I used to be afraid of the night until I realized the gift that it has to offer. When I was 16, I went on my first wilderness backpacking trip in upper Michigan. I, along with a bunch of guys, spent a week hiking 50 miles and canoeing 100 miles. Towards the end of the trip, our leader and guide Kent, had us set up camp on a small island in the middle of the river. It was a perfect spot to camp with one exception – no source of clean water. Kent suggested that if we waited until it was dark, we would be able to take our canoes upstream a bit and hear fresh spring water flowing into the river. In the daytime, there was too much noise, too many distractions that would prevent us from successfully finding our much needed water. But in the silence of night, we would easily find what we were looking for. And he was right. We found what we were looking for (and the bonus adventure of getting into a splash war with a beaver -- who knew an oar could also serve as a makeshift beaver tail!)
It is in the night where we are met with the sounds of silence. Its darkness blinds us from other distractions. We have a choice – be afraid of the dark and bury our head, or look for the gift it has to offer. The night strips us down to our core being. We are alone with our thoughts and our emotions; our audience has gone to bed. The world is no longer our stage, we take off our costumes, and the real begins to emerge.
What do we find alone in the silent night? I find that my wounds begin to emerge asking to be healed. Some are new wounds from the day, others are old that have yet to fully heal. In the day, wounds are easily ignored – I am distracted by the buzz of routine. In the day, I am often Superwoman – fearless and guarded by a force field of protection. But in the darkness, I can hear the wound’s cries and if I choose, I can go find them. I can choose to listen, to understand, to be compassionate with myself. Or I can choose to shame, reprimand, and criticize. I can welcome healing or I can shut down the process.
I am not suggesting that we merely sit around and coddle ourselves. The night offers a wonderful time for an examination of the soul – to reflect back on the harm we have caused others. When we no longer are performing, we can stop long enough to evaluate our actions. When we notice the damage we may have caused, we can own it and make amends. In most cases, we have the opportunity to repair the wounds we inflicted, but only if we choose to take those steps.
The night offers us the gift of being vulnerable with God. When the lights go off, we no longer have to play the clichéd religious happy person. We can choose to be our true self, our honest self. We are free to doubt, to wrestle, to curl up in the fetal position begging for parental tenderness. We are free to express our fears and our hopes. We are free to rejoice, to desire deep, loving intimacy with God. We can choose this path of intense honesty or we can continue playing make-believe.
We do not have to be afraid of the dark. We do not have to fear our shadow self beneath the daytime façade. And we are fooling ourselves if we believe God does not already see it. Healing begins when we ourselves are not afraid to be with it – to know it, to hear it, to understand it. In the silence of the night, if we are willing to get out in our canoe and listen, we may actually find what we really need.
Next . . . “O” as in Organic.
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