Finding Light in the Darkness

When I sat down to write today's offering, it felt more like I was writing a sermon. And while I've been away from that frame of mind for a while, this approach seems befitting. Sometimes finding the light in darkness takes more than just hitting a switch... Look, we've all been there—stuck in that pitch-black room, fumbling for the light switch that feels just out of reach. The wall should be right here, right? But your fingers find nothing but air, and that momentary panic sets in. That's life sometimes—disorienting darkness where the familiar suddenly becomes foreign. And just when you think you'll be trapped forever in the shadows, your eyes adjust enough to make out the faintest outlines, or maybe someone else walks in with a flashlight you didn't even know you needed.

I'm no spiritual guru claiming to have all the answers. Far from it. But I've spent enough time in the dark to know something about finding those hidden sources of light. And lately, I've been witnessing a masterclass in illumination from the woman who shares my life. There's something raw and real about watching someone you love deal with heartache. As March rolls in—when the world starts shaking off winter's chill and reaching for something new—I'm watching my wife shoulder a weight I know too well.

Years ago, while grinding through my memoir "Turtles Win Rabbit Races," my boy J.D. put me on to the Hero's Journey. Not gonna lie, it blew my mind and completely transformed not just my writing, but how I see the struggles we all face. Right now, I'm living that "meeting with the goddess" stage—where the hero connects with a powerful force that drops essential wisdom for the road ahead. Kind of like Neo meeting Trinity in The Matrix—that moment when you link with something bigger than yourself that helps you level up.

As my wife holds down the fort in her mom's hospital room, where pneumonia has her fighting hard, I see parallels to both this goddess encounter and the biblical Plague of Darkness. In Exodus 10:21-23, darkness locked down Egypt for three straight days—so thick that "people could not see each other or rise from their places." But hear me, (in my preacher's voice): "All the sons of Israel had light in their dwellings."

Watching my wife navigate this darkness is witnessing someone walk through life with their own internal flashlight. Having lost both my parents already, I know that particular heaviness, that disorienting fog that settles when someone you love is not the person you've always known them to be. It's paralyzing, just like that biblical darkness where even basic movement became impossible.

But my wife? She's got that light they talked about. The "goddess" energy isn't some mystical fairy tale character—it's in her consistent grind to the hospital and nursing home, in the way her fingers stroke her mom's hair when it's messy, in how she patiently repeats family stories hoping for that flicker of recognition. She's bringing light into those sterile hallways, even when she's too exhausted to see her own glow.

The plague of darkness came right before the Israelites gained their freedom—their breakthrough happened after their darkest moment. Similarly, as we enter this season of blooming in March, I'm reminded that the most powerful growth usually comes from the most difficult soil. Meeting the goddess isn't always some dramatic movie scene—sometimes it's discovering your own divine strength when life has you backed against the wall.

For anyone out there holding someone else's hand through their dark season, whether it's a parent, partner, or friend—recognize that your presence is that dwelling of light in someone else's darkness. Those small moves—fixing a pillow, applying a sponge to dry lips, uncomfortably changing an adult diaper, or just sitting in silence when words don't cut it—that's sacred work you're doing.

As you walk these tough roads, remember that even the plague of darkness only lasted three days. Your journey might be longer, but it has its season too. That goddess energy you embody—nurturing, protective, wise beyond explanation—isn't weakened by your exhaustion or tears. If anything, they make it shine brighter.

In those moments when hospital corridors seem endless and medical updates start sounding like Charlie Brown's teacher, remember you're carrying both the Israelites' light and the goddess's wisdom inside you. Your strength isn't separate from your vulnerability—they're different sides of the same love.

Spring is coming, just like it always does. This darkness, no matter how complete it feels right now, is temporary. And when it finally lifts, you'll emerge different—connected on a deeper level to that wisdom that holds it down when logic and plans fall apart.

They say March comes in like a lion and bounces out like a lamb. Right now, she's straight up facing that lion—all teeth and roar, with those thoughts of "what happens next" and that frustration of feelings that leave you drained. But that same month that starts with chaos ends in harmony. That's the vibe shift coming your way.

In Adar (March on the Hebrew calendar), Jewish tradition talks about how joy multiplies—not because hardships disappear, but because we learn to carry both the dark and light simultaneously. Like those first flowers pushing through concrete cracks in the hood, or cherry blossoms popping off before winter's even packed its bags, strength isn't about dodging the darkness—it's about blooming anyway, right in the middle of it all. And just like those March flowers that survive crazy Chicago cold snaps and end up blanketing the city by April, what you or my wife are nurturing now—even in fluorescent-lit hospital corridors—will grow into something beautiful that outlasts this cold. That's real talk.

Bloom where you are planted.