and the darkness cannot stand it.

It’s dark down here. 

So dark I can’t tell where I am, only that I’m alone. But there are whispers in here, countless and growing louder. Their voices reverberate off the walls of the darkness, a muffled multiplying until the noise drowns out everything else, and I cannot hear myself think. 

It’s dark down here. And much too loud. 

I slowly spin in a circle trying to find my way out, but it’s impossible to tell which way is down and which way is up, which way is left and which way is right. The voices get louder, each one calling out for me to go this way—no, not that way. I spin faster and faster with my hands over my ears and my heart thumping in my chest. 

It’s so dark down here. And I don’t know where to go. 

I sink to the floor, ready to give up. Discouragement hangs heavy around my neck, keeping my head bent down and low. 

“I need help,” I plea, barely able to hear my own voice above the din. “I don’t know where to go or what to do. I’m lost. I’m stuck. And it’s just so dark down here.”  The words leave my lips in a rush, a steady stream made of long-held beliefs and the thoughts trapped inside my head. 

I need a way out, and I can’t find it. I need a way up, and I can’t climb it. 

My head is still bent, hanging heavy and low, when a soft glow cuts through the gloom; my eyes widen at the sight. Light is such a marvelous thing to witness when you’ve grown accustomed to the dark. It makes you realize you were never meant to get used to such conditions—you were always made for more.

The soft glow gradually grows brighter as it gets closer, and as it drifts in my direction, purposeful and calm, the whispers start to quiet. Or maybe it’s just that they don’t seem so loud anymore now that I can see better. Shadows tend to make everything scarier than it needs to be. 

I move to stand, my hand outstretched in front of me because somehow I know that if I touch the light, everything will be okay. If I touch the light, I’ll know what to do. 

It’s so close now, I can graze it with my fingertips. Just the barest hint of a touch. And in that moment—

Light expands. Silence fills. 

And the darkness cannot stand it. 

In that moment, everything else evaporates until it is me and the light and the way out, which was right in front of me all along. 

Come, follow me, the light says softly. An invitation, not a command. A warm embrace of words. A hand extends out of the light, and when I take hold of it, I finally see His face. 

I know the way out, He says. I’ve been down here before. His eyes are pure understanding, His smile the most reassuring I have ever seen.

I still have questions—thousands of them—but the warmth in my chest makes them seem small. The discouragement that was hanging around my neck like a hopeless weight no longer presses upon me making my head hang down. The moment I reached out, the weight transferred to Him. 

He took it willingly just as He took my hand. 

Come, He says again. You don’t have to stay down here any longer. I have something to show you, but we’re going to have to climb. To rise. To ascend to a higher place—a holier place. But I will be with you. And I promise it’s worth the climb. 

His hand grips mine, a squeeze of familiarity after so much confusion. My fingers press into the nail prints on His palm. “Let’s climb,” I say, trying to sound braver than I feel. Because isn’t that what faith is? Climbing when you don’t know how, but trusting in the One who does? 

The only sound is our echoing footsteps as we leave that dark place. I don’t look back. Why would I want to? I keep my eyes locked on the King. 

And we climb.