for yonder breaks
/
What do you see in the picture above?
Is it an all-seeing eye? Or is it an eerie black cave?
It’s both.
When I was about three years old, the same age as my daughter Clara, I remember the power going out in the middle of the night. We lived in a double-wide mobile home in the middle of nowhere, so when the power went out on a moonless night, it was darkness like most of us never see anymore. I couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face, and I was scared—terrified. I could only think of one thing to do: Get to my mom and dad’s room, because with them, I’d be safe.
Very carefully, I slid out of bed. My bedroom was tiny, and I figured it wouldn’t be too hard to map my way to the doorway. A few steps forward, then a right turn, a few more steps—and I’d be out in the hall. From there I would just have to make it straight across the living room to my parents’ bedroom door.
Step, step, step. Turn. Step, step—bang.
It wasn’t my doorway I had found. It was bars. Vertical bars, like a jail. I gripped one in each hand and felt my whole body seize silently with terror. They had locked me in. I couldn’t escape this horrible dark place. I was trapped.
This memory resurfaces often for me, usually at random and without much emotion attached. I’ve always wondered why it stuck with me so clearly for so long—until I realized recently, with some guidance from my counselor, that even though this event occurred nearly 27 years ago, I have unconsciously relived it about a thousand times since.
When my idealistic illusions of my marriage shattered—trapped. When I was sitting in the Neuro ICU waiting room for what felt like days on end—trapped. When I had a newborn baby and postpartum depression—trapped. When I sat in church community groups in disagreement, yet unable to speak—trapped.
Most recently, when I had to force-feed my too-small baby who was always happy except when she was eating, but had to eat for the sake of her own development: Trapped.
My counselor said I might benefit from what she called “memory work.” It’s where you return to the memory and relive it as realistically as you can. While you’re there, you seek until you find where God was in that moment—where the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit were in the scene with you.
I tried, but I felt handicapped by my logical mind. I’d try to feel the bars in my hands and I’d hear my left-brain saying, “This isn’t going to work. You know you’re not actually there.” So I tried something else my counselor has suggested before as a bridge into my right-brain: art.
The picture above began with my paintbrush dipped in black. I painted the black of that room where I had felt so trapped, the choking quality of an unfathomable darkness. I added other colors and shapes and concepts as the memory stirred me. And when the picture was complete, I finally discovered where God had been—or maybe more accurately, where I was in relation to God: In the center of His eye all along.
My dad came down the hall carrying a candle. His voice was gentle and reassuring. I could see, finally, in that dim and flickering light, that the bars I thought were a jail they’d put up to contain me were just the railing of my sister’s crib. I had miscalculated my steps and never reached the door.
I think my joy and relief to see that faint glow of light and Dad’s face must be something like what Creation felt when the baby Jesus drew His first human breath.
A thrill of hope.
Maybe I wasn’t truly trapped. Maybe they did really love me. Maybe I wouldn’t be stuck in the dark by myself forever.
Maybe, even though all I could see was darkness, I was actually enveloped on all sides by the dazzling embrace of a loving and compassionate God.
O holy night! the stars are brightly shining;
It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope—the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!
Fall on your knees! O hear the angel voices!
O night divine, O night when Christ was born!- O Holy Night by Placide Cappeau (translated by John S. Dwight), 1847
