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We all long for meaningful relationships, the Colossians 3:14 kind that fulfill our desire for unity and connection with God, our friends, and our community. But where do we start? Craving Connection is a journey with (in)courage writers sharing real-life stories, practical Scripture application, and connection challenges that will encourage you to:
- Embrace the desire God has given each of us for connection
- Invest in meaningful relationships, right where God has you
- Become the friend you wish you had
Enjoy this excerpt from Craving Connection by one of the (in)courage authors, Annie F. Downs.
Lantern Lights by Annie F. Downs
“You are the light of the world. A city situated on a hill cannot be hidden. No one lights a lamp and puts it under a basket, but rather on a lampstand, and it gives light for all who are in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before men, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” Matthew 5:14–16
I love the scene in Tangled when Rapunzel and Flynn Rider are out in the boat and the sky fills with Chinese lanterns. The dark night fills with firefly-like lights, and the sky turns from black to a really peaceful dark blue, almost purple, as the yellow-hued lanterns float upward.
They are everywhere. Floating up from the castle, then down over the lake, the specks of light work together to form a totally new color of night. They make it seem magical, not dark.
Do you remember that part of the movie? It’s almost breathtaking, even as a cartoon. The amount of lanterns in the sky, around the little boat holding the two main characters, makes for what I consider the most beautiful moment in the film. (There are multiple yearly celebrations around the globe where you can see these lanterns launched en masse, the most well-known one being in Thailand.)
Obviously, after seeing the movie and doing some research online of my own, I wanted to send up Chinese lanterns in my neighborhood with my friends. We don’t have a castle or a canoe, but we would figure out a way around that. I ordered lanterns off the Internet, and the box showed up on my doorstep thanks to the kind mailman. The lanterns came in a pack of ten, so I ordered two packs. According to the illustrated directions, they seemed simple enough—take them out of the package, flatten them out, light the fueled rice paper ring on the base, and in no time they will float away and you’ll be surrounded by the beauty of a Disney film. (Or so we thought.)
With twenty to launch, my buddies spread out across a field by my house and got ready to light. At the same time, we set lit match to ring of future fire and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
We each held a lantern and watched impatiently as they lit up but never floated away. We tried throwing them, we tried lifting our hands above our heads, hoping a few more inches skyward would bring takeoff.
It didn’t happen. Fifteen minutes into the event, we were acting ridiculous. Running like our fire-lit lanterns were kites that needed wind to pick up, throwing them back and forth while trying to avoid getting burned, and eventually just sitting on the ground with our lit lanterns in hand, gripped by an edge of the paper lantern, laughing at the idea of what we imagined versus what we actually got.
The memory is still great. It is one of those running inside jokes, and we laugh about it often. If something goes wrong, if our expectations aren’t met, if we have to laugh off something to keep from crying, someone will usually say, “Today deserves some Chinese lanterns.”
Jesus talks about light in Matthew 5:14–16:
“You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven” (NIV).
I picture that same hue as the Chinese lanterns, the warm glowing yellows that only come from real fire, contained in small quantities.
In 2014 I visited Israel for the first time and walked up the Mount of Beatitudes to where Jesus preached these exact words to a crowd gathered near Him. I saw how, as you look across the terrain of that area, you can see little patches of homes, little cities literally built on the sides of hills. And I imagined, in that moment, what it was like to see them at night. That same yellow hue of candlelight in homes, clustered together to form a community, just like I imagined those lanterns in the sky. I thought about the friendships in those towns, thousands of years ago, and how Jesus knew those villages.
It feels like He wasn’t just asking us to be a light, to stand bright and alone like a lighthouse. I don’t even think He was saying for us to be a lamp, necessarily. When I picture this scene He’s describing, I picture a group of women sitting around, after the chores were finished for the day, laughing and reminiscing by candlelight. Because the lamp isn’t hidden under a bowl, it lights the whole house, giving light to everyone gathered there. It’s inviting. It’s welcoming. It’s friendly.
Let your light shine so others see your good deeds—light your candle, set it on the table, and invite some people to sit around it with you. Feed them. Laugh with them. Become a city on a hill, a light and beautiful and inviting experience amidst a world that seems to love the dark.
My group of girlfriends in Nashville got together a few weeks ago on a Sunday night for dinner. It’s rare we are all available on the same night, but the stars aligned and we gathered around grilled fish and seasoned vegetables. Ten of us crowded around one table, and because the weather was still mild, we ate with the back doors open to the deck. Strung across the deck were beautiful twinkly lights, and so we turned off the lights in the dining room, lit some candles, and scattered them down the table.
We ate slowly. No one had anywhere else to be. We could see each other fine, thanks to the candles and the twinkly lights outside, and something about the shade of the meal made everyone relax and not wish to be anywhere else.
