I grew up on the central coast of California, a place full of natural beauty. We had the Pacific and wine country and hills that wove throughout the county. We were within driving distance of redwoods and mountains, and it snows every 18 years or so. But there was one thing we did not have: the Northern Lights. I now call Massachusetts home, and I’m much further north, but the chances of seeing them is still pretty darn slim.

I’d seen photos and videos before, putting the Northern Lights on my list of wonders I wanted to witness. I couldn’t imagine how amazing it must be to see the sky light up with shades of green and red, dazzling every onlooker in the darkness. I assumed that I would have to plan a whole trip to Scandinavia during peak season, careful to do what I could to get there at the right moment. And then, I’d have to pray it wasn’t overcast.

Deep down, I knew that seeing the Northern Lights would require planning.

And then, this summer, I was at a friend’s wedding in Georgia when my newsfeed filled up with images of the Northern Lights in Massachusetts. My friends and neighbors were capturing shots of the amazing and rare moment, and there I was, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

So imagine my surprise when I sat with friends at a trivia night the other evening and suddenly, everyone was running outside to take photos of the sky. I couldn’t believe it and I shouted to my boyfriend to stop eating dinner and come take a look.

There, right over our little New England town, the sky was stained red, ebbing and flowing in breathtaking movement.

We finished trivia after placing 8th and when we went back outside, it had disappeared. As we drove back to my apartment, I felt a pull to find a dark place and try again to see what I’d hardly even taken in between rounds of questions about U.S. Presidents and 1990s hockey.

We turned toward a local lake and parked near the dock, the sky as black and starry as ever, but no sign of aurora borealis. It was starting to get cold and after a while, we decided to give up… when suddenly, over the horizon, a ghost-like vertical blob appeared. It felt like my eyes were playing tricks on me. But sure enough, it got stronger. I pulled out my phone to take a picture and it automatically went to “night mode.” What I saw on the screen was brighter and clearer than what my naked eye could take in.

You see, our eyes work like camera lenses in that they take in light and that’s how we can see in the dark. The more light you have, the more you can see. This is obvious when we think of daylight. But when it’s nighttime, we can’t take in a whole lot because there’s not enough exposure to light.

Cameras are different from our eyes because they can pull in more light, and therefore they pick up images like the Northern Lights better than our limited human vision. If I hadn’t opened my camera lens, I would have certainly seen faintly what the camera made plain: the lights were there and they were beautiful.

Sometimes, I’m watching for the Light of Jesus in dark seasons and I feel sad because I don’t see Him. In moments of lament or overwhelm, it’s easy to believe in only what we see or sense, but the beauty of God is that He is who He is, whether or not we see Him.

Just because I don’t feel God’s nearness doesn’t mean He is not near. Just because I don’t see His goodness doesn’t mean He is not good.

Psalm 119:105 (KJV)says, “Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.”

When we see our lives through the lens of Scripture, we’re opening ourselves up to light when it’s otherwise dark. We’re looking with more exposure to a brightness that allows us to see the beauty we’d otherwise miss or see faintly.

Take heart, friend. There is beauty before you. You just need the right lens to see it.

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