Dark To Light
I don’t like writing about myself. However, sometimes writing takes us there, and sometimes in order to practice gratitude we need to remind ourselves of growth, of how far we have traveled from a certain darkness. My hope is that the deeper truths come through in the vulnerability, not myself. I am certainly not the hero of the story. — AC
I used to love this time of year. Shorter days always meant longer nights inside with family. More laughter, more food, more joy. The simmering days of August and September evaporate into mist, the cool, brisk air kisses cheeks and manifests air as I breathe out a sigh of contentment. Soon the pumpkins will be purchased, and after a warm night of friends and family, the round, orange, faceless harvests will be gutted and transformed into flickering masks of laughter and terror. The results are as varied as our personalities, but the flickering light within each is shared by all of their makers — all of us glowing, warmed by the laughter, the dialogue, the decades of friendship.
Anticipation. That’s what enchanted the fall. After the carved faces droop inward with rot and find their way into the compost to fuel next year’s yield, soon to come will be football and stuffing, followed shortly by the smell of freshly cut pine tree in our living room. There will be twinkling lights adorning, and the sparkles in our eyes will match as family gathers yet again to celebrate in all ways. The times themselves are priceless, but is it not the eager waiting that sets hearts aflame with hope?

That was years ago. Now the autumn is just cold. No magic, just temperature. The rolling hills and towering trees of home have been replaced with a skyline of buildings, as far as the eye can see. At night, it looks like I live above a sea of stars, shimmering endlessly into the night. The lights are different than the flickers of my youth — they are hollow somehow, distant. Each star is its own world, a room where others sit, just like me, alone somehow in this city teeming with other people. Am I a star on their horizon? Is my light as empty as theirs? I catch myself hoping, for their sake, that through their window is a kitchen full of food, a house warmed with presence, and a table, built for six, surrounded by eight or ten chairs. This city could use some more of that. I need more of that. Tonight, it is me, a desk light, and the soft, seductive blue glow of the Facebook home page. Tonight, I am a time traveler, gazing at pictures of the hills, the trees, the smiles of those I love. I’m not the man they think I am at home. It sure is lonely out in space.
This was my third year of college, fall quarter. Some days, when hope seems out of reach, I still catch myself drifting back to these nights. I sat listless, and while my memories of home were sweet, the dreamy sequences were sometimes sliced with tinges of fear, uncertainty. The darkness was not new to me. My joyful upbringing was haunted by something within me, something unresolved. Since my younger days, I have been an anxious person. However, for a variety of reasons, since leaving home for school the ropes of fear grew tighter around my wrists and ankles, chafing more and more over time. The binds grew taught as well — I could jog before, but this year, this third year, I could barely walk. By early October, I was crawling, and by November, I was lying down in surrender. I used to love this time of year.
I spent a lot of time down, physically, emotionally, spiritually. Waking up at 7:30am for my 8am class slid into waking up at 7:50am, which then descended into getting out of bed at 11am. My panicked states of anxious worry were underlined with endless despondency, boredom, and hopelessness. I’d sit through my afternoon class, counting the minutes until I could return to bed. Lecture, and life itself, was a silent movie. Professors would gesture wildly about protons and molecular weight, and it took all of my strength to write the title of the slide on my very empty notebook before they moved on, with bewildering excitement, to the next slide, the next explanation. I lied to myself that I’d look the notes up online later. Whatever. Whatever it takes to get back to bed. Time for a nap anyways. Whatever it takes to forget how listless, passionless, and lonely I am. I wish I could feel something the way this guy feels for alleles and Punnett squares. Maybe after this nap I’ll feel again. Or maybe not. Whatever.

Just a few months before the cold, my brother and I joined a group of strangers on a hike through Alaskan mountains. As our legs and lungs burned through the vast, vacant peaks and tundra, the strangers quickly became friends, and my brother and I still hold those magnificent views and sunset conversations as great treasure in our hearts. Before we left for the trip, our father gave both of us a small, orange book, with “New Testament” written in gold italic font across the front. Outwardly, I expressed excitement and gratitude, but inside my heart sighed with resentment. Can’t we just go enjoy this adventure for what it is? Why the life lessons?
Very gently, very lovingly, my father suggests that we might crack it open in the mountains. Perhaps the nature, the perspective will open it up in a new way. We nod in agreement. Maybe, perhaps, whatever we need to say to get this over with. The packing continued, the neon collection of writings stuffed reluctantly into the top of my very full backpack. Within days, we were alone together, all 15 of us, in the middle of nowhere.
In the Alaskan summertime, the days are long — very long. Light is everywhere, all the time. You slip into sleep in the twilight burn, and the radiant sun wakes you as it peeks through the vented, zippered cracks in the tent window. The days are full — not much time for reading, even at night, when the exhaustion catches our body finally lying still and blitzes with sleep. And yet somehow, one morning, that tangerine text found its way into my hands. Someone wrote, a long time ago, that in our anxiety we should trust instead of worry, and the peace of a Father in heaven will guard our hearts and minds. My heart quivered, but only slightly. My eyes brimmed with tears, quickly wiped away by my dirt-caked forearm. Too good to be true, surely. We traveled on into the mountains.
Months later, and a few more peeks into the small book later, I sit in my crow’s nest of a dorm room, alone, somewhere in between the starlight above and the skyline below. I am miles away from the land of endless light, feeling planets away from the days of hopeful anticipation. The blue screen is offering less and less hope. My desk is cluttered with notebooks full of slide titles. Lectures remain unwatched in queue online. My phone, though checked regularly, is quiet, text inbox empty.
Darkness.
And yet, it was here where I felt the greatest glow of all, seemingly out of nowhere. It was here where the Father of lights became real to me. One night, as the old texts I read over the summer rolled around in my head, I felt my heart flip upside down and overwhelming joy flood in. The words on the pages became a living person.
He saw me in my lonely room. He had numbered every tear. His footsteps were behind me as I paced the campus alone, fearful, uncertain, tears blurring the lights surrounding me. And on that evening, sitting in my chair, he filled my heart to bursting with hope, anticipation, greater even than all the candles, smiles, and distant dreams of my childhood combined. That night, I was seen, my brokenness was loved, my mistakes were forgiven, and I was rescued, forever, from the deepest darkness.
In later years, he has taught me more. I’ve learned that in this world we will have trouble, and that darkness surrounds us. Still come the many days when I am haunted, when I feel the cold hand on my shoulder, when my ear hears the whisperings of failure and condemnation. The darkness is still real, and still scrapes and bothers, but I wander not alone. I carry within the anthems of truth and hope. Trouble is not crushing when our Father has overcome the world. Darkness isn’t overwhelming when our Savior shines in its midst, the light of men conquering all darkness in the end.
As precious as my memories are, as snug as home and its countless charms are nestled in the golden mists of my memory, my Father needed to show me the greater light. The sheep is often blissfully unaware of the Shepherd until the hand guides and the rod and staff comfort in the dark of the valley. Now there is a feast, company, laughter, and rejoicing for me, even when all seems lost.
The last few years, I have picked out my pumpkin carefully. Each face I craft with blade and flame is a testimony to my freedom. And when my creation finds its home in front of ours, the light within reminds me of the light in me — overcoming, joyful, victorious light.
I do love this time of year.
