging prospects of hope:
Our words.
Be clear.
But be kind.
