Even the Darkness Is Light to Him

On grief, faith, and daylight

On Sunday night I sat in our backyard during my favorite time of day: the golden hour when the sun is low in the sky and hits the trees just right so that they shimmer and sparkle with light. I was listening to music and missing my friend Bethany so much it felt like a physical ache. I closed my eyes, leaned my head back, and let the tears fall. I had been fighting the tears for days, ever since I left the counselor’s office on Wednesday. I had cried off and on for the entire session, and after that I was so very tired of crying. Until that day, it had been over a year since I had last sought out any kind of counseling, but I knew early on I would need help working through my grief. As I told my counselor on Wednesday, “I’m scared to let myself feel everything because I don’t know what’s on the other side. I don’t know how to make it through.” I didn’t want to cry anymore. I didn’t want to feel the pain of grief. I didn’t want to think about all of the events that led up to Bethany’s death, or even what followed it. Numbness seemed far more appealing to me.

Of course, not dealing with my feelings doesn’t mean they go away; it only means they get suppressed—stuffed down until they threaten to explode and lay waste to the years I spent trying to get to a healthier mental state. Ultimately, that is the fear behind all of my unwillingness to acknowledge my pain: I don’t want to go back to a depressive state again. I don’t want to fight suicidal thoughts again. Somehow I have convinced myself that if I just ignore everything that’s happened the past several months, I will be fine.

But I’m not fine. My friend died. Another friend moved away not long after that. The losses came close together, and I am still reeling.

Outside in my backyard, with the wind whispering in the trees and the breeze soft on my face, I talked to God. I told Him everything, even the anger I feel at Him, the anger that has been festering like a rotting wound. It seemed impossible to me that only a few short months ago I was convinced that my belief in God’s goodness and love were “unshakeable,” for now I find myself questioning everything I thought I knew of God and His character. I pleaded to Him, with my eyes closed tight, “I need to know You are there. I need to know You hear me. But I don’t know how to know.” The minute the thought was finished, I felt the warmth of the sun hot on my closed eyelids, and I opened my eyes to see the sun’s rays shining through the trees and falling directly on me. The light was so bright I shut my eyes again immediately. The image of the sun remained burned into my vision even with my eyes shut.

The picture I took to capture the sun shining through the trees.

The Lord didn’t appear to me out of the heavens at that moment, but I saw Him even still. I’m not fine—not yet—but the promise of being more than fine one day is keeping me going. He is showing me His goodness in the land of the living¹, and I must keep looking for it.

I wrote the following poem that same evening, to help me remember the way light breaks up the darkness. I pray it is a reminder for any of you who also feel the threat of darkness around you. Even the darkness is not dark to the Lord².

The Nature of Daylight

The thing about daylight is
we cannot know its full beauty
until we see how impenetrable the darkness is,
how blind we are when cast into its inky depths. 

The thing about daylight is
it comes every morning and lingers
as we carry on with our lives,
hustling from place to place,
deed to deed,
unaware of the majesty above us.

The thing about daylight is
we rarely stop to consider the wonder
of the sun’s rays warming us
from such a distance,
how miraculous it is that without fail,
no matter the depth and length of the night,
daylight always comes back around.

1. Psalm 27:13

2. Psalm 139:12