We laughed. A lot. From a haircut mishap to missing a flight (and yes, the Chinese lantern tale was retold in full), we swapped stories for hours, nibbling as we went, passing cookies when the dinner was finished. No one wanted to move at the risk that one simple trip to the bathroom could break the loveliness that had fallen over the night.
In a way I don’t know how to put words around, our laughter lit up the night too. That seems true to me a lot—that laughter brings light to dark places and dark moments. Something happens to my insides when a hard experience has a lifting moment of laughter—I feel resettled, I feel understood, I feel relief. We need that, don’t we? I think it is why grieving families sometimes break into fits of laughter that cannot be controlled. It’s why one of the first things a kid learns at church is how to stifle a giggle explosion during the preaching. (And seriously, isn’t that one of the very best feelings? Laughing when you aren’t supposed to be laughing?) Friends who connect with you there, in that place of pure laughter and joy, are often the same ones who can dig in with you when things aren’t okay. Because they know how to laugh and love when things are easy and light, they often know how to do that well in the dark also.
I saw it clearly that night, as we just kept hearing one story after another. There were also moments of deep conversation, sadness, concerns expressed. We ebbed and flowed, as happens in life often, from the serious to the hilarious. The candles melted down and puddled wax on the linen tablecloths, and the yellow hue of the light deepened. But no one moved, and the light in the room never dimmed. No dishes were rushed to the sink, no glasses loaded in the dishwasher. We just kept talking, laughing, relaxing into a place where nothing was hurried and no one was on their phones—and this was exactly where we all wanted to be.
It was just us around a table with happy hearts and candlelight.
That night made me want to reject electricity at meals altogether and just have candles to light the way to dessert. The simplicity of it made the beauty of our friendship stand out, and the problems that separate us or the issues that keep us busy in our own lives all just sort of faded into the dark parts of the room. It made me think of my circle of friends who waited patiently by the same shade of light for a collection of Chinese lanterns to launch. And it made me think of the groups of women, who for hundreds and thousands of years, have sat together under that same light. I bet they laughed like we do (at the right times AND at the wrong times). I bet they had nights that they hoped would never end and chores they pushed aside.
It made me think of Israel, historically and also in the modern time where the Sabbath meal is still weekly celebrated in Jerusalem. And it made me think of Jesus.
When I read His words from Matthew, that dinner, my friends, groups of women through all of time, come to mind. Maybe that’s what Jesus was talking about. He wants us to be friendly and inviting and full of life, like a city full of warmth and hubbub and laughter and love, each home inviting with the candlelight of generations gone by.
The Chinese lanterns did finally take off that night, by the way. After sitting on the field and just having them light our conversation, one gently lifted off, just hovering a few inches above the grass. You should have seen the looks on our faces. It was like a little miraculous light moment to watch that lantern make a move to float on its own power. While we were slack-jawed about that one getting its float on, another one took flight. And one after another, they began to fly. It took about twenty minutes from when we first gave up hope to when they actually floated skyward. (Lesson learned. It takes a bit of time for the lanterns to take flight.)
The sky didn’t massively change colors for us like it does in the movies. Apparently it takes a few thousand to get that kind of result. (Lesson learned. It takes just a few more lanterns than we had that night.) But we did watch our twenty lanterns float up, higher in the sky than we even imagined they would go. Then we saw them spread out over the crest of the tree line, almost roll over the tops of the trees like a wave of yellow joy, and disappear out of sight. They finally flew, finally lived up to their reason for being, and brought us tons of laughs.
And that’s the part that felt so magical and so full of light. I will never forget it. I had worn my rain boots, the blue ones I bought that time in New York City, more because they were by the back door when we were ready to leave than because the ground was wet or muddy. I had pulled them off when we sat around on the ground and laughed with our lanterns in hand. Those lanterns, once skybound, weren’t all that illuminating for us, but the laughter and the friendship—that’s the light that filled up my soul.
We watched the lanterns until they were over that crest and out of view, and then I slid my boots back on and we all turned and headed toward home. But that yellow color of the lit lanterns came with me, in my memory, in my heart.
Connection Questions
What would it look like for your home to be a city on a hill?
Who in your life feels like a light in the darkness?
What’s one of your favorite memories, whether things went exactly as planned or not, with your best friends?
Connection Challenge
How has laughter brought light to your life? Do you need to add a little light to a dark season? Invite a few friends over for dinner, light the candles, turn on the twinkly lights, and laugh together.
Share a funny story and give yourself permission to send some of those cares and burdens to God, floating like lanterns on the waves of your laughter.
Prayer
God, You are light. Thank You for letting us reflect specks of Your light into the lives of the people we know. Open our eyes to see the beautiful moments all around us, the funny and the sweet and the kind, and help us to invite others into those places of light. Make our lives and our homes cities on a hill.
You can learn more about Craving Connection here, and enter to win 1 of 5 copies by filling out the form below.
