“I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away—”
It’s not Tuesday, but my heart needs T.S. Eliot this morning. I need to be reminded that I’m not the first to question the darkness of God. To watch in alarm as the stage of my life dims, fearful of the dark, of the unknown. To lose hope in the changing of scenes. To mistake the dimming lights and the quiet rustle in the dark for the end. Not the beginning.
I say to soul, be still. And it says to me, “Yeah, right.” I crouch, poised for action. If only I knew which step to take. What the next scene holds. But right now all I can sense is the movement of darkness on darkness. The creation of a scene not yet revealed to me.
And I say to my soul, be still. And wait for God to make a scene.