Colored lights

Dear friends and loved ones--(which is, essentially, the same thing, right? Cause if you're a friend, doesn't that automatically make you a loved one? I think so.)

...I am writing a book. A real book with chapters and eventually pages and an ISBN number all its own, I pray. I've had a burden on my heart for a long time to write a book. Not just about me. Not just about pop culture. Not just about religious disciplines. About all of the above combined, flipped, and swirled around in this thing we've got called humanity. About how all of life; all of it--sex, drugs, rock n' roll, movies, academia, religiosity, relationships, money, power, good looks--every element stands as the human outcry for GOD. All of our human brokenness combined and turned-about paints the picture of Jesus Christ--reaching out to a longing world.

Anyway, all this to say that I've just finished the first draft of a chapter. This is the first chapter I've completed, as such, from mere thoughts, freewrites, or blogs--to something substantial.

And I'm about to post it for you to see, pray over, and lend feedback (if you would be so kind.)

I've thought about this in many ways--"Should I post it? I mean, it will be "copyrighted" one day. Should it be floating on a blog? "

"It's not finalized. Some of the ideas are still in progress. I may have missed something. What if it is still disorganized?"

"Is this going to be seen as some attention cry of "look at me" or "I'm trying to be a writer!"?"

.................Well, about all these things I have prayed, and God has said, "You don't write because it's yours, anyway. You write because it's mine, and you want to use your writing to reach others for me. So don't be afraid to share."

Since God has spoken, I have listened, and wish to humbly share this with you. I also crave your prayers, feedback, or thoughts on anything of pertinence. With all my love, I give you the chapter I call: Colored Lights.

Summer Nash sat, crying, in the foyer. She was nearly inconsolable for an hour and a half. What was I, as her babysitter, to do? After picking up her and her two older sisters from school on a Wednesday
afternoon (as is our custom) I had suggested the benign activity of decorating the Nash home for Christmas. Simple enough, you say. I agree. Except, I had not taken into account the 5-year-old mind, and it’s passionate response to one thing: Christmas lights.

Summer Nash is a beautiful little girl. She has big, dark, saucer-like eyes, which vary in “big-ness” depending on her internal excitement level, and the conversation topic discussed. She has dark hair, cut into a
smart-looking bob with sharp bangs and angles, highlighting her overall plucky nature as if by default. She has a ready, willing, half-grin full of baby teeth—a smile which she shells out at whim, lighting up her entire face by degrees.

She has a massive vocabulary for her young age—her father being an author and a professor—and she cannot hold still for an instant. If she is sitting, she will wave her arms. If she is standing, her entire body
will move in time and tune with the emotion of her conversational subject. She moves about in flourishes, like a ballerina wanna-be—walking to and fro from the kitchen to the living room is a performance matter—she points her toes and elongates her little hands and arms with concerted grace.

She’ll sing songs. She’ll dance dances. She’ll imagine elaborate scenarios in which the living-room couch is a ship and mops-and-brooms make fine paddles, “mate”. She’ll dole out orders as easily as she will smiles: You are a mother, a ship mate, a shop woman, whatever she decides, and just so, if you please. “It is a good thing she was born last,” her mother says with a grin. “She needed a few people to be subservient to.”

Everything about Summer Nash leaves you standing in her presence with a wide smile, shaking your head in amazement. The word “uninhibited” has nearly reached it’s highest form in this 5-year-old protege—except
that she’s recently discovered the world of peer-approval, so a delicate balance is being struck between being what she is, naturally, and what she believes she should be—funny, serious, composed or full of spunk. She, as the youngest, competes wildly for attention—her most used phrase, “watch me! Watch me!” is said with such genuine enthusiasm, that any notion of young conceit give way to a little girl just longing to be told “you are beautiful. You are important. You can have my full attention.”

I relate well with Summer Nash.

So on that day of Christmas décor—with three eager girls and me, lugging boxes far bigger than I down from an attic too high for my comfort—we unpacked the fated lights. Strands and strands of lights. Beautiful
lights. Mainly white lights—and one little strand of colored lights.

