Standing in Darkness

Held in the Light of the Moon

Alone in a dark wood. This is where the journey so often begins: in a bitter, dark, difficult place, where the way ahead (if there is one at all) is unknown, inaccessible. Douglas E. Christie

In my previous post, I reflected on the rising and setting of the sun and what they can teach us. In this post, I want us to remember that between dusk and dawn, there is darkness. This seems particularly important this week as we grieve the darkness that has fallen over our nation after the murders in Minneapolis and the continued terror being perpetuated by federal agents and defended by this administration.

Most of us would not willingly go into the woods alone, at night, without a light, but sometimes that is where we find ourselves spiritually. Rather than avoiding darkness, I want to invite us to view the darkness through new eyes, not as a place devoid of light but as a place where light and darkness coexist and where the darkness amplifies the light in a way that reminds us we are never truly alone.

Back when I was in high school, almost every date with my future husband would end in a cow pasture, sitting on the tailgate of his truck, listening to music, and staring up at the stars. Granted, we complained that our small town had nothing else to offer us, but I now realize just what a gift those hours spent under the dark Central Texas skies were. Perhaps this is why my husband and I love camping so much. We discovered that the experience of awe, shared in silence, weaves an unbreakable soulful connection.

A few weeks ago, as I stared up at the Wolf moon and admired its reflection on the still lake waters, I realized just how little I know about the night sky and was saddened by how little time I spend appreciating its beauty. Where I live, as in many other places, the wolves were hunted to extinction, but the coyotes help me imagine the haunting howls echoing through the cold January nights that likely gave the first moon of the year its name.

When we think about darkness through a spiritual lens, it is generally not from the perspective of beauty, but from pain. While wolves are born with their night vision, we humans must acquire spiritual night vision by being thrust into utter darkness, in what Christian Mystic John of the Cross terms, the dark night of the soul.

My Dark Night of the Soul

All known markers of meaning and direction suddenly disappear, and we find ourselves wandering in an unknown landscape, far from home, deeply uncertain about who we are, where we are, or where we are going. Douglas E. Christie

My own Dark Night began in 2017 with my daughter’s injury in Charlottesville’s counter protest of the Unite the Right Rally, followed by the betrayal of a trusted co-worker, the life-threatening illness of one of my children, the physical challenges of my husband, the emotional struggles of another one of my children, my mother’s triple heart bypass, and a serious financial threat to our family that lasted for nearly two years, along with the 45 day hospitalization of one of my children. One horrific event after another, squeezing out all the light until I could not see.

I found I could not carry on in a business-as-usual fashion, so I took two sabbaticals: 30 days in January of 2019 after the first round of traumatic events subsided a bit, and two months in the summer of 2025, when I simply could not go on. Both experiences were times of deep spiritual wrestling.

A Search for Meaning

God is none other than the One in whom one can understand nothing perfectly…about whom one does not know how to say a word. Marguerite Porete

I spent a lot of time alone in the woods, sitting in silence, listening to the darkness in my soul, and trying to make sense of it all. I discovered a newfound appreciation for the painful stories in scripture that I had previously skipped over. In the book of Job, I recognized my own inner voices echoing Job’s friends’ attempts to make sense of his suffering by claiming it was punishment from a wrathful God. As Judas betrayed Jesus, I found a strange comfort in knowing Jesus knew my pain. At Jesus’ trial, I was reminded that even Jesus was unjustly persecuted at the hands of religious leaders and callous government officials. I went through the painful process of pulling the log out of my own eye, and I am still not sure I can see the world as clear-eyed as I would like through the lingering trauma.

Like most people, I needed the world to make sense, but all too often the faith we have inherited is solar-powered, to borrow Barbara Brown Taylor’s metaphor. Solar-powered spirituality is built on a flimsy premise that the ways of the universe are understandable and that if we try hard enough, we can find a narrative that makes it all make sense. This kind of certainty is what the dark night of the soul takes from you. It is a painful but necessary form of deconstruction that is required if we are to build on a firmer, albeit mysterious, spiritual foundation.

This most recent dark night was not my first. The first was after my father’s suicide in 1997. An act that was absolutely beyond my ability to comprehend; I felt I was stuck in a nightmare. I searched for months for an answer to “why?” My whole worldview, my understanding of who I was and who my family was, and how the world worked all came crashing down. Mental illness is not rational by definition. Yet, my spiritual worldview was. When those two things clashed, something had to give. I found comfort in John of the Cross’s words, “The dark night is God’s best gift to you, intended for your liberation. It is about freeing you from your ideas about God.”

