Light streams in from the right, almost blindingly bright on the carpet, softer where it throws a shadow of the handrail onto the wall.

What would I see if I moved to the right, into the fullness of that light?  Or what would I see if I moved left and down, into the soft darkness out of which the steps rise up?

But right now I do neither.  I pause instead in this in-between place, opening to it, taking it in, allowing it to instruct me.

From the middle to the back of this picture, the play of light moves gently, smoothly, from bright to dim.  But in the foreground, deep shadow slices sharply, abruptly, across glare so bright it washes out the texture of the carpet.  If I look at the newel post, the spindles, the steps, the baseboard, the handrail, I am in the world of ambiguity and complexity.  But if I look at the carpet in the foreground, I am in the world of either/or, this or that—the world of clarity and clear boundaries. 

Yet they are not two worlds!  Here they are, running seamlessly together in one small space—a space where lives are lived, have been lived, are being lived.

Just as in this picture, so in my one life moments of complexity and ambiguity, of sharp clarity and stark choice, jostle and flow.  How would my choices differ if I realized how close they are to each other—only a single step apart?  How would my life be different if I took time regularly to become aware of both these worlds within every situation?

My eye is drawn to the wooden  balustrade.  The bright light falling on the newel post left the surface of the sun eight and a half minutes before this picture was taken.  The wood, on the other hand, was milled and shaped and set in place 146 years ago.  And its story extends back further even than that.  When this stairway was being built, it was the custom to fell and mill whatever trees were standing about nearby—and many of the trees standing nearby back then were virgin forest.

I have no way of knowing when the tree from which this balustrade was made sprouted, or how long it stood, probing the earth with its roots while stretching its branches skyward, to catch the sunlight with its leaves and store it in this wood.  But each line of grain visible  here in the newel post represents a year’s worth  of stored sunlight, light that left the sun’s surface—when?  At least 200 years ago, I’d say; probably more.

The old wood, turned and shaped and set here by human hands, and the bright light falling on it, are really the same thing:  the pulsing energy of the sun in two different forms.  Do they recognize each other, I wonder?

Do I always recognize the deep, abiding current of God’s pulsing energy in my life, with all the ways it has been hewn and shaped, all the contrasts of bright, clear times and complex, ambiguous times?

Sometimes the bright light of fresh grace lets me see and recognize  an old grace for the first time.

Sometimes the familiar form and color and texture of an old grace can blind me to a new one being offered, whose form is so different when it is so fresh from its source.

Here in this in-between place I remind myself how good it is to claim and cherish both.  Here in this in-between place, I call myself to a discipline of deep receiving, opening my eyes and heart to expect and seek, accept and drink in God’s grace in all its guises.