“One day after the Sabbath, Mary Magdalene came in the morning while it was still dark…” (John 20:1a).
I have been wrestling with depression this week. Maybe I’m languishing, since that seems to be the new thing to which to grasp in these strange times. But it’s more likely stress and fatigue from putting far more expectations on myself than…well, than is realistic. Perfection is an unhealthy goal.
Because of this, the world’s a bit dull for me. Like a knife too long used as the wrong tool, I find that I can rub my fingers over the budding beauty of spring and find not even the slightest dent in my skin. The season around me is one of resurrection, but I find myself awake in the middle of the night, hoping morning will hurry up and arrive.
Maybe someone else is feeling the same. If so, this is for you.
It will come back. The dead nerves that seem to spread beneath your skin and seem unable to feel heat or cold, softness or rough: they’ll feel again. The color that you know is all around you but, right now, seems muted, monochrome, and gray: you will see their hues again. Morning will come.
In the meantime, the waiting is hard. The consolation is that we’re never alone.
We are never the only ones up before dawn, waiting for the break of day. It can seem, looking out your bedroom window, that the rest of the world is peaceful and asleep. But we’re never awake alone.
So, if you are awake (literally or figuratively) in the darkness, know that right now, I can promise you aren’t alone. I am there, too.
And, if it helps, we can gather up our things and head out by the light of the stars in the hopes that in some garden, our hope for morning will come.
Holy One, in you there is no darkness, but sometimes it is the only thing I can see. And I believe you are here, even if I can’t seem to sense your presence. Stay with me, here, before the dawn.