“There is goodness in the darkness, too.”
Queen Mother Sarah Bessey
I left a chapter from my last book on the cutting floor. It lay there, pulsating with life, the anguish still tingling my skin. It is the whole truth, but I’m not ready, I thought as I pulled the pages.
Some stories are tender to the touch.
Painful experiences create caverns within us - spaces only mercy can handle - these are the seasons where we sit stunned in the sun on a dried-up riverbank, begging God to bring a balm.
Grief and hope are inextricably intertwined.
I remember the morning I could not get out of my bed. No amount of willpower could help me put my feet on those wood floors. I lay heavy on my left side, knees curled up to my elbows, salty tears on my pillow. I cannot go another day, not another hour, not another minute, not another second. I am done now.
This might sound strange, but there’s no other way to explain: The Lord himself filled the room. I felt his hands cup my face, and I heard him say, “A rescue is coming.” A sliver of light in the long and dark night, a kindness in the cruelty of winter. Once again, I’ve lived to tell the tale I’m still not ready to tell widely. All I know is hope has found me again and again.
I’m still here.
Seasons like Advent are precious to me now. Although this time of year used to be filled with worry and hurry, the lead-up to Christmas now feels like a communal calendar request to stop saving face. An invitation to break, to grieve, to let the truth hang loose. We are not fine. Everything is not fine. I am not fine. But we will be. I will be.
You will be. I don’t know how; it’s a mystery. Somehow, the grace of God holds.
Winter Solstice was yesterday, and the sun traveled the shortest path of the year to give us the longest night in winter. But as the sun rises this morning, a promise awaits. The worst of winter behind us, and longer light in the days to keep us. A reset and reminder that darkness cannot overpower the sun.
I’ve learned to make room for winter, for spindly trees inside my soul. I’m learning to accept and welcome grief in her many forms, to sit still and listen to the night because I know now that the light will come.
I hope you find courage to slow down and be with yourself as the year ends. I hope you recognize the beauty you bring to us, graciously, bravely every day. I hope you know how loved you are. If you find yourself in the dark, look for the light. She’s coming friend, to hold you, encourage you, and keep you.
For all your stories that are tender to the touch, I want you to know that you are not alone.
Love,
Ashley
P.S. I’ll be taking the rest of the year off from writing After Hours to be with my family and rest. I’m excited to greet you again in January with my mentors (for paid subscribers - bring tissues to Lisa Sharon Harper and Macy Grant’s week) and with more essays to give you hope in a hard place.
P.P.S I’m so grateful for the support you’ve shown in the short time since After Hours was born. Thank you - love you so much!