shadows

The fall-back this past weekend has given a bit of a reprieve, but it has been soo dark in the mornings lately. More than once in the last few weeks I have woken up convinced that it must still be the middle of the night. The increasing darkness and gray skies are, of course, an expected part of this fall season. Even though there’s slightly more light now that we’ve shifted our clocks, it will continue to ebb away slowly, marching us towards more darkness, before a slow return to lighter days.

As a child I was definitely not a fan of the dark… in fact, I can remember a chunk of time where I would go from my own room to wake up my younger brother before going to the bathroom. I wanted him to be awake with me, waiting outside the door, so I wouldn’t have to be in the dark of the hallway alone. He was mostly asleep still I think, but once my parents found out I what I was doing they, quite reasonably, put an end to our bathroom parties in the dark.

In many ways I’m still not really on board with darkness as a desirable thing. I much prefer soft light, warm coziness, a gathered safety. There’s something about my default thoughts of darkness that feel much more like a frightened, heavy, cold aloneness, and I shiver and pull the blankets up tighter.

But the past couple of weeks I’ve been remembering a book I read a few years ago by Barbara Brown Taylor. It’s called Learning to Walk in the Dark, and in it she looks very intentionally at our aversion to darkness and what we’re missing by steering clear of it. Here’s a couple of quick snippets:

• “I have learned things in the dark that I could never have learned in the light, things that have saved my life over and over again, so that there is really only one logical conclusion. I need darkness as much as I need light.”

• “...new life starts in the dark. Whether it is a seed in the ground, a baby in the womb, or Jesus in the tomb, it starts in the dark.”

• “our comfort or discomfort with the outer dark is a good barometer of how we feel about the inner kind.”

How do we feel about inner darkness? Do we believe that just as with the dark outdoors, our places of inner darkness or shadows are not to be feared? That in fact, they may be the very place God is able to teach us something new? Bring something new to life?

I believe this. I trust that God is with me in the dark, and I have seen how he draws out life and breath and truth from places that feel like empty bleak darkness. I know this to be true.

But it doesn’t mean that I am anymore a fan of lingering around in those shadowy places. My natural defaults prevail, and I would rather move away from the places of darkness than towards them.
All of that to say, the thoughts for this update have been slow and resisted… I’m not sure that it will make full sense yet at this point. But I’ve been tip-toeing around some of the darker places these last few weeks… and I’m longing to pay attention to what God wants to say, and do, and birth from here.

I’m been thinking about two different shadow phrases that come up in Scripture: the shadow of death, and the shadow of his wings.

The shadow of death is probably most familiar from to us from Psalm 23: “Even when I walk though the valley of the shadow of death…” The same phrase is sometimes translated as the darkest valley, or the dark valley of death. Oy vey… all my natural inclinations implore me to run in the opposite direction, or to fast forward that part of the movie with eyes shut and ears plugged.
But thankfully, mercifully, the psalmist goes on to remind us that we are not alone in the valley. That we are led with love and care as we go through this place of darkness. That we have nothing to fear.

The comfort and presence of God with us is real, but it does not negate that the way leads through this place that feels like death is close at hand. The way includes a trek through a dark, treacherous, threatening valley, and who knows how long it’s for, or what will be around each new corner.

What does it feel like to be in the shadow of death?
I’m not sure I know. But I’m tip-toeing near the question of it these days.

Last week included the anniversary of the day my mom passed away. It’s a day that often feels a bit in the shadow of death - a mix of joyful memories and grief that still rises and falls without warning, so much thankfulness in so many directions, and also the real hard and heavy pieces all in a blend.
I would love to talk to my mom in this season; to ask her what she felt, what she prayed, what she processed in the last weeks and months that she walked her own way with Jesus.

Today I had an appointment with my Li Fraumeni specialist in Toronto too. It was just an annual check-in appointment that happened to be now, and it was fine overall. But it is always a bit jarring to hear the list of familial cancers repeated for the benefit of whatever new doctor is present. Not to mention, my own health history is getting a bit silly to wade through also… it was a lot, even as it was okay.
And as I walked away from the hospital, with dusk settling in, light rain falling and all the lovely doctors’ genuine best wishes as I continue my current treatment, not gonna lie, friends, it felt a bit like walking in the shadow of death.

And yet, and yet, the other shadow-y phrase is there in my whirling mind too: “the shadow of his wings.”
This one also has many layers and memories connected to it for me. I can remember a significant moment of hearing the story of a mother hen who sheltered all her little chicks underneath herself to protect them from certain death, and how it resonated deeply with my then teenager-heart as a picture of God’s sacrificial love for me. I also think of the Scott Erickson painting hanging on my wall, a picture God gave me last time I was walking this cancer/chemo way, of a girl flying safely on the back of an eagle, held and carried by its protection and strength. I love the image of safety and freedom intertwined, of being wrapped up in wings of love. From this vantage, being in the shadows doesn’t seem so bad after all.

Shadows can be menacing or comforting. They can be full of unsettling suspense, or they can be a place of calm reprieve, a shelter from the scorching sun, a place of rest and refreshment.

And that’s where I’ve been landing, friends, not surprisingly, in the in-between of this shadowy zone - that both of these images, these metaphoric, but also felt-places of shadow can be, and are the same place.
The valley of the shadow of death is also the very same place that I am within the shadow of his wings. The place where I feel the most unsure, is the very place where I can ask the questions, to linger in the dark itself, to move, and wonder, and walk within death’s shadows, because even though it may feel scary, I am in no danger here. My Mother Hen, my Father God, the Shelter of the Most High is where I am and will be found.

It’s not one or the other. And it’s not a ‘move through the valley and then find the light’ kind of ask before us. Right in the middle of the darkness, the Lord is present. Within the places of death, whatever they may be, God is more than able to birth, resurrect, redeem, and renew.
And who knows that that will mean, lovely ones, for me or for you. Who knows what it will look like in our lived experience in the coming months and years… I don’t.
But what I do know is that as I go, as I lean into the presence and care of Jesus, I will be soaring in the freedom of eagle flight, I will be nestled close in the feathers of love and safe-keeping.

“Soar” by Scott Erickson

So many Audrey Assad songs feel like the music of my spirit, but this one, that borrows from my fav Psalm 139, has resonated again in these days, in barely a whisper she sings: “If I make my bed below the earth, if I make my bed below the earth, if I make my bed below the earth, I will find you.” [https://youtu.be/8AI2v5C0Q0s?si=X2OeVY7-H477Ck7u]

Tomorrow morning we’ll head in for round six. In the previous round they decreased both of the chemo drugs by 15%, and there was a noticeable lessening of several side effects: the cold sensitivity, jaw pain, and overall blech of the first few days were all better, and I’m hopeful for some better days up front again this week. After I move through these particular dark-ish days, I will be halfway through this chemo course.

So we’re to the middle of this particular valley, in all its dark glory.

And all the things that have been true are still true here:
I still cannot see where I’m going or where exactly this will lead to.
I am still never alone, not even for one step.
And from the places that I find myself, dark or light, flying or flailing, I will continue to speak of the goodness and faithfulness of the God who sees me, the one who is Light and Life, and who is more than enough for all my needs.

This beautiful prayer by Thomas Merton speaks my heart today and always:

“My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.”

Amen and amen.

On we go.
And all is well.

Blessings to you friends.
Laura xo