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Southern Cross, Page 4
Columns
Finding glory in a moon shadow
Thursday, September 14, 2017
Q C\\ 7e haven’t figured out how
V V to cover the half-moon win
dow in the sitting room,” Magan said
perplexed as I drove home for lunch
Monday afternoon.
When I arrived a few moments later, I
walked into a nearly pitch-black setting,
with blankets, sheets and towels taped
to the casing of every window including
the half-moon one in our sitting room.
To top it all off, every small child,
save Isaac, was holed up in the cavern
that had been our master bedroom a
few hours earlier, while Isaac sat in his
sister’s crib in a darkness he had only
known once before during his 10-month
stay in the mommy motel one year
earlier.
The only things missing from this
feigned apocalyptic preparation were
gallons of water and loaves of bread to
outlast the blind zombies that were about
to be created after they, and not we,
stared at the total solar eclipse without
prescription-strength glasses acquired
from the local library giveaway.
“I don’t think a little light getting
through the cracks is going to cause
anyone to go blind,” I said in Magan’s
direction, but she was having none of
my satire.
“Well, at least we know for sure
nobody’s eyes will get hurt,” she replied.
The big boys continued to try out their
glasses indoors, which made the already
dark surroundings completely inky, and
Noah showed off his creation—a single
lens from a pair of eclipse glasses taped
to a box—designed to allow him to
capture footage of the eclipse without
damaging his camera.
I went about my lunch hour the same
as I had most others: eating a peanut but
ter and jelly sandwich and watching TV.
Like Noah, I had come up with a sim
ilar plan to capture the eclipse for work,
setting up shop at Our famous football
stadium with multiple remote cameras
set for time-lapse video capture.
Then the clouds came.
“Well, we’ve still got an hour before
the big show,” I said to myself, “so it’s
still fine.”
Then the clouds got darker, and more
numerous.
This one project—between its plan
ning and implementation—had taken
up my entire day and, by the looks of
things, it was all going to be for naught.
Every five minutes or so I would head
back outside from the field house to
check on the weather, only to find darker
clouds covering the one piece of sky I
needed to be open in order to capture
this once-in-a-lifetime event.
“We looked at it. You can see it now,”
Magan said in a text, which I followed
with, “This stinks.”
Magan continued to report back from
the housebound viewing party with, “It
was about one-third of the way and we
could see it move!”
I had all but given up hope when our
football coach hollered from the other
side of the building, “Jason, here it is.
Come look.”
I hastily ran to the front door with my
single-lens pair of eclipse glasses and, lo
and behold, there was the half-covered
sun as it wrapped up its celestial square
dance with our closest space neighbor.
A review of my footage showed that
the eclipse had been regularly poking
through the clouds the entire time,
except during my quick peaks outside.
I had seen what I had wanted to
see—or didn’t want to see, in this case,
clouds—instead of what was actually
there, the eclipse.
As Christians, we are taught to look
for signs of God’s work in our lives.
How many times, though, do we allow
our own perceptions to interfere or, like
the moon, “block” the Light from reach
ing our hearts and minds?
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart
and do not lean on your own under
standing,” (Proverbs 3:5) is such a sim
ple command, but we habitually fail to
heed its call.
While the whole event hadn’t kicked
off the blind zombie apocalypse or
marked New Jerusalem descending from
the sky, it was a reminder that we should
let go of our own assumptions when it
comes to searching for signs from our
Maker that could actually be hiding in
plain sight.
Jason Halcombe has five sons and a
DAUGHTER. He AND HIS WIFE, MAGAN, ARE
MEMBERS OF IMMACULATE CONCEPTION
Church, Dublin.
Jesus, I trust in You
P aul and I take a regular walk with
our dog Bentley. We have a route
through our neighborhood where we see
lots of our neighbors doing their regular
things, too.
We start off saying good morning to
my dad next door, who has a prayer time
on his front porch every day. Farther up
the street we see our friend Frank. Frank
has a miniature fluffy dog named Zoey
who thinks she is a mastiff. There is
Marie, who walks the family dog while
listening to podcasts or praying the
rosary, and Mr. C, whose dog Hoss was
in dog obedience with Bentley. (Hoss
got some kind of lifetime achievement
award at the end of class, or maybe it
was most improved, I can’t remember.)
And then there are Joyce and Craig,
a couple whose youngest child just
graduated high school. That family tends
to have one or two people hanging out
on their front porch on a regular basis, at
least during the summer months. Often
it’s the two of them chatting with one of
their kids, and I love seeing them hang
ing out like that.
I love it so much, in fact, that I recent
ly found myself getting a little envious.
Not envious so much as wistful. I wish
we had a porch like that, I thought, so
we could hang out with our kids.
Unfortunately, as my overactive brain
is prone to do, that thought turned into
“we need a porch to hang out on so
we can have the important talks with
children that parents must have...” and
suddenly my simple observation turned
into anxiety. It’s not enough to notice
and admire how that family spends time
together, I need to recreate it... or else.
The “or else” can be a problem —
especially when we start to realize that
every single person in this world is
different. And if every single person is
different, it stands to reason that every
family will be different. There are no
two families alike, and happy, holy fami
lies come in all shapes and sizes.
That realization stopped me in my
tracks, and God did something wonder
ful for me, in the midst of my journey
towards comparison and fear. Instead of
going further down the rabbit hole of all
the things I’m not doing, God flooded
me with peace. That was it, just peace.
A few days later, Paul and I were
sitting outside while he grilled dinner.
Elliott came outside and started shooting
hoops and the three of us had a simple,
beautiful conversation about school and
the future and everything in between.
And in that moment, I realized — God
meets us where we are.
Instead of a front porch to sit and chat,
God has provided us with a basketball
court — because that’s where a Balducci
boy is comfortable.
Instead of focusing on all the ways
others are doing it (which is good—
inspiration is important), we have to
remember that God will give us every
thing we need. That we need, each
individual family. Family charisms vary
as greatly as DNA, and what one family
will find joy in doing will look different
from another.
True peace and joy comes from
remembering to trust in God’s love. To
trust in God’s wisdom and care. We
have to remember all the ways God has
us covered in his love. He knows the
desires of our hearts — to raise strong
men and women to know, love and serve
him — and he will give us the tools
and opportunities we need to get the job
done.
“Jesus, I trust in you.” It’s a prayer. It’s
a safety net. It’s a reality check. Jesus,
I give you every area of my life — my
heart, my mind, my children, even my
schedule! Bless us, bless me and help
me see that you are with me every step
of the way.
Rachel Swenson Balducci is a freelance
WRITER AND MEMBER OF MOST HOLY TRINITY
Church, Augusta. She can be reached at
RSBALDUCCI@DIOSAV.ORG.
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