My son calls me to tell me about a new book he’s reading. It’s an epic tale of 19th century explorers trekking towards the furthest northern point on Earth. He shares this story because of the 127 days of darkness the explorers endured and how some of them almost didn’t. Some nearly lost their minds and that made him think of me.
It’s no secret I battle my moods and emotions, that my skewed feelings ravage me. It’s no surprise then that darkness is my enemy.
Monsters lay in wait in darkness. We all know that. We learned from infancy.
So, I live solstice to solstice, the days of light and the days of dark. There is life before and life after. By early December I’m counting the days until the sun begins to rise again, light slowly ebbing from the dark. In the meantime I take my meds, I sit face first before a box of artificial light that mimics what’s missing and I recall.
But darkness swallows even the toughest of might and fading recollections of shadow-less noon-lit days. Darkness disguises eternal, mimics eternity. It’s thus I remember most.
My feelings are liars.
As these days reach their longest, darkest hours I peel back faulty feelings long enough to slip a hand inside and finger-tip touch the fringe of a page and light still lingering inside. It is a pilot light. It is a source.
Because I remember. I do. I remember the place that reminds me.
Before that false light that mimics the sun, I scroll through pages that tell me my thoughts are still His, that I am, and that light remains.
Even in me.
In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
(John 1:4-5 NIV)