What We Pray in the Dark

It was 1:30 a.m. Pain seared through my lower back, wrapping itself around my S. I. joints and radiating into the deepest part of my hips. I moved from bed to couch and back, rearranging the pillows a dozen times, applying ice and heat wherever I could. There was no relief. None.

Tears dripped down my cheeks as I pounded the couch cushions with my fists. Never, in ten years of living with A.S., have I hurt this much. Night after night the pain returns like a thief, robbing me of sleep, of confidence, of belief in the Lord’s love for me. Through clenched teeth, I hissed my prayer to the Lord in the dark. “Please. Make this stop.” He didn’t, though. It was quiet in the living room in the middle of the night, save the gasps and choked prayers slipping between the cracks of my faith. Discouraged and fatigued in every possible way, I prayed for the Lord to help me get through another day. If he wouldn’t stop the pain, would he please get me through the rest of the dark morning hours? He did. Somehow. The clock ticked slowly, and I survived another night of pain and crumbling faith. Somehow.

I confessed my anger to my husband when he woke the next morning. I heard my voice—the voice that has spent the last five years proclaiming God’s unfailing love for us in suffering because I thought this was a lesson learned long ago—I heard my voice say these words: “Does the Lord even care about me?” I knew they were the wrong words for there was an accusation in them. I don’t believe those words. In my head, I know the Lord cares for me, but sometimes the pain blinds me from the truth. Pain pushes the truth just out of reach, turns my face away from it just enough for me to question. Pain asks me, “Does God really love?” It always comes back to circumstances versus truth. Which one will I allow to tell me who God is? Which voice will I listen to?

It has to be him. It has to be. Like Peter and his friends standing around Jesus whose hard teaching led to a mass exodus, in my heart I know it has to be him. “Where else can I go, Lord? You alone have the words of eternal life.” He tells us who he is. His Word, his revelation of himself. He does. Not circumstances. Pain tells me God doesn’t love me, but Scripture tells me God has demonstrated love in sending Jesus to die in my place. The voice we must listen to is the one that speaks truth—even when we just can’t quite believe in weak moments of pain and doubt. Sometimes all we can pray in the dark is “Lord, I believe—help my unbelief!” And He does. Somehow.

The next night, I climbed into bed and tried to find a position for the deep ache in my right hip. “Okay Lord,” I prayed. “It’s just you and me tonight. I need you for every minute of this night.” I prayed in the dark for the Lord to tamp down the fear of the coming pain. And I drifted off for a few hours. Somehow.

The following Sunday, I stood in the church foyer after services talking with a friend. A sweet lady interrupted apologetically. She placed her hand on my lower back and said, “I just want to put my hand here and pray for the Lord’s healing over you. I love you.” Then she hugged me and left. The next day, a friend sent me a Voxer message telling me she felt the Lord compelling her to remind me that Jesus delights in me and to keep my gaze fixed on the One who loves me. The day after that, I received an email from a stranger with A.S. pointing me to God’s faithfulness when life is not what we wanted it to be. The next day, my husband’s close pastor friend texted to see how my health is, to tell us that he is faithfully praying for me.

I thought of my friend’s hand on my back when I stretched an Icy Hot patch across my S.I. joints this morning. I thought of the Voxer message as I sat in the infusion chair getting a hefty dose of nutrients and vitamins. I thought of the kind words in my inbox as I drove home from the clinic. I thought of our friend’s faithful prayers as I stood in my kitchen making a meal for a church family and realized my pain levels were surprisingly low today. I thought of the money that showed up in my bank account to cover my treatment, of the meals that showed up at my door to feed my family when I didn’t have the energy to cook last week, of the freelance work that showed up just in time to cover a medical bill, of the texts, letters, calls, and prayers of saints who have quietly and faithfully exhibited the unfailing love of Christ to me.

I pray a lot of things in the dark. The ritual of waking with nightly pain has morphed into regular midnight prayer sessions. Most nights—every night—I pray for healing, but here lately, I’m also praying to see God’s love in its place. And I see it. When I look, really look—I see his love everywhere. From the pages of my Bible to the prayers of a stranger, I am continually reminded that if God doesn’t heal, he still loves. And maybe I wouldn’t see so many glimpses of his love if I didn’t need to look so hard. The Lord has made a thousand declarations of love to me, not least of which is the fact that I belong to him at all. He saved me. He’s saving me still. I’m already his, but I’m not yet home, and until that day—he will keep me. Somehow.

What we pray in the dark, he often answers in the light. Maybe not in the way we want, but in the way we need.

“Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes in the morning.”
Psalm 30:5b

 

What we pray in the dark, He often answers in the light. Maybe not in the way we want, but in the way we need. Share on X

*For those who have inquired, in the weeks since writing this post, I’ve noticed a slight improvement in my symptoms as I seek treatment. Thank you so much for praying for me.

Photo by Ömürden Cengiz on Unsplash