Like any normal little girl, I spent most of my childhood being afraid of the dark. When the lights went out and the brightness that exuded from a far-away street lamp seeped through the tinted windows just enough to bring shadows to life, my all too familiar bedroom was suddenly the dim picture of every scary thought my overactive imagination could conjure up. The teddy bear on the shelf was no longer my fluffy companion but a wild beast with a glint in its plastic eye, ready to pounce. The shadows of the potted plants in the balcony created the illusion of crooked pillars that looked like bars in a jail cell. The kind that kept mad men out, but in my fright, I saw them only as bars that caged me in with whatever lurked in the corner. The sound of the ticking clock was never more apparent as it was in this hour. And worse still, it always seemed to get louder and louder in a cruel and deafening monotony. Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Each Tick seemed like a bad omen telling me to prepare for the worst. And each Tock was the drum roll prior to a horrifying event. And of course, the most terrifying of all locations: under the bed. It was on the very thing I laid upon that had such awful secrets waiting underneath it. I felt like a sailor on a lifeboat in shark-infested waters. A hand out of place that hung beyond the confines of the mattress was susceptible to whatever creature hid below me. In a panic, I would retract my arm and be overcome with cold shivers. That was close, I’d tell myself. It seems overly dramatic now, but when I was a kid, all of it was far too real to me.
The only thing that scared me more than observing the darkness was to become blind to it. I dared not close my eyes and drop my defenses. My eyes darted from one part of the room to the other, looking for suspicious irregularities. When I had scanned the whole of it, I’d only repeat the search with a self-preserving determination. I only ever managed to fall asleep, in every sense of the phrase—to fall asleep only when I was too tired to keep my eyes open. Sleep was never voluntary.
Then one afternoon, my mom brought home the most peculiar thing— a crucifix with a Jesus whose color was a dreadfully dull cross between citrine yellow and olive green. I imagine my younger self eying it with complete distrust, convinced that it was a factory defect. I picture myself furrowing my eyebrows and pulling my lips into a frown and telling my mother, “They made Him rather pale, don’t you think?” Or, I suppose in my innocence, it probably came out like something along the lines of “Is He sick or something?” It was then that my mother revealed to me the most amazing fact that a curious child like myself had come across since finding out watermelon seeds don’t grow inside of you when you swallow them. She looked at me with a warm, loving smile and declared, “He glows in the dark.” Imagine the excitement I was feeling! This pale Jesus would be the end of my torment.
The factory defect was the same Jesus in my bible stories (although, He was expertly colored in the children’s book) who multiplied the five loaves of bread and two fish. The same Jesus who— when I was holding onto my covers close waiting eagerly for my mom to read to me what happens to the disciples in the storm—told the seas to calm down and the sea listened! Oh, this was far too much for my tiny heart to keep up with. I glanced at the sky wishing the sun would set sooner. I glanced at the clock wishing its hands would turn faster. I glanced back to the pale Jesus and for the first time, I couldn’t wait to for bedtime.
I didn’t get any sleep that night. It was not because I was keeping guard or because the ticking clock bothered me. It was not because I was fearful of my traitorous teddy bear, or the crooked pillars or the monster under my bed. It was because I couldn’t keep my eyes off the no-longer pale, bright and glowing Jesus.
After a while I stopped being afraid of the dark. My bedroom in the day was the same as my bedroom at night. And if you dared me to reach under the bed, I’d smirk and say, “Bring it on.” But somehow I miss my lost innocence. I miss the faith a child can have in a Jesus who glows in the dark even when she doesn’t fully understand Him or what He has done for her. I don’t think I’ve had that much faith in a long time. I no longer need a glowing Jesus to help me sleep at night, although, I wish I still did. But I am sure of one thing and that’s that I won’t stop searching for that faith because I know the Jesus I believe in is waiting for me. Proven by the fact that whenever the lights go out in my life and it takes a turn for the worse, Jesus never fails to glow in the dark.
-jejecola-
P.S eeep! first substancial thing I've written in weeks. Tickle me giddy! :D
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