Every morning this week, I’ve watched the sun rise. Every morning, without fail, the sun persistently pushes down the dark of night, lower and lower, into the horizon until I can’t see anything but light. It happens so slowly that you can’t tell it’s happening at all. Were you to try to decide which moment the dark was darker than the light or the light lighter than the dark, I’m not sure you could do it. One moment you can’t see your hand in front of your face, and the next, the shafts of a rising sun obliterate all the darkness that obstructed your vision. I forget how dark the dark can be until I see a sunrise.
A few weeks ago, I slipped into a pit of dark discouragement. Some things I’d been pleading with the Lord to fix, to change, to renew—well, it all seemed to be a big “no” from God. I don’t know what else to do with my prayer requests. Like Peter and the disciples standing around when a crowd of people had just abandoned Jesus for his hard teaching about his body and his blood, I look at my life, at what I believe about God, at where I’ve staked all my eternity, and I have to say, “Where else can I go? You alone have the words of eternal life.” I will go to my grave holding on to those words. But that doesn’t mean that my faith isn’t bruised by the perpetual thrumming of pain in my spine, by the hollowness of my womb, by the yearning to deal a final blow to my undoing sins of anger and bitterness. I might believe, but sometimes I can’t see. Darkness gets too dark. Sometimes I need a sunrise to help me see.
The trouble with discouragement is that you can set up camp there in complete obscurity and isolation. If you don’t call out for help, you might just stay for a while. We tend to feel that when we’re struggling with faith or doubt or pain or loss that we should hide those weaknesses from others. Circle the wagons, you know? When we’re in a better place mentally or spiritually or physically, we’ll show up to our life. We’ll just live in the dark until we feel like reaching for the light. But the problem is, we forget what light looks like when it’s shadowed by the dark. We need others to get down in the pit of darkness with us and lift our chins to remind us what light even is. While we might be tempted to turn out the light and let the dark tell us what’s true, we must take care. The enemy likes us down in the dark. He whispers and we listen: “You’re too sinful, you’re too weak, you’ll always hurt this much, you’re not as loved as everyone else.”
The only response is to disbelieve our adversary and to let the light break through. When we’re stuck down in the dark nights of the soul, the way forward is still by grace through faith in Jesus.
During my recent bout of deep discouragement, my husband spoke truth to me when my heart and mind felt too worn down to remember what was true. A little bit of light got it. A good friend prayed for truth and hope in Jesus to reign in my heart, and a little bit of light got in. I stood with my congregation and sang songs that hurt coming out of my mouth, listened to sermons that pierced but also healed, held the cup and the bread with a clenched fist and a weak heart. But a little bit of light got in. My Bible stayed open, and if the words felt faded, dull, and worn, they’re still sharper than any weapon I’ve got. The Word always does its thing, and the light breaks in. I pray with tears and lament one day, with numbness and a cold heart the next. But the Son and the Spirit take every broken utterance and make them right before the Father, so a little bit of light gets in.
Little shafts of light pierce the deepest dark, pushing down discouragement and disbelief into the horizon until the heart is filled with truth and hope and joy. It happens so slowly that you can’t tell it’s happening. Were you to try to decide which moment the dark was darker than the light or the light lighter than the dark, I’m not sure you could do it. One moment you can’t see truth in front of your face, and the next, the shafts of a rising sun obliterate all the darkness that obstructed your vision. I forget how bright the light is until the darkness gets swallowed up by all those tiny, blinding, brilliant shafts of light.
The sun rising over the flat farmland of southern Missouri is quite literally a daily occurrence that divides the night from the day, but there is something so steadying about the certainty of its predictability. Chaos, grief, loss, pain, and death abound in both our hearts and our world, but not one of those things tilts the universe out of our Savior’s hands. He is still holding all things together. Sometimes I need a sunrise to remember that “in him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:4-5). It doesn’t take much for the Light of the world to break into the darkness. Sometimes, I just really need a sunrise.
My Bible stayed open, and if the words felt faded, dull, and worn, they’re still sharper than any weapon I’ve got. The Word always does its thing, and the light breaks in. Share on X
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.