My Times are in Your Hand
I will trust in the darkness and know that my times are still in Your hand. (from Brendan Liturgy, Part XVI in Celtic Daily Prayer)
Darkness can come unexpectedly. A cancer diagnosis. A job layoff. A divorce request. One moment you understand life and see the road ahead, the next your future is in doubt. Sometimes the darkness doesn’t come through a crisis, but through a growing malaise that slowly engulfs you. Either way, you don’t know how this could have happened. In moments like these it seems like you are moving through an underground tunnel where it’s impossible to know what might be ahead.
Six years ago a hospital room was a place of darkness for me. In this space, all else stops except for the focus on the person in the bed, especially if the diagnosis is terminal. For days and weeks I waited for my mom’s body to respond to interventions that would allow her to return to chemotherapy and fight newly found tumors. I often held my breath waiting to hear from the physician’s assistant that there was a change. In the tightness of my breathing a knot formed in my chest. Each day it grew and started to obscure any light. I longed for someone to break through with hope. I wanted the medical establishment to find a way to stop this fast spreading cancer. Then one morning, with autumn sun streaming through the windows, the oncologist told us everything had been tried. It was time to consider hospice care. A black veil enveloped my soul. Hope, for a moment, was cut off.
While in the darkness, it’s difficult to trust because you can’t see the next step ahead. All plans are on hold. God even seems distant. Often when I’m in these situations, I will just sit and wait until I can figure out the next step. Hunkered down in the dark. As I wait for my own strength to make a change, I look out in despair and the darkness grows. Then I will grope for a figurative flashlight so I can try to make out the path for myself.
In that hospital room, it was my mother who helped to open up the path. Her trust in God’s way for her even then helped me to look up. To see a glimmer of light ahead. Slowly together we remembered times past and especially how God’s love continued with us in that sterile room. Though I may not have known what was ahead, God did. He was holding this time so I didn’t have to. I could be with my mother. I didn’t see the future I wanted, but even so little bits of trust allowed me to move forward in the grief that I felt.
In a similar darkening situation, with his disciples in the upper room, Jesus reminded them that it is possible to keep trusting.
Truly, truly, I say to you, you will weep and lament, but the world will rejoice. You will be sorrowful, but your sorrow will turn into joy. When a woman is giving birth, she has sorrow because her hour has come, but when she has delivered the baby, she no longer remembers the anguish, for joy that a human being has been born into the world. So also you have sorrow now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you. In that day you will ask nothing of me. Truly, truly, I say to you, whatever you ask of the Father in my name, he will give it to you. Until now you have asked nothing in my name. Ask, and you will receive, that your joy may be full. - John 16:20-24
It’s comforting that Jesus does not tell his disciples that everything will be okay. They, we, will weep and sorrow. However, this is not the end. In the midst of the darkness, we have someone to hold us, someone to ask for help. Looking back I remember many times that God has brought me through moments of darkness. Not always with the outcomes I desired, but always with his presence.
