“Well, there’s nothing interesting here.”
Yeah, I’ve never been happier to be boring.
The results came back, the scans are clean, and for the first time in five years I get a bit of a break before going back for more tests. You can tell me all the day long that my brain holds nothing interesting if that means I’m tumor-free and know just as well as the next person how many days I’ve got left on this spinning planet.
As in, none of us really know. And I’m really, really okay with that today.
There’s a book that I’ve been wanting to read for months. Well, that’s partly true. If we’re being totally honest, I’ve been a bit nervous to click ‘order’ and then open the pages upon its arrival. Because if you’re Learning to Walk in the Dark then, well, there’s darkness around you. That seems obvious, but wouldn’t you rather not need to learn how?
And it’s not so much that I’m scared of the dark, but that I’m worried about what might be in the dark. I don’t fear the night, but the quiet, the silence, and what could interrupt it. Sometimes it carries over into other parts of life too.
Cancer. Bills. Divorce. Broken relationships. Depression. Unemployment.
And yeah, spiritual warfare.
This past year has seen a good bit of darkness and a whole lot of light. Skim a few earlier chapters and you’ll see the dark side of sickness and the emptiness of loneliness. Take a trip to Haiti and listen to a man tell his story of practicing voodoo, hear his voice break as his heart breaks at the words leaving his lips.
And then watch God light up the sky. It’s never too dark for Light to break through.
Even when light fades and darkness falls — as it does every single day, in every single life — God does not turn the world over to some other deity. Even when you cannot see where you are going and no one answers when you call, this is not sufficient proof that you are alone. -Barbara Brown Taylor, Learning to Walk in the Dark
Sometimes we just need a permanent reminder that always, always, no matter what — out of darkness, light.
It comes streaming in. Just a pinprick at first, a small glimmer of hope, one minute that you forget the sadness, a day or two of breathing easier. A doctor telling you “there’s nothing interesting here.”
Even when you cannot see a way, cannot catch a breath, cannot stop the hurry and rush and panic inside. Even then. Hold fast because Light is here and Light is coming and your sky is going to blow up golden and bright. And then the sun will set again and night will come as it does every single day. But that is how it goes and we don’t know how many more rounds we’ll go. Sunrise, sunset. Sunrise, sunset.
I think that’s the beauty of it. Would we know the Light if we had never experienced the dark?
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