In my most recent dark night, the deconstruction continued, and underneath what was left of my inherited solar-powered faith, I found a much truer foundation upon which to rebuild. I found myself once again invited into a vast mystery as I let go of my need for understanding and simply allowed myself to be held in the darkness.

So much about our current chapter in history makes no sense. Attempts to put all this suffering into some kind of theological framework, making it all part of a divine plan, are a foolish exercise and cause more harm than good. As my friend, Father Bruce Wilson says, “Shit happens, but so does grace.” These simple words helped me see the gift underneath the grief.

Light Amplified in Darkness

In that deep silence, we can sometimes find ourselves drawn even more deeply into what Thomas Merton called ‘the hidden ground of love. Douglas E. Christie

During my family’s dark season, we were fortunate to have a supportive community of trusted friends, an amazing family therapist, and each other. While all brought light into the darkness, it was my time alone in the natural world that kept me from falling into utter despair. I experienced being held within the vastness of the sacred mystery. Those moments, though fleeting, brought just enough light for me to take one tiny step forward at a time.

My family and friends were the planets and stars, and the sacred mystery was the moon. Sometimes she shines as brightly as a super moon on a clear night, and sometimes she is impossible for me to find. What the dark night teaches me is that even when I cannot see her, she is there. We do not have to understand the darkness to trust in the light.

I experienced a deeper sense of connection while experiencing less of a sense of knowing. As my mind let go of its need for understanding, my heart connection grew deeper. I no longer have any interest in theological debates or analysis of different faith traditions. I am far more interested in how one’s spirituality holds up in the darkness.

I relate to these quotes from Barbara Brown Taylor:

“At this stage of my life, this sounds like a fifth Gospel, in which the good news is that dark and light, faith and doubt, divine absence and presence, do not exist at opposite poles. Instead, they exist with and within each other, like distinct waves that roll out of the same ocean and roll back into it again.

Learning to walk in the dark has allowed me to take back my faith, removing it from the glare of the full solar tradition to recover by the light of the moon.”

Listening to the Night Sky

As I ponder the night sky and Taylor’s words, I am reminded that before GPS, there were star charts that helped people navigate. I am also reminded that ancient cultures looked up at those points of light and saw constellations, naming them and giving them stories. These stories or myths helped our ancestors navigate life. They looked into the darkness searching for meaning, and the night lights, visible only in darkness, guided them.

I am no astronomer and have only limited knowledge of how the moon and the stars impact life here on earth and how those night skies have shaped human consciousness. All I know is that the night sky, more than any other more-than-human messenger, reminds me of just how small I am. It invites me to see myself simply as one speck within an unfathomable cosmic whole. The smallness of my individual self is humbling and vulnerable, but the vastness of the universe in which we are all a part is awe-inspiring and beyond our full comprehension.

Our Collective Light

The night sky is most breathtaking in places of total darkness when the light of the stars and the moon pierce the dark. As darkness descends over our nation, the light is also growing brighter. We are witnessing the rising tide of moral outrage surge through our collective consciousness, finding expression this week in marches in Minneapolis and beyond. As I shared in my previous post, something is shifting: People are growing in courage, finding their voice, and making bold moves to try to engage the world in a way that shapes what is dawning. The darkness often has that effect; it amplifies the light.

Some, like Christie and Taylor, are using their words to bring light; others, like my friend Allison Crews, are organizing locally. Some, like my colleague April Doner are working to connect various movements, with millions raising awareness through their physical presence at marches and protests, and sadly, some, with their very lives. Learning to walk in the darkness is not just for our personal journey, but for the collective work we are called to in such a time as this.

If you found this post helpful, please share your thoughts in the comments below and share it with others you think might appreciate it.

What lessons have you learned from the night sky?

Have you experienced your own “dark night of the soul”? If so, what wisdom would you share with others who find themselves alone in a dark wood?

Where are you finding light for your path in this season of life?

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Recommended Readings

There are so many wise guides around us carrying lanterns for those of us who feel like we are lost in the dark woods. Here are a few others you might want to check out.

kathy escobar’s post, Metabolizing Greif

Danielle Joyce, DPT’s post, Hope: The scientific definition

Barbara Brown Taylor’s book, Learning to Walk in the Dark

Center for Action and Contemplation’s Oneing Publication, A Living Tradition, specifically the chapter by Douglas E. Christie’s titled Resting in Darkness.