The Prism on Dr. Nakamura's Desk

In a physics lab at the University of Chicago, Dr. Keiko Nakamura would begin each semester the same way. She held a glass prism up to the window and let a beam of ordinary sunlight pass through it. What appeared to be simple white light fanned out across the far wall in a stunning cascade — red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Every color the human eye can perceive, hidden inside a single ray.

"You thought it was just light," she told her students. "But it was carrying everything all along."

James understood something about the nature of God that physicists would spend centuries confirming about light. "Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above," he wrote, "coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change." The morning light that wakes you. The friend who calls at the right moment. The child's laughter that breaks through your worst afternoon. These are not random happenings scattered across an indifferent universe. They are the spectrum of one Source — the Almighty, whose generosity refracts into ten thousand colors of mercy we barely have names for.

And unlike our sun, which sets each evening and hides behind clouds, the Father of lights casts no shifting shadow. His goodness does not flicker. His grace does not dim. Every beam that reaches you has traveled from the same unchanging heart.