For those of you who have been to my dad’s house—and I know none of you have—you would know that it feels quite rustic. Wooden log-like exterior, a stone path leading up to stairs that lead up to the porch where the front door stands. The house itself is not particularly big, but the key attraction of the house comes from the surrounding property. The house sits on the top of a steep, grassy slope that leads down to a pond. The pond is home to the occasional fish, entire generations of frogs, and a whole lot of insects, and its surface is abundantly decorated with lily pads. Green, green, green, green. Everywhere you look, there is green. I appreciate being able to take short walks around the property, immediately greeted by the outdoors without having to travel too far. It is quite nice to live so close to nature.
There’s only one thing about my dad’s house that puts me a little on edge: the windows. There are so many windows. And they’re all so big. Yes, I like being able to look outside in the daytime. Seeing the pretty skies, the trees, and the birds… but at night, all I see is black. Black rectangles of nothingness surround me. My dad says that our house is so far from the main road that there is a very low chance anyone would be near the house, much less peering through the windows. Saturday night, my dad attended an event, and I stayed at home. I sat in the living room alone after drawing nearly all the curtains and watched Kiki’s Delivery Service in the comfort of the closure. I haven’t seen all those curtains drawn in so long—if ever.
It is a little ironic that I, a lover of outer space, am scared of absolute darkness. The deep unknown that intrigues me about the universe is terrifying on Earth. There are endless possibilities in astronomy, and that brings me comfort, but the endless possibilities in the dark make me anxious. There is so much I can’t be sure of. The dark is not the only source of uncertainty, though. In fact, it feels like there is barely anything I can really be sure of. My dreams, my relationships, my feelings, my future, and all those of my loved ones. Every aspect of my life that is too tangible to ignore is susceptible to some kind of harm.
Yet, the only thing I can find certainty in is something I cannot even comprehend for myself: a greater purpose, of intentional existence, of abundant love. A definite stronghold that shelters me, picks me up, and gently places me back on my feet. One that unconditionally sees me for who I am and loves me all the same. I still struggle to believe that such a love exists in a world of broken promises, waning spirits, and so, so much darkness, but every fiber of my being knows that it must exist—that He must exist.
Anxiety seems so small to the expanse of the universe and its Creator. After all, darkness runs in fear when it encounters the light.