What the Shadows Tell Me

This morning I found myself watching the shadows and outlines of trees upon the lake again.

I have always loved seeing them there.

At first, I was simply amazed by the water itself and how it serves as a mirror, holding the world in quiet reflection. The lake seemed to gather up the trees, the sky, and the shifting light, then offer them back again in softened form.

But as I watched more closely, a thought struck me with sudden delight:

And there it was.

The shadows of the trees tell me where the light is.

Even when I cannot yet see the light directly—whether hidden behind clouds or veiled beyond my sight—the shadows and reflections on the water show me where it is arriving from. They reveal its direction. They teach my eyes where to turn.

And I noticed something else as I watched.

The water must be still enough to reflect this well.

If the surface is too restless, too broken by turbulence, the reflection blurs. The direction of the light becomes harder to see.

And I wondered if this is true of me as well.

The calmer my presence, the more centered I am in Him, the stiller my soul becomes, the more able I am to reflect what points beyond me to the Light.

Something else settled in me.

The trees are planted and placed exactly so that their shadows fall where they do.

They do not choose their own position. They do not strain to manufacture brightness. They simply stand where they have been planted, receive the light, and by that very receiving, their shadows point me toward its source.

That thought stayed with me.

Because is this not also what I am called to be?

Not the Light itself.

Never the source.

But one so planted, so rooted, so turned toward Him, that when others encounter my life, they can tell where the Light is.

How often I want to be useful in visible, unmistakable ways—and wonder whether hidden usefulness counts at all. And yet here, by the lake, the trees were teaching me something quieter and truer.

They were not preaching.

They were not striving.

They were not drawing attention to themselves as though they were the source of brilliance.

They were simply receiving.

And because they were rightly placed and open to the light, even their shadows became witness.

There is something profoundly humbling in that.

A shadow is often thought of as evidence of absence. But here it became evidence of presence. The very outline of the tree, cast upon the water, told me that light was near—and told me where to look for it.

And perhaps that is part of faithful living.

Not that others would look at us and stop there.

Not that our lives would end in ourselves.

But that something in the shape of our presence, the tone of our words, the way we love, the way we listen, the way we suffer, the way we remain—would quietly help others lift their eyes toward Him.

And then I perceived something more.

The trees do not only cast their shadows in the right direction. They seem to rejoice there.

Their branches sway and wave in the breeze as though gladness itself has taken hold of them. As though they are clapping their hands in the light.

And I think of Isaiah’s vision: “all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.” Suddenly it does not feel poetic alone, but true.

Not merely pointing to the Light,

but delighting in it.

That moved me deeply.

Because it is possible to point without delight.

To speak of God without joy.

To tell others where the Light is while seeming never to have been warmed by it ourselves.

But the trees were not stern signposts.

They were alive.

Their branches lifted and moved with a kind of gladness, as if to say:

The Light is here.

Look.

Turn your face this way.

There is joy in it.

And I wondered if this, too, is part of what it means to reflect Him.

Not only to indicate His direction,

but to carry the gladness of one who has found the Light.

Not only to stand in witness,

but to wave and clap with joy in His presence.

Perhaps this is what a life rooted in Christ begins to look like.

We are planted where we are.

We do not choose every condition, every cloud, every season, every angle by which the light reaches us.

But we can remain turned toward Him.

And when we do, even what falls from us—our shadow, our reflection, the quiet outline of an ordinary life—may help another soul know where to look.

What a mercy that the Light does not depend on my brilliance.

What a mercy that I am not asked to generate radiance of my own.

I am only asked to remain planted, receptive, and true.

To receive the Light.

To rejoice in it.

And to let even my shadow point beyond me.

So the question stays with me now, gently and deeply:

When others encounter me, do they naturally look beyond and know where to focus their gaze—onto Him?

Can they tell where the Light is?

And perhaps just as importantly:

Does my life bear the gladness of one who has found it?

May it be so.

May I be so planted in Him that even my shadow tells the truth.

May I reflect not only His direction,

but His joy.

May your life reflect not only His direction, but His gladness.

—

Thank you for reading.

© Gilda Wray. All rights reserved.