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The room is dim. Flickering candlelight casts eerie shadows all around. The camera pans to Dracula, draped in his black cape, acting as one of his mortal guests until a man, holding a pocket-sized object, steps in front of him. Immediately, Dracula retreats. Does the man hold a cross? Not at this point in the movie. This time, it wasn’t the greatest defense against evil raised against Dracula, but another weapon—one just as terrifying. A mirror. Dracula hisses, recoils, trying in vain to cover his face, but it’s too late. The truth has been forced upon him for all to see. He has no reflection…no face…no form….no soul. Another jump scare startles me, and I pick up my spilled popcorn and dignity before changing the channel from Turner Classic Movies. Tonight was meant for pizza and popcorn, but as I scroll through cable, my cheery outlook fades. Although weeks have passed since the assassination of Charlie Kirk, the networks are full of laughter, sarcasm, and celebrations while other networks are full of mourning, special panels, and friends of the young man. It’s obvious that my options for TV tonight are decisively split: one half mourning, or the other half celebrating. Shutting the TV off, I sit in quietness. The world seems heartbreakingly dark. I think about where it’s headed, especially when I remember the Bible’s words: “Because lawlessness will abound, the love of many will grow cold.” Miserable, I set my pizza and popcorn aside, feeling as though no encouragement or wisdom could ease the heartache I feel for what the world is becoming. Earlier at a store, an elderly man far ahead of me had fallen on the pavement. Two children nearby saw him—one child laughed but the other rushed to help him. I couldn’t help but wish that both children had lifted him. That scene reminded me of how often these days we see laughter where sorrow should dwell. Crowds amused by tragedy. Memes stitched from grief. Entertainment carved from another’s pain. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe once said: “Nothing shows a man's character more than what he laughs at.” I thought of the Dracula scene I’d just watched—how Dracula shrank back from the mirror—the tool that would expose the truth of who he really was. Isn’t that the terror of reflection? I wondered. It reveals not only skin and bone, but the weight of one’s soul. For it’s the soul that holds who we really are. Our emotions.
Our moral compass. The tragedy of the recent murder didn’t just reflect the heart of the killer, but the heart of everyone afterwards in how they responded. Yet the reflection of our hearts isn’t exclusive to only this tragedy, but to the everyday flow of life in every single person’s existence. For how do we respond to moments of beauty, sorrow, joy, and adversity? Isn’t that answer the truest mirror of the condition of one’s soul? A key point I’d missed earlier now began to take shape: darkness in the world has always been present. The greatest news is that it has already been overcome—eternally—by the purest love. Imagine with me to a time where a thirty-three-year-old man—a man who stirred some to hatred for His words— was crucified. At the crucifixion, two groups stood beneath the cross. Both looked upon the same Christ. Both gazed into the same moment. But their souls were made known in how they responded. One mocked. The other wept. The apostle Paul wrote, “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face…” (1 Corinthians 13:12). One day the mirror of our souls will be undeniably clear. Its reflection won’t be silent. When the truth is held before us—
When the soul cannot hide— The question remains— not about Dracula,
not about the mirror,
but about us. Remember the cross…. Two responses.
Two reflections.
Which are we? ~Karina Garrison
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