There’s something that’s been quietly irritating me lately, and in this day and age, where everyone seems to have an answer for everything. I suppose it’s my turn to ask a question. What ever happened to being comfortable in the dark?
When I first moved to Winterpast, just six short years ago, the darkness here was something to behold. On certain nights, it was so deep I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face. The kind of dark that makes you pause and sharpen your senses. I remember lying in bed, hearing soft movement outside my window, knowing the white mustang had come to settle in for the night. Not fear… just awareness. Out here, you learn the difference.
And I loved it.
In fact, the darker it was, the better. Because only in true darkness can you really see the night sky. Not just a few scattered stars, but the whole magnificent stretch of it that makes you feel small in the very best way. Back then, I would sit in the hot tub on those quiet desert nights and look up without distraction. No glare or light pollution. Just stars upon stars, quietly shining over this little patch of earth we call home.
And then, it all changed. Just across the backyard fence line, a light appeared. Not just a light, but the light. The kind that doesn’t gently glow, but one blindingly bold and bright. And just like that, the night sky wasn’t quite the same anymore. It’s a small thing, I suppose. Just a miniature backyard street light with four LED bulbs. But out here, small things matter.
Lately, with the disappearance of Nancy Guthrie, I’ve heard more than a few comments about how dark it is around her neighborhood with no streetlights, glowing porches, or constant hum of artificial light. And to that I say… yes. Exactly the point. The residents made it that way on purpose.
The people who choose to live in places like this are not afraid of the dark but welcome it. We trust our eyes adjust and our senses to settle, while using our own special sort of night vision. We get to see a sky that much of the world has lost. The wild, wild west remains one of the last places where the night still belongs to the stars, not the streetlights. That’s not something to fix but a gift to protect.
But, even here, little by little, the brightness is creeping in, not from necessity, but from a discomfort with darkness that I’ll never understand. The neighbor across the street is giddy with pride over hundreds of night lights illuminating his front yard. I doubt he’s ever looked up to see God’s light show.
So, I need to say this as kindly as I can. To those who are new here… welcome. Truly. We’re glad you’ve come. There is room for you in this wide-open place. But the darkness is part of what makes it home.
You are safe here. There are no shadows waiting to harm you. No need to flood the night with light just to feel at ease. Let your eyes adjust. Give it time. Step outside for a moment and look up. You might just discover what the rest of us have known all along.
Darkness isn’t something to fear, but a gift to treasure.
Try it tonight. Be bold. Be brave. Turn off the porch light.
We’d all appreciate it.
