Come Out of Hiding

I Don't Want to be Afraid of the Dark

I turned it in at the end of November.¹ When I pressed send, I could finally breathe. It was done. I had finished my book manuscript.² All at once, I felt it: relief, exhaustion, joy, and delight. I had been living in a haze, and now, I could finally be present — not split between the letters of every word still yet to be written. And yet, I felt that this (gestures wildly at the book that only exists in a saved document) had taken all of me. How do you feel? they asked. Empty. I wanted to reply. Great! I said instead. I was full when I started writing this book. And, every word was an overflow — of a life loved, not in need of being loved. Every page soothed the ache that made me believe I must do more to be more. I am learning to make room for myself. I can finally just be me.

We don’t have to do more to be more — beloved.

If I didn’t have to perform for the sake of belonging, I had to ask myself, “What do I do then?” It is the strangest feeling to see, so clearly, where you have made choices to fulfill an unmet need. Or, better yet, where the story you told yourself about yourself was more skewed than you realized. Maybe, I thought, I wasn’t so very unloved. Maybe, I considered, though I had felt alone so many of these years, I actually wasn’t. I was finally being honest. With myself, mostly. Inside and outside, everything I knew was being stripped away. I felt uncertain. Unsure. But, I tentatively step into the darkness of discomfort so I can walk into the light only love could shine. I tried, for once, to just be. I stopped trying to be seen — and accepted that I was.

We don’t have to work to be seen. We already are.

You lose something when you walk away from what you’ve always known. I can only describe it as an acute sense of self-protection, of the safety we find only in ourselves. But, I realized I had to be willing to let some things die. I understood that what I often labeled as hope was just a misguided, sometimes desperate, attempt at control. I kept for myself a pocket of things that I thought if I were to let go of — I would lose forever. They were safe in my hands. How could they possibly be safe in any others? Still, if I believed in a man who died and then came back to life again — couldn't I also believe that everything else in my life could operate in this same way?

It’s not for us to breathe life into dead things.

So, with a fragment of courage, I set down what I held most dear.

It looked like unfriending a few people online to whom I felt obligated.³ They had meant something to me at one time or another. I thought something could grow. Yet, these relationships had fractured and broken. They had withered.

I stopped initiating conversations with women whom I wanted to be friends with and who, time and time again, showed that they didn’t seem to share in my enthusiasm.

I took a break from the Internet.

I signed up to lead a small group at my church.

I let myself feel lonely, and I named it when I did.

Each of these contained a multitude of deaths. Of pride. Of numbing. Of fear.

Though I don’t yet know what might grow in their place, I hope.

Our hope won’t be buried.

It’s late. It’s been so long since I last wrote; I’m pushing to finish. I know that in an hour or two, I’ll hear one of my kids wake, then sprint, down the hall.⁴ Drowsy. Body shaking. Voice quivering. He’s afraid of the dark. He’s afraid of being separated from the ones he loves. I take his hand and lead him back to his bedroom, laying him in his bed and tucking him in. Will you stay with me, Mama? he asks. He doesn’t want to close his eyes. He wants to see me. He doesn’t entirely trust that my voice is enough.

He wants my presence. But it’s hard for me not to rush it. I’d rather he be confident. I would rather he be independent. I want him to know that the ghosts he thinks might haunt him don’t exist — and those monsters he imagines — aren’t real. Yet, it doesn’t matter how many times I tell him. I am reminded that the only remedy to his fear is love. In my sleep-deprived stupor, I force myself to slow down. And so, I gently stroke his forehead, brushing his hair back from his face. It doesn’t take long until he drifts off, once more, to sleep. When I set aside my impatience, I can see that this is all a process of his becoming. He’s learning that the dark isn’t something to be afraid of and that he is safe even when he can’t see.

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I want to face my life bravely. With moxie. With gumption. With joy. But I used to think that to get here, I had to push through there. I had to fake it till I made it. Mostly, I thought that to prove myself (and avoid disappointment), I needed to do it all alone. I couldn’t. I was too terrified of what I didn’t know. I was afraid to let go of what I did.

The Lord is more patient than I. Ever steady. Never tiring. Like a mother in the dead of night, he tends to me. I don’t have to plead for his presence. He gives it freely.

He makes space for us so that we can learn to make room for ourselves.

1. One day, I’ll tell you how November tried to kill me. But I made it. I’m alive.

2. We decided on a title this week, and I also got sample book covers! 👀 As soon as I received the email, I went downstairs to find my husband and screamed with utter excitement. I can't wait to share this book with you. It’s everything I wanted it to be — and more.

3. This was actually way harder than I care to admit. I felt guilty. So, I asked my husband to come be my witness — to remind me that it was okay to surrender what wasn’t mine.

4. I’ve moved from my bed to the floor outside his bedroom. It’s 2:30 am. Will I regret this? While you’re reading, please remember that I was probably a little bit delusional. I’m probably drinking copious amounts of coffee that won’t sustain me today. Cause it’s decaf.