We have in our memories snapshots of our loved ones. Moments when they have caught our attention, when they looked particularly effused with light, when they appeared so beautiful and happy and free.  I recall a moment on a soccer field, when my daughter Allison was maybe seven. The other players were herded around the ball somewhere toward the goal.  But out in the middle of the field, Allison was running with pure exuberant freedom, her hair flying behind her as she took long, gazelle strides celebrating the joy of running and being. So alive, so energized, so present, so happy.  I carry the snapshot of that memory with me.

And lest I freeze her in the past, as an adorable little child, I have another, more adult image.  She's a college student at Ole Miss, standing confidently at a podium with her African American friend Jada, telling a packed auditorium how important it is for sports fans at that school to stop waving the Confederate battle flag and singing "Dixie."  Same energy and intensity as the girl on the soccer field; different setting.

And my son Gray. There's the memory of him on my shoulders clapping his hands over his head singing "Born to be Wild" at his first outdoor rock concert. And a grown-up glance at him, tall and energized, talking adult-to-adult in animated conversation with one of our friends at a party in our house where he cooked a gourmet meal for us all.

We all have these family portraits in the gallery of our memory scrapbook. They capture the light and life of our beloved at moments when we see them in their particular glory. These are true images.  Glimpses of their true self, the light that emanates from them when we see them as they truly are, beautiful beings created in the image and likeness of God.

It is especially important to recall and treasure these images and assert their reality in those other moments – when they are not so enlightened, when the dark clouds obscure their light, when sadness and suffering and folly seem more real than their glory.

A few days ago I looked on my father-in-law in his coffin. I can see that image in my mind's eye. I know it is real. He is dead.  But there are other images of him that are so much more real and alive. As we looked through family pictures, I found myself surprised at a picture of Kathy's mom Claire, late in her life, when emphysema made dark circles below her eyes.  I had forgotten that she once looked that way. The picture reminded me. But my stronger image of her is from our family vacations at the beach, bending over from the waist, straight-legged, finding another sea shell washed up from the sea.  She loved to do that. Contented, peaceful, with almost childlike joy.

Sometimes it helps to see someone who is weak or ill and to imagine them filled with light and lively energy.  Sometimes imagery helps when someone is angry or mad at you. Look below their words or their body language and see them as they truly are, a beloved child of God, infinitely loved and able to bear God's light, even though right now there seems to be a pretty thick cloud over that light. Clouds can pass.

When someone really pushes my button, sometimes I'll remind myself that they had a mother, and their mother loved them. I don't know why, but that seems to help me. Maybe because my mother loved me, even when I wasn't very lovable.

It helps me to think that Osama bin Laden had a mother, and his mother loved him. He too is a child of God who has been hurt, and now acts out his hurt in such damaging ways.  For a little while I can imagine him healed, infused with divine, maternal light; quiet and peaceful once more; able to bear and reflect God's light again. How relieved I would be if he could embrace that deeper reality; and as I pray, I also realize that I will be relieved at his capture or death if he is unable to embrace that light.

I believe that we are created by love, in love, for love.  As Killian Noe tells street addicts in her remarkably successful rehabilitation program, "what is most true about each of us... is that we are loved and that God's love abides in us...  Just as surely as a peach pit is at the core of every peach, love is at the core of every human being." (from Finding Our Way Home, p. 13-14)

To see yourself as you really are means to look upon yourself infused with light, infinitely loved, at peace, secure and joyful. Sometimes when we see that, we can better live it.