His fragile, newborn body was propped motionless on her shoulder, face to the world. The light of day was drawing near its end, the sun starting to lower in the sky, its brightness beginning to fade. But those new eyes were still adjusting to life outside the womb, and so he blinked rapidly, repeatedly. After being snuggled in dark, warm comfort month after month, he couldn’t handle the harshness of even dimming rays . . . those which aging eyes easily absorb. I wonder if he wished he could nestle back in the security of the dark womb.

* * * * *

She’d been in her comfortable space, darkness her only reference, tucked away from the world outside. By the time she stepped through the door to a brand, new life, her aging body revealed her years, yet her eyes were newborn. She blinked and squinted, taking in for the first time life as it could be, and perhaps, as it should be. Religion had been her cocoon, and while keeping her safe, she’d worn blinders and looked through a dimly-lit microscope. Adjustment was necessary and welcome. She didn’t long to return to the darkness from which she’d ventured.

* * * * *

We weren’t meant to stay in the womb, sheltering our eyes from the world. We weren’t meant to hide away, protecting ourselves from perceived dangers.

The light doesn’t hurt once we allow our eyes to adjust. What we once thought harsh becomes that by which we see the beauty {and devastation} of life all around us.

Born again? Maybe it’s as simple as giving up our blindness in exchange for exposure to the light. Coming out of the darkness, seeing with new eyes. Opening our eyes and hearts to joys and aches once neglected, and often, forbidden by the religious elite. Looking for the gray in grace. Changing our perspectives to behold the sacredness in the secular, to behold the wonder and mystery of God.

Come out of the darkness, out of hiding. Squint and blink until you can see the truth.