The most terrifying part of dinner cleanup was taking out the trash. Taking out the trash meant going outside at night, and going outside at night meant being in the dark, and being in the dark is scary.
We kept our garbage cans in a wooden trash bin that sat out at the edge of the treeline. To get there, I would go down the kitchen steps, across the driveway, and down a narrow path that led just beyond the reach of the porch light. The bin was at the end of the path: a gray shape, half-swallowed by the dense, black woods behind it.
I remember one night when I really spazzed.
As I walked out into the dark, I could feel the fear slowly creeping up the back of my spine. Quickly tossing the trash into the bin, I turned around to go back inside when, all of a sudden, I could feel the dark forest rise up with its unknown horde of evil things mustering behind me. That’s when terror took over. “Run!” my brain irrationally screamed, “Something’s coming!” So, of course, I ran—sprinting—back to the kitchen that night (and most other nights, as well).
But there are other scary things.
During a camping trip, I went swimming in the sea for the first time. We had seen a cave at the base of some cliffs down the coast that we wanted to explore. So we struck out from the shore, skimming over the sandy-colored limestone floor that lay just a few feet beneath us. After a couple minutes, I glanced down, and began to panic. The bottom was gone. All I could see beneath my pale feet was the dark blue water quickly fading into a deep black. Again, the fear came rippling up the spine—“What if something’s down there!”—and my first instinct was to thrash wildly for the shore.
A few years ago, I was volunteering at a hospice when a frantic looking man walked through the front door. He and his daughter were there to check-in his wife. She was swiftly dying, and he was terrified. You could see it in his black, sleep-deprived eyes. Every evening of the week, late into the night, he could be found rapidly pacing through the narrow hallways. He wanted to run, to get out of that dark place, but where to?
It was dark the night of the Last Supper. After the meal ended, Jesus led the apostles down from the upper room, through the streets, and out of Jerusalem, following a narrow path that led up to a grey mass of trees. Just beyond the reach of the city lights, Our Lord knelt in the dark and prayed. A dense thicket of branches loomed above his bent head—dry leaves rattling in the wind. Soon he would die, and the fear washed over his body. Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me. Glancing around, he saw a dull, orange light moving along the path. It cast weird shadows over the faces of the men who were hurrying towards him.
Standing up, Jesus looked into the shadows and saw every terrifying thing: he saw every black night, every wicked abyss, every dying face. He was present to every experience of fear and suffering—from the sin of Adam to the end of time. He saw it clearly, and turning, stepped forward into the darkness, shouldering the weight of it all.
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Photo by Simon Matzinger on Unsplash
