The Light We Need

The loudest voice in your life might not be your boss, your spouse, or your mother-in-law. It might be the one inside your own head—the quiet narrator that never shuts up. It’s shaped by years of inputs—things people said, things you believed, things you never questioned. And whether it’s whispering sweet encouragement or muttering existential dread, it’s shaping how you see everything. And the more we recognize what’s shaping that voice, the more we learn to discern—not just what we’re hearing, but what’s worth listening to.

Chasing Light, Missing Magic

Sunlight works the same way. You can’t hold it. You can’t command it. But when it shows up, it changes everything. Photographers call this “chasing light”—which is a poetic way of saying we wake up stupid early, drive too far, and hope the sky doesn’t betray us.

This weekend, I chased light in McKinney, Texas, about an hour away. Historic downtown. Quiet streets. Brick facades waiting for sunlight. No parked cars ruining the mood. Sunday morning is always a good bet. I went. Overcast. No drama. No magic. Just disappointment, but at least the breakfast sandwich was tasty.

When Light Arrives Late

I went again Monday. Holiday weekend. Forecast still said clouds, but I saw a sliver of hope. I took the chance. And wouldn’t you know it—light broke through. Not for long, but long enough.

Not everything I wanted, but enough to say: I showed up, and I didn’t leave empty-handed. Sometimes, the light doesn’t arrive on schedule. But it arrives.

That’s the thing about chasing light—literal or otherwise. You risk disappointment. You risk wasting gas and a couple extra hours of sleep. But sometimes, persistence turns a near-miss into a quiet miracle.

Feeding the Interpreter

On the way into town at a red light, I saw a man sitting in the intersection. Weathered. Talking aloud, gesturing like he was mid-conversation with someone who wasn’t there. I didn’t look away. I just watched. And it hit me: he was doing in public what most of us do in private—responding to the voice within.

We all carry an inner voice. Sometimes it’s loud—second-guessing, problem-solving, replaying that one awkward moment from 2009—when I waved back at someone who wasn’t waving at me, then committed to the bit like I meant to stretch. Other times the voice is quiet, humming with hope, happiness, or the memory of someone saying I looked sharp when I hadn’t even ironed my shirt. But it’s never neutral. It reflects what we’ve been feeding it—the good, the bad, and everything in between.

Sorting What Still Serves

That’s the heart of it: inputs. What we take in shapes the tone, the texture, the trajectory of our inner dialogue. Some inputs are chosen—what we read, watch, listen to, who we spend time with. Other inputs just show up—loss, aging, change, the slow realization that you now need reading glasses and you hate it with a passion. Discernment is the filter we rarely name—the quiet skill of choosing what to absorb and what to release.

Some marks are made before we even know how to name them. A childhood wound. A belief inherited. Or maybe a moment when a grade school teacher said, “You’ve got a good eye,” and you never forgot it. These impressions don’t stay in the past. They echo. Sometimes they guide us. Sometimes they steer us into patterns we only understand years later. And over time, discernment helps us sort the echoes—what still serves us, and what needs to be let go.

What We Feed Each Other

Even in our closest relationships, unspoken thoughts can bend the future. A hurt not named. A fear not shared. Or maybe a good feeling we never voiced—a flicker of love, a quiet joy we assumed didn’t need saying. But it all matters. If we’re not aware of what’s feeding our inner voice—or what we’re feeding someone else’s—we may find ourselves years later reacting to shadows we never learned to see, or missing the light we never let in.

The Light We Carry

But here’s the grace in all of it: the internal voice doesn’t just carry shadows—it carries light. A kind word. A glimpse of beauty. A memory that steadies us. The voice inside isn’t the enemy—it’s the interpreter. And if we notice what’s shaping it, we can help it speak with clarity. Because even small burdens, left in silence, can distort the message. And even small blessings, noticed and named, can light the way forward.

Those two mornings in McKinney, I chased light. I knew the odds of success were slim. But I went anyway. The first day was a fail. The second day didn’t bring perfection. Or control. It brought presence. And that was enough.

It’s why Philippians 4:8 reads like a lighting manual for the soul, “…whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.” These are the inputs we should seek. These are the nutrients our mind needs. These are what feed a voice that reflects light instead of shadow. It’s a guide for discernment—an invitation to feed the voice with what’s worth keeping.

So here’s to chasing the light. To showing up when it’s easier to stay home. To feeding the mind with grace, not garbage—like skipping that 1 a.m. video titled ‘How to Survive a Bear Attack with a Kazoo.’ To spending more time with what’s true, noble, right, and pure—because that’s what builds a voice worth listening to. And to knowing that sometimes, even when the forecast says overcast, the sun still breaks through. Not just outside—but inside.

And when the voice within is fed well, it doesn’t just reflect the light—it helps us find it.

Author: Tim Maxwell

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