As a little girl I never liked to go to bed with the room dark. The door needed to be cracked just a little so I knew life was still going forth in the other room, I was not alone, and light still had access in the creeks of the night.
I wonder when I shut that door? I wonder when the darkness started to become more familiar than the light? I wonder even more so when the darkness became confused with the light? When the hiddeness of shame and the blanket of fear began to provide false shelter?
Layer upon layer of coverings:
--"do-gooder" works scrutinized by shames tyranny, "You will never be enough."
--"helper" and "care takers" promises of connection and relationship nagging and critiquing, "You must come through or you will be alone."
--"go-getter" exhausting her resources and pouring out in spite of drought, "You don't matter unless you're needed and coming through."
The coverings hide and dismiss my weariness. They pretend to cloak, cover, and protect when really they weigh down, make me sweat, and offer no relief, no flicker of h o p e, as I lay in the dark. But they promise something I desperately want identity and independence.
I don't have to risk anything behind their cloak, I'm covered over, never really vulnerable to another.
The power of shame.
I hate it but it's become my familiar, though false, comfort.
L o v e will not let the door stay shut.
L o v e will knock, rattle, disrupt, dispute, shake, and pry open the door to bring back the light.
For light dissipates darkness. Even when only a flicker.
Light is ruthless, because it is light. It exists to allow us to see. Truly see.
Fear is powerful, but light overcomes.
Jesus, open wide the door and blanket our fear with your life and being.