A Spark In The Dark

 Winter flakes fall with fury as a storm pushes through, and we all feel its strength. They're predicting two whole days of this whiteness and strangely, I couldn't be happier. Falling snow has always appealed me: individual pieces coming together to form a whole and reminding us all that fresh starts are possible - that beauty still covers over. Nothing prettier in my mind. 

I tuck into bed, trying to calm myself after a day of failed peopling and misunderstandings and seemingly all things broken coming to the surface. Chest rises and falls with tension and tiredness as I attempt to slow my breath... tell myself new mercies arrive on the morning's wings. 

I need a covering over, too. Just like the ground. 

Snow has been scarce this winter and recently, things like joy and love and abundance felt just as rare also. Some seasons are that way. But as I lay there, I tried to remind myself that, even in winter's dormancy, the earth is rejuvenating itself - resetting for the coming Spring. And I could close my eyes in peace and pray for a new beginning come the dawn. 

Midway through the night, however, after a couple hours of sleep, a trauma-induced nightmare wakes me up with a jolt. I don't often get these but when they come, they do with a force - a storm all their own. Just like the one outside. And to compound the situation, I realized the power had also gone off and I was now lying in the dark completely and unable to see anything. Disoriented, I wondered if it was still part of the dream. But no... there was no light. No heat. Just blackness. And my panic heightened. 

Old fears came back with a vengeance as darkness has never been my friend. Yet somehow, God always seems to put me in situations where I have to face it... over and over and over again. Almost like He's trying to get me to reframe it and see it differently. To overcome the hold it's had on me for so long. I've gotten better over time but moments like this can suddenly pull me back into default ways of thinking and upend whatever progress I've made. 

The body remembers. The brain remembers. And all of life is a journey of re-membering - of God healing all our members. 

Slowly, I make my way through the dark to the bathroom and then eventually, down the stairs to go find some source of light. All the while breathing heavy, talking myself through all the old feelings and scaries that refuse to let go. On my phone, I check the update boards for the electric company. Hmmmm... looks like it could be awhile. Has been awhile already. It says some people are on their second outage in this storm, the lights going on more than once as flakes continue to fall. And collectively, I can feel spirits falling too. Hard to enjoy the winter's beauty when you're shivering in the cold and wondering when warmth will come back. 

I know the feeling. 

And that's when I realized something as I tip-toed my way back to the warmth of my bed. Wrapped myself and my soul in the still-cozy blankets and tried to relax... again. I realized that I've been in the dark before. I've lived this physical and metaphoric reality many times and each time, I've survived it. I've developed skills to cope and truths to hold onto, and I'm no stranger to these moments: 

I felt it on a mountain-side at some friends house fifteen years ago, when they took me in for the night following my dad's first of many hospitalizations and we had no idea if he would survive. I can never forget how it felt that night to sit in that pitch-black room and wonder if God was real. If my dad would be alive in the morning. If we'd all survive the dark night of our souls that had suddenly descended. 

I felt it in the losses I've endured over the years and strange to think that this power outage would fall on the seven-year anniversary of saying goodbye to one I loved dearly. Very appropriate somehow. A picture of my heart. 

I felt it all the time I've endured the hurtful scrutiny and verbal abuse of others as their pain spilled over onto me and places us all in a storm of emotions nobody wants to endure. 

I felt it in the on-going battle for healing in my mind as a trauma-stricken brain and body often betray me in my daily life and have proven to be my own "thorn in the flesh" that causes me to lean even harder on God. 

Nodding off, I wake up sometime later in a startle as, once again, a trauma nightmare has wakened me. And just by its makeup, I know that it's my brain trying to process a recent hurt and make sense of what happened. Try to heal itself. Find a place for yet another bad memory. Make peace with the past. 

Rough night this is. Just like outside. 

Yet somehow, I'm still finding a way to trust. Finding a way to believe. It may be only a spark but even that can light up the dark. And I recall a quote I read the other day in an Advent devotional. Ah, yes... Advent: the season of waiting in the dark for the revelation of promised mercies yet unseen. The quote put it this way, 

"So perhaps we can light our candles and string up our fairy lights, not to dispel the darkness, but to decorate it. Perhaps we can find hope in the glimmer and sparkle around us, tangible reminders that the light shines in the darkness has not overcome it." *

"Not to dispel the darkness, but to decorate it."  Move with it. Linger with it. Learn to smile in it. Trust in it. Hope in it. This is the way of faith when it all crumbles. This is the way of seeing God in hard places. 

And so I asked myself as I lay there what I could do this day to decorate the dark. Redeem some pain. Reframe the harsh beginning it was off to. So I came up with a plan. And when the morning came and the lights were back on, I made the choice that today was a good day to still have a good day. Regardless of what sad or stormy connotations it had. 

Back home that evening, the lights flickered and went out...again. But this time, I was prepared. I went and lit candles, just like the quote said. I had started a warm fire. I took joy in the quiet and peace of the moment. I sat with the dark instead of fighting against it. And I'm starting to figure out that the way you push back against the hopelessness of life's agitation and pain is to find a way look for the hidden beauty, the secret joys. Not minimizing the genuine hurt of difficult things by any means but figuring out how to decorate the dark and remind yourself that God is still here. God has always been here. 

Climbing back into bed by candlelight, I read a few pages via flashlight and try to call it a night. Flakes still fall outside and the power company updates indicate the light will return in awhile. It always does. Peaceful, I close my eyes in safety and remember that, like all hard things, this too will pass and the calm after the storm will come in time. In the meantime, it's up to me to find a way to be call this grace, as I've had to with all the other dark moments. To see even this as a step toward healing and an opportunity to experience the hope that's always there. After all, Advent and Adventure both share the same Latin word roots: "about to happen" and "arrive." 

The waiting and the expectation are the same no matter what and the spark in the dark, however small, is what reminds you that, regardless of how uncertain and fearful life is now, something good is just around the corner. Something beautiful will be the result. Like the pure blanket of white left behind as the skies clear. 

* Taken from Contemplating Christmas by Abby Ball