There is in God but some would say, a deep but dazzling darkness

I’m back.

Kinda. Sorta. But I’m back. 

I am now in my fourteenth day of total blindness in one eye and a compromising effect of a kidney stone. I have learned that depth perception is not possible with one eye; that calibrating simple things like pouring juice in a glass has to be relearned; that finding computer keys takes more time; that my reading is slower, often confused; that my  balance is off and I fantasize a lot of what I see and it’s usually in psychedelic color. The surgeon tells me this will be over in weeks to come; I need to be patient. The good news is that I will see again. You may know I have two classifications of interest: one, I love reading and writing and researching; two, I love drawing and painting. I can somewhat manage the former, but I find the latter very difficult at this point of recovery. I have never been a model of patience, so I selected a few people to help me as I observe their lives with compromised vision. 

I mentioned my father in past posts who lived with only one eye since childhood when he lost an eye due to—you guessed it—the proverbial BB gun. But he could do anything. He was an excellent hockey player until pro teams would not take a guy with one eye. With hopes dashed, Dad turned to his passion of music and organized a dance band in the 30’s. He enjoyed amazing success with his saxophone and clarinet until World War II drained the band of guys who did not return. Yet I remember my father’s buoyancy, his love of life which no handicap could deter. He taught all seven of his children to never let the world know your personal troubles. He was the happiest man I ever knew. 

Then there’s Frank Bruni—again someone I had mentioned in a previous post. A journalist and professor of journalism at University of North Carolina, Bruni is a longtime writer for The New York Times who recently lost the sight in one eye through a stroke which can occur again taking the sight of the good eye. Rather than live under a heap of woe, Bruni wrote a book, The Beauty of Dusk: On Vision Lost and Found, in which he gathers the wisdom of longtime friends who navigated their own traumas and afflictions. Their stories help others.

Sister Dorothy Ann Blatnica, SC, is a member of my congregation. Quietly and courageously, she retired from her beloved college teaching assignment because she lost the vision in one eye. I never heard a word of complaint or anger about the condition she was managing; she was ever the cerebral professor whose hope was to enter a life of prayer and reconcile herself to do what she could do on a daily basis. 

Reflection

I was thinking on these models, people I might relate to in my present situation. Suddenly I remembered Henry Vaughan’s poem, The Night, and its last stanza with allusions to darkness as its own entre into insight. The poem thematically uses Nicodemus who came to Christ to learn more from him, but he came at night so his fellow Pharisees would not see him consorting with this Jesus, to whom he was irresistibly attracted because of his teaching. In this darkness, Nicodemus finds God. Vaughan was a seventeenth century mystic poet, who along with several others, shows us how to pursue, deeply, the existence of God who can dazzle us with both darkness and light. 

“There is in God (some say)

A deep but dazzling darkness; As men here say

It is late and dusky because they see not all that clear.

Oh, for that night! Where I in him

Might live invisible and dim.”

Lately, I have seen this “dazzling darkness” in two of my sisters fighting the last ravages of cancer; one is refusing further treatment. Does this not create a ‘dazzling darkness’? Are they not living with Christ the ‘dazzling darkness’ where his truths will gradually bring them into the fullness of the comforting light? Then there is the sudden death of a beloved retreat team member. No answers, only dark wonder. Is this not a ‘dazzling darkness?’ When only the darkness appears, with no answers, it covers the Face of the One who loves us; it is the “dazzling darkness.” He is there but we must reach for him.

But when we catch joy, the gift of knowing God is with us we seem to perceive a special light in the darkness we are going through. When four men, who are friends of mine, stood on our inside porch their hiking boots dripping with melting snow, I was flummoxed. One held a box and said this was a care package to help me get well. They had been hiking in the frigid hills and valleys of the Metropark System next to where I live. The box was a get well gift. I looked at these men and thought of innocent fourth grade boys I once taught. They provided a light I desperately needed, a light that edged the darkness, the dazzling darkness of the unknown.

When you go through darkness, you cannot despair. You have to seek the light within. The effort is part of the discovery. God dwells everywhere. Don’t overlook him in the shadows. He doesn’t just bring joy and light; he meets you where you are and sometimes that is in the darkness. Like Nicodemus.