All the Light We Cannot See

Seeking Calm in the Story

Sun Setting Over a Lake (1840). J. M. W. Turner. Tate, London.

It has been a week of storms. At the time of this writing, the national weather map looks fairly unremarkable. The true turbulence appears elsewhere—in the map of current events, in the headlines of human sorrow and sin that persist: tragedy, lawlessness, large-scale government fraud, threats of insurrection, political division, international unrest, global insecurity, persecution, and the familiar refrain of “wars and rumors of wars.”

I am fatigued. And it is only the eighth of January.

Still, I take this moment to share a small offering: a sample of new music from an album planned for release in the first half of 2026 (Lord willing), accompanied by a few photographs taken earlier today. My hope is simple—that these may offer a few quiet moments of relief from the existential agitation of life in the secular age. The video link follows these modest words.

One final reflection. Two days ago, I underwent cataract surgery. It went well, though there seems to be a price attached to any tinkering with a neurodegenerative body. The result? I can see more clearly—and think more slowly. One old peeper down, one to go. For now, I am a one-eyed Jack. I see some things with sharp clarity; the other side, not so much.

In other words, life.

The Word of God has long prepared us for this condition. The apostle Paul reminds us that we see dimly—“all the light we cannot see,” as I once noted in the title of a film. Cataracts, indeed: the calcification of experience in the human soul, leaving us with a partly cloudy grasp of reality. And yet, in the truth of God’s Word, scales are removed—more light, more hope, less anxiety. Still, it can remain dim east of Eden. And even clarity, when it comes, can bring pain.

I went in for a follow-up today and told the surgeon that I was far more light-sensitive than before. He smiled and said, “With the removal of the obstruction, you are receiving more light than you ever have.” That struck me. Even the truth of the Gospel can be dazzling—at times almost blinding—at least for a while. Ask Saul of Tarsus about blinding light. I have seen this often in ministry: when someone comes to the Lord Jesus Christ, the light can feel overwhelming, and the eyes of the soul must learn to adjust to an expanded vision.

But mercifully, God has promised us far more than partial sight:

“For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known” (1 Corinthians 13:12 ESV).

It is better to know what we do not know than to imagine we know what we cannot know. And this much we can know: the Lord is in control. He works all things together for the good of those who love Him, who are called according to His purpose (Romans 8:28).

That truth brings peace—and even joy.

I hope you experience some measure of that peace as you take in the beauty of God and His creation, imperfectly yet sincerely captured in these songs and images. Just a few moments. Simple. Quiet. Far away. Close. For even when blinded by the devil, the flesh, and the world, we can affirm our faith:

“For with You is the fountain of life; In Your light we see light” (Psalm 36:9).