I had barely noticed as Summer’s sister, Morgan, pulled out the strand of colored lights with which to decorate her room. I was busy hanging ornaments. Summer noticed.

“Angela, aw thew any mowe colowed lights?” (Summer pronounces any “r” sound as a “w”.)

“Oh, I’m sure there are, sweetheart. Let’s have a look.”

We went over to the box of lights, which sat at the bottom of their foyer staircase, and a diligent search ensued. Summer was particularly intense in her persuit as we rifled through the tangled strands. White lights. White lights. More white lights. I tried to stall as a look of dismay crossed her face.

“Thew awn’t any mowe colowed lights!”

“Sweetheart, I’m sure there are more. They’re probably in the attic.”

My efforts at stalling were apparently transparent. Tears welled up in her eyes and her voice started to quiver with distress.

“No, no, I saw them awl and thew awe no mowe colowed lights!”

Oh no. Babysitter panic. Distressed and crying child. Sirens sound: “Danger, Will Robinson!”

I stood in a momentary jolt of mild terror, and Summer’s wheels started turning. Her saucer-eyes grew big with the thought process, and her next words came in the harried tone of accusation.

“I know what happened to them. Mowgan took them!”

Sibling strife. The alarm and warning sounded louder. I had to act quickly.

“Oh, honey. Morgan is just decorating her room. We could decorate your room, too! Do you want to use the white lights?”

She looked at me as if I just asked the question equivalent of “wouldn’t you like to watch a quilting show on PBS?” Tears fell in great drops on their wooden floor.

“But white lights are great!” I attempted, “They’re sophisticated and grown-up and they’ll make your room look like an ice castle! Wouldn’t you like that?” (By which I meant, “please, please, stop crying!”)

But cry she did. And continue to cry—even though I extolled all the virtues of white lights known to man. And these cries of hers were deep cries. Deeper than a temper tantrum. Deeper than a spoiled brat’s lament. These cries came from the bottom of a seemingly broken heart—and I couldn’t understand why.

“Sweetheart, they’re just lights!” I let out, after having tried to reason with her for quite some time. Her sisters ran to and fro, continuing the decorating process.

“Just leave her be,” her older sister said. “She just does this sometimes.”

This was a seemingly adequate explanation, but what was I to do with this small human being, crying bitterly in the foyer, with huge eyes and impressive vocal inflection? Her tiny little hands made choppy, strong gestures as she continued to present her case. “But I need them!” She kept saying. “I
need those lights!”

I considered options—like time outs or more rational talk time, but both of them seemed wrong, somehow, in this case. I couldn’t explain it. Finally, in desperation, I dropped to my knees in front of her, took her
hands (to quiet her movements) and said, “Sweetheart, it’s okay. It’s really okay. What’s wrong?”

It was just then that Summer’s intellectual side came out amid her heaving cries. She looked me right in the eye and said explained,

“You don’t undewstand. I need thowse Cwistmas lights. Mowgan has this fwiend that visits hewr woom. If she comes to visit hewr woom and sees the colowed lights, then she’ll like Mowgan’s woom more than mine! All Mowgan’s friends like hewr mowe than me! If she has the colowed lights, they’ll weally like hewr mowe than me!”

My heart reeled under the weight of what she had just said. I let out a near gasp-and-laugh and protested wildly that such a thing could not be true.

“Yes it is twue!” she said, and cried all the louder.

All that wrapped up in colored lights.

And as if things couldn’t get any worse, she looked up into my face, and these words came out in equal parts of plea and scorn: “You could go to the stowe and buy me colowed lights—if you wanted to! You could get in
the cawr and dwive to the stowe and buy colowed lights! Can you? Will you? Let’s go to the stowe!”

But I couldn’t. I had the charge of three little girls until their parents got home. That was my job. That’s what I had to do. That’s what was best for them at the moment. Try explaining that to a 5-year-old. Her emotions
hit the fan.

