When We Can't See

One of Those Perfect Days

Some days just feel like magic from beginning to end.

This was one of those days.

Doug and I had met two beautiful souls that morning who shared their perspective that we're all stardust—that everything is connected, and that sometimes the cracks in our lives are what allow our light to shine through.

Later, we had breakfast at a little restaurant where we met Joe, the owner. We loved everything about him. His joy. His heart. The way he involved his three young children in the restaurant, teaching them what it means to work hard and serve people well. The food was incredible, but honestly, it was the people who made the experience unforgettable.

We spent the rest of the day exploring the Oregon Coast.

That evening, we stood beneath the Umpqua Lighthouse as its beam swept through the coastal fog. It was breathtaking. We lingered there, wishing we could somehow spend the night.

It had been one of those days that fills your heart.

Until...

Life reminded us we were human.

A Bathroom. A Flashlight. And a Fall.

It was late.

We weren't sure where we'd be sleeping.

And all of a sudden, we both realized we desperately needed a bathroom.

Google said there was one just a couple of minutes away at the Lake Marie Trailhead.

Perfect.

We pulled in.

It was pitch black.

I turned on the flashlight on my phone, and without thinking, I hurried ahead.

Doug was using my light.

I forgot.

Behind me, I heard him fall.

Hard.

He had caught a root I never saw because I had rushed ahead into the darkness.

He was hurt.

Physically.

Emotionally.

And he was mad.

I don't blame him.

He had trusted my light.

Instead, I had left him behind.

He turned around and headed back toward Karl, determined he'd rather figure something else out than keep stumbling through the dark.

And there I stood.

Feeling the weight of what had just happened.

Still desperately needing that bathroom.

Alone in the Dark

I kept looking.

That's when I saw the bear warning sign.

Perfect.

Now I was alone.

Still searching for a bathroom that seemed to exist only on Google's map.

Walking one trail.

Then another.

Listening.

Every sound suddenly mattered.

A branch cracked.

Bear.

Leaves rustled.

Bear.

Something moved in the darkness.

Definitely bear.

My imagination was doing an excellent job of filling in everything I couldn't see.

The bathroom, however...

Never appeared.

Eventually I gave up, walked back to Karl, and solved the problem the practical way.

The whole thing became one of those stories you laugh about later.

Eventually.

The Next Morning

The next morning, we came back.

I stood there looking at the exact same place.

And I honestly couldn't believe it.

The trail was beautiful.

Sunlight streamed through the trees.

The path was obvious.

Peaceful.

Inviting.

I found myself wondering...

How could this possibly be the same place?

The bear warning sign was still there.

The roots were still there.

The trail hadn't changed.

I had.

Or maybe...

The light had.

What Darkness Does

I've thought about that moment ever since.

Not because I was afraid of the bear.

Not because Doug fell.

Not even because I never found the bathroom.

But because of how differently everything looked just a few hours later.

Darkness has a way of shrinking our world.

It narrows our vision.

It fills the spaces we can't see with stories, assumptions, and fear.

When all I had was a small circle of light from my phone, everything outside that circle felt uncertain.

Maybe even dangerous.

Morning didn't remove every obstacle.

It simply let me see what had been there all along.

The Invitation

I wonder how often life feels like that.

How often we make permanent conclusions in temporary darkness.

How often we assume the path is dangerous when we simply can't see it clearly yet.

I'm not suggesting we ignore the darkness.

Or pretend it isn't hard.

Sometimes it is.

Sometimes we stumble.

Sometimes we hurt the people we love without ever intending to.

Sometimes we spend way too much time looking for a bathroom that Google swore existed.

Life is wonderfully human that way.

But I've also learned this.

Before I decide what is true...

I want to wait for the light.

Reflection

Where in my life might I be trying to make permanent conclusions while I'm still in the dark?

What stories might fear be writing for me that the light will eventually rewrite?

Where could I give myself—or someone I love—a little more grace until morning comes?