Though I Walk Through the Darkest Valley
Image from Pixabay
I’m not doing well. I feel as if I’m walking through a very, very dark—pitch dark—valley. The pandemic was already enough to make me feel despair. But then, on top of that, California went through a series of heatwaves. This was hard for me as, I shared in the previous blog post, the outdoors serve as the primary antidote to my despair and exhaustion from motherhood. Then, two weeks ago, several wildfires began all over the west coast, further distancing me from the outdoors.
Our sky and air, which I breathe in each morning when I wake up, every afternoon as my kids and I revel in it, and every evening as I stretch under the stars, has turned into a dark grey from the smoke and ashes. My eyes constantly sting; my throat constantly feels a burning sensation. Air quality monitoring websites advise us to “not be exposed to the outside air for a lengthened period of time.”
During times like these—not like they happen all that often as this particular phase in world history seems to be a melting pot of all varieties of sh*t—I don’t buckle down and regain equanimity through my spirituality. I do the opposite. My head starts spinning with assorted horror narratives about the wellbeing of our planet and my loved ones. I’m in a continual state of distress.
Several times a day, my husband asks me if I’m alright because of my crestfallen countenance and lack of vitality. I mumble, “I’m distracted, I’m just distracted.”
Normally, I would take a walk outside to relieve my stress. During the heatwaves, I could at least go out after sunset.
As I’ve been asking, pleading with God for help, one of my favorite Bible passages has been coming to mind. Many of you may know this one by heart as it’s the well-known passage of Psalm 23.
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside still waters;
he restores my soul.
He leads me in right paths
for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
I fear no evil;
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff—
they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
my whole life long.
During my preaching days, I often told congregants that if I could encapsulate the entirety of my theology into one single word, it would be the word, “with.” God is not the one who watches us from a distance and from on high.
God is the one who is deep in the mire of our suffering, walking alongside us, sometimes even carrying us when we are too weak to walk. This also means, unfortunately, that God doesn’t take our suffering away. This Psalm reveals that. The author doesn’t write that there will never be dark valleys in our lives, but rather, we’ll never go through them alone.
Besides an “I don’t know” as to why the metaphysical system was set up this way (e.g. why bad things happen in our world), I can only surmise that humans experience the world through contrasts. We can’t experience joy without sorrow; pleasure without pain. And true love is only born by traveling through the highest mountains and darkest valleys together.
I have thought about escaping all this. I have thought about packing up the car and driving off to Utah until all of this, quite literally, blows away.
Then, I think about my parents, who can’t leave their home or their jobs, my brother’s family who are in the same situation, as well as many of our close friends. I have the privilege, especially at this point in my life where I’m not tied to a job in a specific location, to run away from all this.
But if the essence of my theology is “with,” then the way I practice my faith (and my love) is to be “with” my loved ones and to suffer alongside them, trusting that God is doing the same with me.
And I do believe in miracles and answered prayers.
I’ve been praying for rain, which would be a true meteorologic miracle as southern California’s rainy season begins around late October.
A couple days ago, the air began to clear up. It wasn’t because of rain. That’s the thing about answered prayers—they usually occur in unexpected ways.
It was the wind.
The wind shifted direction and blew the smoke towards the mountains and away from the homes. I grabbed the kids and we ran through a meadow.
The wind will change its direction once again but for these several days, I am so grateful. That’s one of the gifts of suffering: it snaps into focus that which really matters in our lives and helps us not take the most basic fixtures of our lives—like the air we breathe—for granted.
The other gift of this crazy wildfire season is that the earth may be trying to get our attention. For centuries, we’ve been plundering it of its resources and causing it more and more pain. Climate scientists are unanimous in their belief that the more erratic temperatures and frequent natural disasters are due to global warming.
If this is the case, that our beautiful Mother Earth is trying to get our attention, then this suffering is worthwhile if we would but listen and act accordingly. Or perhaps our Mother Earth will have her way with or without our cooperation.
Many mystics today posit that these world calamities are Mother Earth’s way of self-correcting the damage we’ve done so that future generations get a chance to enjoy the only home humans have ever known: a home filled with mountains, rivers, fresh water, beaches, all kinds of animals, and fields of lilies.
Ultimately, I hope she doesn’t do this in spite of us but in partnership with us. We’re here, Mother Earth, leaning in, listening close. Share with us what we need to hear for the survival and flourishing of creation.