“Dad, I don’t want you to go. I’m just so scared of the darkness…”
This is a common refrain at bedtime with the eldest.
Part of it, I’m sure, is just his little way of trying to manipulate me into staying with him just a little bit longer. Most times, he’s successful. I’ll admit, I’m essentially powerless when he looks up at me with those big, brown doe eyes (his mom’s eyes – and yes, I’m equally powerless against her). But part of it is a genuine fear.
Now, I understand that this is a somewhat normal phase that most (if not all) kids go through at some point in their development, but that knowledge doesn’t make things any easier in the moment. As his dad, all I want to do is make it OK, so I try to tell him that there’s nothing to be scared of. I tell him the monsters in his dreams aren’t real, that mommy and daddy are right down the hall, that God made the dark just the same as the light and it’s nothing to be scared of, but none of that really seems to calm him. Even as I’m telling him, I can see the reflection of the nightlight in those big brown eyes. They seem to dart from object to object around the room, hyper-aware of every shadow.
In fact, nothing I say seems to make much difference at all in those moments in the darkness
So I just stay, because it’s all that I know to do. I lie next to him, maybe place a hand lightly on his back or shoulder (he is most definitely NOT one for cuddling), and feel the tension go out of his muscles as his breathing slows and his blinks get longer and longer. Occasionally, he’ll startle, turn quickly to make sure that I’m still there, touch my hand or my face, and then continue reassured on his descent toward sleep.
He finds peace, so I stay.
This time, there’s no heroic beating back of the darkness, no grand gesture or magic word that’s going to make the darkness any less terrifying to a three-and-a-half-year-old with an imagination that would make Walt Disney jealous.
So I just sit with him in it, and that’s enough.
And suddenly, it strikes me that this is, in some small way, akin to the nature of love, of God, of Immanuel, God with us. Often when I am in my darkest places, there are no miracles, there are no visions or words from heaven. There is simply the promise of a God who is with us, who suffers with us, who mourns with us, and who comforts us. Where a word might fall on deaf ears, and a sign might go unseen or misinterpreted, maybe it’s simply presence that matters in the end.
Maybe peace isn’t to be found in a God who can say the right things to me, or do the right things for me.
Maybe it’s found in a God who just meets me where I am and simply sits with me there.
Perhaps the next time I find myself going to one of those dark places, I should remember how my own son finds peace in the presence of his father, even on the darkest of nights.
Luke, this is perfect. PERFECT. Such a beautiful illustration of what we are promised, what is ours as those who follow hard after Jesus. Despite too much preaching in various quarters, we are not promised miracles (though I think those sometimes happen), we are not promised deliverance out of the darkness, (though I think that sometimes happens, too). We ARE promised presence and if we can still our hearts just long enough to acknowledge that, it makes all the difference.(I think that’s why I’ve learned to love the Jesus Prayer and other short prayers/verses – those can help me still the monkey-mind and remind me of what is already true.)
Thanks, Diana.
I’m still working on learning to still the monkey mind. Mine is like a spider monkey on stimulants. I’m beginning to think that many of the great Christian mystics were a lot like me, that they started out trying to figure out how to get their brains to just shut the heck up for a minute.
This post got me thinking… If I could choose between a God who is present and a God who gives answers, I think I’d take the God who is present and let the mystery fall where it may. Good words Luke.
Thanks, Ed, and I’m with you all the way. I don’t remember any verses that talk about complete information casting out all fear, but I do remember one about love getting the job done.
Just thinking about this the other day. I’m so grateful for the many ways mothering continues to teach me about the power of WITH. The more attuned I become to it, the more I am able move beyond seeking a God who works levers for me, to finding a God who is Home for me.
Love it!
“a God who is Home for me.”
Holy smokes that’s good. Thanks so much for sharing that. I’m going to have to ruminate on that one for a while!
And perhaps seeing God as the Hand holding mine in the darkness has implications for how I enact Jesus to those around me, victims of their own dark places . . . ?
Thank you. And well done.
YES! My “fixing’ impulse is strong, but I think it can be harmful as well. Sometimes it can feel like I’m occupying a space that is above this other that we’re trying to fix instead of meeting them where they are, where God met (and continues to meet) us.
Amen! A God who can see in the darkness and understand it when all I do is fear it.
For me there has been nothing like parenting to give me glimpses into my relationship with God. This one is beautiful.
Amen! A God who can comprehend the darkness when all I can do is fear it.
“Perhaps the next time I find myself going to one of those dark places, I should remember how my own son finds peace in the presence of his father, even on the darkest of nights.”
I have to agree with Diana. This is perfect.
We don’t need him to do anything for us or to us but just remember that he is there. Thank you!
Perfect. I was never able to let my kids “cry it out” at night when they were babies. And then my boys had night terrors when they were older – which to me was truly terrifying. Just being there – that’s all they wanted. And that’s really all I want, too. Thanks for this.
Our children are 3, 3 and 5, and this scene is familiar to me. Your description is just right. And this – “Often when I am in my darkest places, there are no miracles, there are no visions or words from heaven. There is simply the promise of a God who is with us…” – that is where I’ve been so often this past year, especially with the loss of my dad. And so I just want to say thank you. You’ve articulated here something I could not, and it brings quite a bit of comfort.
Mmm, yes. My boy says to me frequently in the dark “I’m lonely.” Learning to view the opportunity to be present as privilege. And so thankful for a God who joins us in our loneliness.