So Summer Nash sat, crying, in the foyer. She was nearly inconsolable for an hour and a half—equating colored lights with all that was important to her and her little life at the moment. I couldn’t punish that, I
understood that.

I acted like that all the time.

In A Streetcar Named Desire, Marlon Brando’ s Stanley Kowalski talked a lot about colored lights. It was his code word for sexual interaction and gratification. “..and you loved it, having them colored lights goin’.” Sexual gratification, was, arguably, what was important to him and his life at the moment. At the climax
of the movie he was left, at the bottom of a staircase, crumpled, sobbing, using choppy, strong gestures as he continued to lament his case, screaming, “Stella! Stella!” He stood there and equated colored lights with all that was important to him. He had nothing if he didn’t have the colored lights. ....

Colored lights could mean crying out to a wife for sexual gratification. Colored lights could mean a little girl crying out to win friends and gain as much status as her sister. Colored lights could be anything with which we equate worth, value, personal gain or importance.

When I cried out for colored lights, I wasn’t addressing a babysitter or a spouse, but I was addressing the One in charge of my keeping. I begged for colored lights nearly every day, as I looked up at God and said, “You just don’t understand! I really need this relationship, job opportunity, vacation, piece of clothing, pair of shoes, or [insert anything here]. I have nothing if I don’t have the colored lights!”

The problem with “colored lights” is that they address a deeper issue—I equate colored lights to mean my
value, my opportunity, my acceptance, my worth; so in a way, the colored lights are valid—and not valid, all at the same time—because I don’t merely want the item, relationship, or opportunity. I want
something more. I want my deeper need gratified—but I don’t think of it that way. I think of attaining the colored lights instead of the white lights. A little or big achievement or possession is set, somehow, on par with attaining everything good in life. Everything I want. Need. Deserve. On the flip side, not to attain that means, in some way, to forfeit everything I want, need, or deserve. Colored lights suddenly become
very important.

It doesn’t end there. How many times, after making colored lights out of wants, needs, or trifles—do I look up at God and say, with both pleading and scorn: “You could do it, God. You could give me what I want. You
could give me my colored lights—if you really wanted to.” I doubt God’s goodness. I doubt His care for me. If He really loved me, He’d start doling out the colored lights.

In his book (insert title here) (insert author’s name which I am currently forgetting) says that when we envy, what we are essentially saying, “God owes me something.” I’m not willing to make that statement
verbally, audibly. It would be blasphemy, heresy! God owes me something? No! I owe him everything. In Him I live and move and have my being. Yet how many times do I look up and imply that He’s a cheapskate
holdout?

I should pause here to clarify one thing: I’m not about to say that the desire for a good relationship, a good education, a good job, good friends, or even a good pair of shoes—is a bad thing. I like a good pair of
shoes. I’m saying that when I am left, crumpled, at the bottom of God’s staircase crying “Stilettos! Stilettos!” and clinging to my colored lights for dear life, there is a problem.

And just like Blanche, Stanley’s wife, came strolling down the staircase gloating in her control over him, this colored-light problem can control me. This problem can consume me. This problem can make me a workaholic, study-a-holic, party-a-holic, choc-o-holic, boyfriend-a-holic, anything-a-holic. This problem can make me say that God owes me something. This problem can make me doubt God’s very love for me. This problem can leave me crying in a foyer for an hour and a half. This is a problem indeed.

The whole world begs for colored lights every day.

And for argument’s sake, say we get whatever constitutes our colored lights? In the end, what do we have? A strand of electric cords, bulbs, and small amounts of glass which could shatter if we step on them. Mere Stuff.

Stuff that has got to be plugged in to be worth something. Strands that must be connected to something bigger than what they are by themselves—namely, merely, colored lights—in order to really do any good. Colored lights address the deepest issues of our heart, but they, in and of themselves, do not provide the
solution to them.

Colored lights are a cry for help.