During my elementary school years, our family lived in a red brick house on a small lake.

As soon as that lake would freeze over, my slew of siblings and I’d bundle up and go shovel away the weighted or fluffy layers of snow to create a large rink. Then we’d skate ’til our fingers and toes went numb!

I particularly loved going out there in the evenings after dinner. With a comforting beauty etched in time, the light of the moon and the stars, along with the glow of living room lamps shining through our big window, guided our path.

Despite winter after winter of trying to teach myself swizzles, turns, and crossovers, I never did get to be a good skater. But I liked to pretend I was one.

I’d start off with a pose and then move into a slow glide. Then I’d extend my arms and attempt to lift one of my skinny, little twig legs behind me parallel to the ice. And for a brief moment, in my rather vivid imagination, I was Olympic skating champion Dorothy Hamel in a sparkly red dress and wedge haircut.

With cold crisp air pressing into my face and lights twinkling and cheering me on across the velvet dark landscape, I felt brave, beautiful, and fully alive!

But there were also times out there when I felt so fully uncertain and afraid.

Those moments when I heard far-away cracking and popping of ice while wandering a little further out from the glow of living room lamps.

What if the layers of ice crack beneath me? 

And those moments when I’d pass by that one dark corner of the rink. The corner that brushed by tree branches that looked like creepy silhouettes, partially blocking the light of the moon and the stars.

What if the boogie man jumps out and grabs hold?

But I knew what to do.

I simply glided back to the light!

Back to where the moon and the stars guided my path without obstruction. Back to where living room lamps glowed from a place where I was loved without condition.

Gliding back to the light isn’t always that simple, though.

Because as you and I have grown to know, dark corners and cracked layers aren’t only rooted in a child’s imagination.

Sometimes, too often, especially in this era of media clickbait and lightning speed technology, they’re rooted in deceitful, shallow, sometimes subtle and sneaky information. Followed by false interpretations, hasty generalizations, entitled justifications, political radicalizations, mean-spirited and vile condemnations, deeply divided nations.

To some degree, on occasion, every one of us falls prey.

Whether we steer more to the left, more to the right, zigzag between both, go straight up the middle, veer off-road, or are still burning rubber doing donuts in somebody’s cul-de-sac, we’ve all been misguided by mistruths at some point.

This is nothing earth-shattering or new. 

Heck, misinformation and sensational propaganda have been passed around, getting under our skin, causing ruckus and division since the 15th century when german inventor Johannes Gutenberg manufactured the first printing press.

But nowadays, with an infinite amount of information right at our fingertips, this stuff spreads like raging wildfire.

So how are we supposed to discriminate between what is true and what is false in these times in which we’ve been appointed to live?

Don’t ask me. I have zero authority or expertise in the matter. And, like most any reasonable human being with a moral compass, I’m feeling inundated, overwhelmed, and deeply concerned about what this could all eventually lead to.

But for my own peace of heart, and for those who place trust in me, I’m making a personal commitment, starting today. A personal commitment to do whatever I can to stay vigilant and actively pursue wisdom with an objective, watchful eye.

A personal commitment that involves:
♦ Spending less time on social media and more time in normal, everyday life.

♦ Shifting my habits of consumption away from biased, attention-seeking, fear-based media outlets and toward more in-depth, balanced, thoughtful, and thoroughly cross-referenced content.

♦ Scrutinizing articles, editorials, claims, and theories in which I invest my time and spirit by asking deeper questions: Who created or presented the content? Who sponsored it? What is their agenda? What path did it take to reach me? Have origins of their information and warnings been misinterpreted or obscured?

♦ Acknowledging that credible information can emerge from perspectives that differ from my own.

♦ And above all, praying for guidance while gliding back to The Light each new day.

Which light?

The Light that governs the night with a comforting beauty etched in time.

The Light that transforms and restores.

The Light of compassion and mercy.

The Light that gives us the ability to see others and ourselves more clearly.

The Light that’s not a member of any party and wants us to work out our differences without being hateful.

The Light that guides without obstruction and loves without condition.

The Light that created each one of us in His image to be brave, beautiful, and fully alive.

The Light that brings hope of the dawn, for which I perpetually yearn.

I’m Julie Jo Severson, mom to three teens, freelance journalist, editor, and author. This blog, Carvings on a Desk, is where I reconnect with my own voice swirling around in the middle. Subscribe and receive the occasional stories in your inbox. Read other recent posts.