How to Light a Lantern in the Dark
{I originally shared this as a multiple-part series of Instagram posts. If you’ve ever struggled with despair or anxiety, wondered if you mattered, or thought this world has more worries than you can carry, this is for you.}
Joy and pain live side by side. It doesn’t make sense any more than inky blacks and bright whites should make a good painting and not some grey mess. Yet the Renaissance gave us chiaroscuro [kee-ahr-uh-skyoor-oh]—Italian for light-dark. Caravaggio and Rembrandt were masters at this.
Basically, a few details are placed in the light, while the rest of the painting remains in the dark. The stark contrast illuminates what is beautiful.
That has been the last two years since Junie’s birth: darkest pain and brightest joy. Perhaps, this post is my personal protest against the darkness. Perhaps, these words are my way of painting in chiaroscuro: darkness, yes; but you won’t be able to mistake the light.
Perhaps, in view of the tumultuous times, we are all facing, there is no better time to train our eyes to see the details in the light.
I want to share 3 glimpses of God over the past two years that I can’t ever unsee. My prayer is they light up the dark. Mine and yours. So if you are facing hardship, struggling with despair, burdened under the weight of all that is going on in our world, if you wonder if you matter… this is for you.
The sun has long since dipped below the horizon, and the clouds hover.
It’s dark out.
But the lantern glows.
And we can huddle near.
Rembrandt: The Storm on the Sea of Galilee
Caravaggio: The Calling of St. Matthew
{In which I need you to know: The storyteller sits in the pitch dark before the lantern is lit}
I don’t think I’d ever grappled with how finite and imperfect these mortal dwelling places are. Not really. My body’s mostly worked the way it’s supposed to until two years ago. Switchfoot has a song that says, “this skin and bones is a rental.” My rental survived something like an earthquake after Junie’s birth. That day in the hospital was hard, but it’s not what leveled me. That was the aftershocks.
I’ve lived some really dark days. One day I’ll have the courage to tell you how dark.
Fortunately, for the artist of chiaroscuro, the details of the dark don’t need to be as well defined as the details in the light.
This isn’t ignoring them, you still want to paint your background darkly. There was the second brush with death six days later. The physical recovery from massive blood loss. The emotional recovery from trauma. The PTSD and anxiety I’ve been battling ever since. The time it got so bad for so long, I needed to be hospitalized. Yes. That kind of hospital. It’s been an uphill battle ever since.
Because I am going to attempt to write about Light—about the glimpses of God I can’t ever unsee—I want you to know how human I am. How prone to sin. Ann Voskamp* penned that “anxiety is practical atheism.” And Marilla Cuthbert** says, “To despair is to turn your back on God.” If Marilla and Ann are right, I am two words away from being an atheist. Two words away from the totality of my sin. Two words that contrast the darkness and bring beauty to the light:
But God.
I don’t say that and brush away the details of the dark, I’m not being flippant. It’s just that the darkness cannot overcome the Light. It’s just that faith is less about us holding onto God, and more about Him holding onto us. That I can write this is grace alone. I need you to know that.
But because of that, I feel confident in saying, if He is for me, He is for you. If you are living before your “but God” moment, hold on. Cry out. Wait. I know it might feel impossible. God, I know that feeling. I can’t tell you when or how, but I know one day you will look back and testify to the goodness of God.
{The First Glimpse: His Presence}
My life was fading as they moved my bed through the hallways. I said, “Jesus.” Just “Jesus.” Over and over again. I wanted to be scared. But I couldn’t. Jesus was with me. In a way that felt thick and tangible, like He was the air I was breathing in, like I could have held His hand if I’d been strong enough to reach out for it. It didn’t matter that nurses were pushing my bed where they wanted it to go, it didn’t matter the uncertainty that hung between me and the other side of surgery. I was going wherever Jesus was going. Period.
The veil between this physical world and the omnipresence of God got peeled back just a tiny bit that day, and I beheld the mystery of God-with-me.
I can’t unsee His presence in what should have been the most terrifying moment of my life. I can’t unsee His peace that surpasses understanding.
Sometimes the reality of suffering and death feels like it might suffocate me. I struggle to grasp that they are as much a part of life as living is. I don’t want to accept it. Truthfully, I’d much prefer to reason my way out of them. Afterall, how could a loving God allow such things? But I can’t unsee that moment in the hallway. I almost died. And God was with me. His peace enveloped me. It was the least scary moment of my life.
My future was secure. I was going wherever Jesus was going.
