In the Dark
I love taking showers in the dark. I know, it's weird. Everybody I've told about this has told me so. I'm usually up pretty darn early in the morning, sometimes before the sun. Actually, I like getting up early, but I'd rather ease into daylight.
There's just something about the darkness of the early morning hours that speaks of a remarkable stillness. I feel God's presence in these still moments before the daily grind; before the brightness of the office and the glares of monitors. As a graphic artist, I use my eyes all day, so it is a pleasure not to use them until I have to. I leave the lights off as I crawl out of bed.
There's just barely enough light to navigate our apartment as I gather my clothes laid out from the night before (I've discovered the hard way that It's not a good idea to pick out clothes in the dark). I don't need the light, though; I've seen our apartment so many times in daylight I know exactly where everything is. On the way, I manage to avoid stepping on one of our two cats as I cross the living room. I can't see him, but I can hear him. He sees much better than I, so he makes a small trilling sound so that this strange human won't step on anything he shouldn't .
Our bathroom doesn't have windows, so the little light from the street lamps outside our living room window is snuffed out as I close the doors. I don't need to see; everything is right where I remember it: faucet, shower gel, shampoo. I open my eyes and it is as dark as when they were closed, but that doesn't worry me. It is comforting.
I turn the water off, step out onto the mat, and find my towel right where it is always hanging. The room is still and dark, warm and humid; an ideal environment for quiet reflection and prayer. It's almost a disappointment when I finally have to turn the light on to shave (another thing that isn't too smart to try to do in the dark). Sighing, I hit the switch and face the garish light of day.
I know, it's an odd morning ritual. It is, however, a powerful metaphor that reminds me of something very important: God is with me in the dark.
Some people seem to have everything together. They seem to know exactly where they're going, all the time. I don't know how things are for you, but I'm a little different. Most of the time, I can't see a thing. Once in awhile, there's a small glimmer here and there; just enough to give me a quick glance at my surroundings. Sometimes the light is so clear it's blinding. Sometimes, I see the most clearly just before everything is dissolved into night. But I remember. I remember in the dark what I have seen in the light, and I am comforted. I have seen enough of where I am and where I have come from to make confident steps along my path, even if I can't see exactly where I'm going.
I may not have heard from Him for awhile, but I keep close to my heart the words He has spoken over me... the songs He has sung over me. I remember.
Afraid of the dark? No. I cherish the dark times, because that is when I am closest to my Savior. ·
There's just something about the darkness of the early morning hours that speaks of a remarkable stillness. I feel God's presence in these still moments before the daily grind; before the brightness of the office and the glares of monitors. As a graphic artist, I use my eyes all day, so it is a pleasure not to use them until I have to. I leave the lights off as I crawl out of bed.
There's just barely enough light to navigate our apartment as I gather my clothes laid out from the night before (I've discovered the hard way that It's not a good idea to pick out clothes in the dark). I don't need the light, though; I've seen our apartment so many times in daylight I know exactly where everything is. On the way, I manage to avoid stepping on one of our two cats as I cross the living room. I can't see him, but I can hear him. He sees much better than I, so he makes a small trilling sound so that this strange human won't step on anything he shouldn't .
Our bathroom doesn't have windows, so the little light from the street lamps outside our living room window is snuffed out as I close the doors. I don't need to see; everything is right where I remember it: faucet, shower gel, shampoo. I open my eyes and it is as dark as when they were closed, but that doesn't worry me. It is comforting.
I turn the water off, step out onto the mat, and find my towel right where it is always hanging. The room is still and dark, warm and humid; an ideal environment for quiet reflection and prayer. It's almost a disappointment when I finally have to turn the light on to shave (another thing that isn't too smart to try to do in the dark). Sighing, I hit the switch and face the garish light of day.
I know, it's an odd morning ritual. It is, however, a powerful metaphor that reminds me of something very important: God is with me in the dark.
Some people seem to have everything together. They seem to know exactly where they're going, all the time. I don't know how things are for you, but I'm a little different. Most of the time, I can't see a thing. Once in awhile, there's a small glimmer here and there; just enough to give me a quick glance at my surroundings. Sometimes the light is so clear it's blinding. Sometimes, I see the most clearly just before everything is dissolved into night. But I remember. I remember in the dark what I have seen in the light, and I am comforted. I have seen enough of where I am and where I have come from to make confident steps along my path, even if I can't see exactly where I'm going.
I may not have heard from Him for awhile, but I keep close to my heart the words He has spoken over me... the songs He has sung over me. I remember.
Afraid of the dark? No. I cherish the dark times, because that is when I am closest to my Savior. ·
