I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Kathleen Deyer Bolduc’s reflection Light in the Darkness.
One of my favorite scriptures—one that I repeat to myself often—is from the book of John: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” (John 1:5 NIV)
As a woman who has lived with chronic illness these last few years, I’ve become familiar with darkness. It manifests some days as depression, some days as anxiety, and, on my worst days, something bordering on hopelessness.
And yet, over these years, I have also come to know darkness as a necessary stage of growth, where seeds germinate before they begin to stretch and grow toward the sunlight.
Darkness never has the last word as I walk with Spirit, as illustrated by this recent waking vision:
In meditation, an image arises. A rose bush, sitting in a plastic pot in the garden, awaits planting. It’s an old-fashioned climbing rose, petals blush red against a lush green landscape. Fertile and loamy soil surrounds it, obviously worked in preparation for the planting.
A gardener enters the scene, his boots a bright splash of yellow in all of that green, and begins digging a hole in front of the brass bed that, in real life, graces my kitchen garden. A host of memories arise as I contemplate its now-tarnished brass. For so many years, newly polished, it brightened our master bedroom. This bed where my husband and I talked, snuggled, loved and slept, awaking each day renewed and rejuvenated. This bed where I nursed our first-born son, where I went into labor with our second son, where I played with our third-born son. The memories rise up like sap in the rose’s branches, bolstering it for the transplant from pot to garden soil. Suddenly I know that the rose is me, and that I’ve been waiting to be removed from the stricture of this pot for so long!
The gardener removes me gently from the confines of my container and gently places me into the well-prepared soil. He mounds rich, black dirt around my roots. He walks over to the spigot on the side of the house, fills a watering can, and gives me a nice, long soak.
He then steps back and admires His work. “You will grow well here, Daughter,” he says. “This old hackberry tree will keep you company. She will sing you songs with her leaves. The birds will sing you awake in the morning. The robin will sing you arias in the evening and the song sparrow will serenade you all day long. You will not want for company.”
He runs his hand over the smooth contours of the brass headboard. “This bed will serve as a lattice, to hold you up as you reach toward the sun. Your branches will entwine around her posts, to show your blooms to greatest advantage. Do not be dismayed by the discipline of the lattice—it will support you, hold you up when you’re tired, give you rest in both drought and flood.
“No matter the conditions, you will bloom here, Daughter. Today it may feel as if you are barren from your time pot-bound in ill health, but your roots will go deep here. Deep into the loam, deep into my heart so that we are even more fully entwined. I will feed you regularly and give you long draughts of living water that you will effortlessly draw up into every cell, every branch, every bloom.
“You will flourish and spread your branches wide here. Your blooms will be a soft, rosy glow in the garden, even on dreary days, and your fragrance will drift on the wind of my Spirit.
“Rest, Daughter. No need to strive. Rest in the garden I have created for you. This deep rest is both your inheritance and your legacy. It will spread far and wide.”
Coming out of meditation my entire body, mind and spirit glow with light. I am reminded of the words of the poet, Wendell Berry: “It gets darker and darker, and then Jesus is born.” I am not alone. I am accompanied by this beautiful, craggy hackberry tree under which I meditate, and the songbirds who sing in its branches. I am filled to overflowing with the Light of the God I love.
Kathleen Deyer Bolduc is a spiritual director, author, and founder of Cloudland, a contemplative retreat center. Her books, including The Spiritual Art of Raising Children with Disabilities, contain faith lessons learned parenting a son with autism, and finding healing and restoration through the spiritual disciplines.