Even when life has been horrifyingly bad this year, I know the One who holds life itself in His hands. I know He is good, and that beyond the mist-at-dawn that is our lives there is an eternity where the weight of glory outweighs the weight of our suffering. And tell me what scale exists which could compare the eternal with the finite? And who is worthy to hold that scale?
I wish I could see the same span of eternity, maybe suffering would look differently. I have but my glimpse of Immanuel from the hospital hallway. I know He’s with me, and shall be all the way Home. I think that’s enough.
{The Second Glimpse: Our Purpose}
I looked back at Mike as they wheeled me away. Junie was sleeping peacefully in her bassinet like all was well. I whispered, “I love you.” As soon as I got those words out, the thought occurred to me that those might be my last words. I wondered if I needed to say anything else. Surely I needed to remind him about a school assignment, or give him instructions for taking care of our newborn, or offer some final words of wisdom to pass along to our kids. I thought of the bookshelves without the books of my dreams sitting on them, the places I never got to visit, the work I hadn’t done.
Peace flooded that moment. I just knew: those three words were enough. It was enough. I was enough. I’d lived my love letter to my family—the bottoms I’d wiped, the tantrums I’d redirected, the crumbs I’d vacuumed, the hair I’d tucked behind ears, the songs I’d sung rocking babies in the dark.
I’d lived God’s love letter to the reach of my influence—the cinnamon rolls I’d sent to the neighbors, the prayers I’d prayed, the words of hope I’d tapped out. Not that it was perfect or even all that magnificent, but I’d lived allowing God’s grace to leak out of the cracks of my shortcomings. Surely, grace would continue to cover the gaps.
I can’t unsee my enoughness, nor the simplicity of my life’s work: to love God and to love others.
Listen: It’s not the size of your influence, nor the books with your name on the spine. It’s being faithful over your one little life. It’s loving your God, and living as a letter of God’s love to those around you. You might leave without all your bucket list items checked off, but God doesn’t see your life as a to-do list. He delights in you—you—as you are. You are a living breathing expression of God’s love.
You don’t need a platform or a title or a book deal. Just love the ones in front of you. Be prepared to do so imperfectly. It’s our imperfections that leave room for the grace of God. Leave plenty of room for Him.
And be curious. Be curious enough to want to know what happens if you listen to that still small voice that whispers invitations into more ways to love.
That’s it. Love is always enough.
{The Third Glimpse: The Way Forward}
A few months back I received an email. It was a cry for help from another continent. They’d lost loved ones, they were in despair, they didn’t know how much longer they could hold on.
I stared at that email paralyzed.
It wasn’t long ago I was in a similar place. I kept thinking: how could I hold the weight of another person’s life when mine felt so heavy all by itself?
I mentioned it to a friend, and she gave me the most practical wisdom. “Amanda, why don’t you pray for her?”
Duh.
I wrote her a prayer back. I might not have been able to be her counselor, but I hadn’t lived through the darkest night of my life to not know how to pray over someone living through theirs.
I did close my email with an exhortation.
I told her to do the one thing that had preserved me when I thought God had abandoned me, and I couldn’t keep going. I wrote, “Every day, I want you to record every good thing, every provision, every sweet moment. At least 3. Write them down and number them. Because despair lies.
“Despair lies and says there is nothing good for us. Despair lies and says all is loss, and the loss is too great. Despair lies and says the darkness wins.
“It might be a small act counting up gifts, but it’s a defiant act that stares in the face of darkness, and starts poking holes in it.”
Last year I had a moment where I wanted to walk away from the faith. I couldn’t believe what I was being asked to endure. I stayed because I found myself like Peter, “To whom should [I] go, Lord? [Only] You have the words of eternal life.”
I can’t unsee the power of gratitude through those fragile weeks. I struggled to hold on. But I can look back and see the hundreds of gifts I counted. It brings me to my knees. I was faithless. Yet He remained faithful.
Writing down gifts and counting them up is like dipping our brushes in the creamy whites and highlighting God’s goodness over the dark circumstances of our lives. We become the artists of chiaroscuro. When we highlight the goodness in the dark, we discover the lights aren’t all out.
The sun might have long since dipped below the horizon, and the clouds might hover.
It might be dark out.
But the lantern glows.
And we can huddle near.
What has gotten you through dark times? I'd love to hear your answer.
(And, friend, if you are going through a particularly dark time, it would be my honor to pray with you.)
By Grace,
Amanda Conquers
*from One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp.
**from Anne of Green Gables. (I can’t tell you how pleased I was to put my favorite writer Ann in the same sentence with my favorite fictitious Marilla. Fangirl going to #fangirl.)