I pull out my Micron pen, safely tucked away in a nearby drawer. Cradling the pen’s cylindrical lightness in my palm, my fingers curl around it like a memory. This pen is a long-forgotten relic, representing a former version of myself: a more creative, carefree version . . . before the burnout, before the pandemic, before my most recent battle with depression.
Lost in thought now, my focus shifts back to the pen in hand. I uncap it. I study its fragile tip. But, it’s not paper I’ll use as my canvas. Instead, I touch the tip of the pin to my inner wrist, to the hollow between my hand and watch strap, and let the ink run like rivers down each crease and crevice of my open arm.
The pen swoops with gentle, cursive letters: I am penning a verse, a phrase, a lifeline.
This is a bygone habit I adopted in years past: etching encouraging truths onto my wrist or forearm, in some spot where my eye could easily catch them. These etchings would act as reminders throughout my day, reminders of important truths about God, of His plans and character, and of my identity.
When days turned into nights — and in seasons where the sun gave way to starless, ivy-cloaked evenings — this is when I turned to my water-soluble pens. I wrote these verses when I needed them most, with, “You are with me,” penned across my forearm.
In our faith journeys, there are seasons when prayers come easily, and there are seasons when prayers feel futile. There are times when God feels as close as ink on bare skin, and other times when He seems distant, far-off, perplexing. One moment we are on the mountaintop, and the next, we are plunged into the valley, the desert, the wilderness. “Dark nights of the soul,” are what St. John of the Cross called these disorienting and disillusioning periods where God trains us, strips us, and sanctifies us through fire and quiet desperation.
I am in a “dark night of the soul” now, once again. And, as I sit in the valley, my truth-stained hands reach for the ground. They dig deep, clawing the dirt and the perceived wreckage around me — wrought with unmet expectations and failure. My fingers sift the sand, searching for hidden bits of God’s goodness. Sometimes, it feels like my hands come up empty — but I know this is a lie. There are diamonds to be found somewhere hidden in this dirt, small gems forged by pressure, heat, and darkness.
So, I keep digging. We keep digging. We keep writing, we keep penning verses onto open arms, we keep reminding ourselves of the truth of God’s goodness. We discipline our minds to search for God’s goodness to us through Jesus and the cross. This is the truth: God’s love pours into our deepest, darkest places, tracing the curves of each sorrow and smoothing the rough edges of our souls. This is what we rehearse in the dark valleys. This is what’s true.
Next time we find ourselves in the dark valley, we will rehearse a new story — one where God’s love runs like ink down the worn creases of our hands, like soothing water in the deserts of our souls. He is here with us. He is here. He is here. It’s His living water that makes us beautiful; His living water turns our barren valleys into canyons, lush and fertile, and dripping with milk and honey.
With every feeble pen stroke, we declare a stronger truth for today, tomorrow, and forever.
