“‘How can we determine the hour of dawn, when the night ends and the day begins? When you have enough light to look human beings in the face and recognize them as your brothers and sisters. Until then the darkness is still with us,’ says the wise teacher. Let us pray for that light. It is the peace that the world cannot give.” –Henri Nouwen, from “Adam’s Peace”

I have those days when I lack sight, words, and direction, when I grieve in a way that peels my soul insight out. I’ve had a few of those days before. I’ll have them again. Today began as one. Standing by Ian’s bed, gazing into the clear blue of his opened eyes, I ache for them to focus. In these moments, I confess to wondering if I will have peace again.

I will, though, regardless of what happens. I have deep joy in Ian’s life—the life he had three weeks ago, the day before the wreck. He laughingly bounded out the door for a haircut while Ashley, her grandmother Sammie, and I cheered on James’ first step.

I find deep joy in Ian’s life in the ICU, a life spared, a gift I do not take for granted.

I have no promise of anything beyond this day, so for this day, I seek peace in seeing the image of God in his vulnerability, trusting God that on some level, he is seeing that in me.