A Slice of Light

“LEAVE. ME. ALONE!” I was a whirlwind of rage and cursing, storming through our home in the Twin Cities.

It was late on a summer night, and the heat and humidity of the day were finally melting away. Earlier in the evening Brian had said something innocuous that set me off. We tried talking about it, but it had the opposite effect. I could feel the anger boiling into something I knew I wouldn’t be able to contain. Could feel it turning into a seething darkness that just wanted to lash out and hurt and wound and devour and destroy.

I tried (in a very rude way) to excuse myself, but he kept pushing me to talk. He wasn’t being mean, but he wasn’t letting go either.

And then, I exploded.

Now, it takes a lot to move my husband to outright anger. But hurling a half-empty beer bottle at his head after screaming at him for who-knows-how-long is a sure-fire way to do it.

And so it began, our worst fight ever. [[details have been redacted]]

*

A couple of days before our personal version of WW III, we found out our latest round of infertility treatment had failed. Again. After months that turned into years of failures, the suffocating grip of hopelessness was starting to squeeze my soul.

I was also going to counseling to process through events from my past. This particular week we’d hit a nerve; we were talking about some sexual assaults and abuse from my childhood—at the hands of older children—and I felt like I wasn’t ready to face some of it.

It all left me feeling raw, exposed. I was praying about all of it, but honestly, I was starting to feel abandoned and betrayed by a God I thought was supposed to be good.

*

At some point in the night, Brian and I yelled ourselves out. We’d reached the Icy Silence part of the fight. My rage was still there, just as hot ever, but it was starting to turn inward. Without thinking about it, I sought out the darkest place in the house: our laundry room in the basement. I slammed the door and sat against the dryer in the dark.

In the quiet blackness of that room, I could clearly hear the voices screaming in my head—it sounded like an audible chorus.

“You’re a horrible person.”

“If people knew the real you, they’d leave you. Just like God did.”

 “You don’t deserve to be married.”

“Brian is going to leave you.”

“Of course you don’t have kids; you’d be an awful mom.”

“You’re ugly. You’re fat. Of course he’s going to leave.”

“You deserve everything that happened to you.”

“You’ve brought this all on yourself. God won’t save you.”

 “You’re an utter failure. You can’t even get pregnant.”

“You’ve never experienced real pain or trauma; you’re just whiny and weak.”

“Life is just going to get worse.”

“You don’t deserve to be alive.”

Lie upon lie upon lie assaulted my mind and heart. Lies I realized I believed.

I sat there sobbing in the dark for a long, long time. I tried to pray, tried to cling to Truth. But for every truth I uttered, two more lies screamed in my ears.

Then a sliver of light appeared under the door. Brian knocked softly, letting me know that he was going to bed and that there was a glass of water outside the door if I wanted it. Then he said goodnight and left.

I stared at that light. It was such a tiny slice, and yet it changed the dimensions of the dark, made it recede. And I knew I had a choice. I could stay hunched over in the dark, giving into the lies and letting them rule my life. Or I could stand up and walk out into the light.

I wish I could say I walked out immediately. But staying seemed “safe;” I felt hidden, and my anger could cover my pain. Leaving meant facing my demons, owning up to my mistakes and actions, and learning to trust and hope again. It meant being truly seen. I gave one last prayer for strength and courage, and I slowly pushed myself up off the floor and opened the door.

Sure enough, there was the cup of cold water, waiting.

*

Last summer, after another one of those muggy Minnesota days, I rocked one of our sons back to sleep for the fourth or fifth time that night. It was still hot in the house, and I felt awake.

I went to the bay window in our living room and gazed out. We live in the country now, far from the hustle and bustle of any big city. The fireflies were blinking all over the yard like my own paparazzi. The full moon cast a silver glow on the beaver pond and trees around it. Storm clouds were gathering in the distance; I could see bolts of lightning flashing, outlining the contours of the swirling clouds.

It was breathtaking. There was so much beauty. Beauty that couldn’t be seen during the day.

*

After leaving the laundry room, I picked up the cup of water and walked up the stairs. Brian was waiting for me in the living room. I sat next to him and started crying (again); we both apologized for our hurtful words and actions. Then I told him about the lies and the darkness inside me. How those felt more true than the Truth. He held me tight and told me how much he loved me. He prayed over me. He stroked my hair and spoke truth against every lie.

The lies didn’t instantly disappear nor was I instantly healed of all the hurt. But it was a start.

*

Sometimes, we need another person to remind us of what we can no longer see. Because when we huddle in the prison of our fear, we miss the beauty of the night. When we focus on the lies, we lose sight of the Hope that is always shining.

Where I once felt abandoned and betrayed, I now see the stunning faithfulness of a God who, in the lowest points of my life, brings His Light to the deepest levels of my soul. Who accepts us at our worst and holds us until we are strong enough to stand.

Who offers the cup of cold water and open arms and Truth to our weary, bruised hearts. Who doesn’t blind us with His fullness, but gives us a slice of Light in the dark.