Carrying Our Own Crosses to Calvary

Yesterday was a dark day for me.  Probably one of the darkest of my life.

I’m not going to go into the reasons.  Some of them are very real.  Some of them are not.  Some of them are great and some of them are trivial.  And quite frankly, when you find yourself staring into the abyss, the how’s and why’s of what brought you to that dread position don’t matter.  All that matters is that you feel the darkness closing around you, leeching away light and joy and hope.

And the hardest part?  At least for me yesterday?  It seemed as if I were completely unable to communicate how I felt.  Not that I didn’t try.  I did.  Sort of.  Then I just gave up trying to share how I felt.  Perhaps I didn’t want to burden others with my own personal darkness—especially those I love.  Perhaps I just felt as if no one else would understand.

For most of my life, I have been able to sense pain in others.  I know at times I can be remarkably, even stupendously insensitive, but when my empathic sensors are on, I can pick up on someone else’s pain.  I can’t share it.  I can’t relieve it.  But I can feel it.

Yesterday, I encountered a dear friend.  Well, we don’t hang out or anything, but he’s a Choir friend, and over the years, he has become very dear to me.  And I saw that he was in pain.  And I felt it.  Deeply.  But I could do nothing to succor him.  Already struggling myself yesterday, I felt the darkness reaching for me all the more.

We sang the broadcast.  And we sang that beautiful, inspiring song from “Carousel”—“You’ll Never Walk Alone”:

When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high

And don’t be afraid of the dark.

At the end of the storm is a golden sky

And the sweet silver song of the lark.

Walk on through the wind.

Walk on through the rain,

Though your dreams be tossed and blown.

Walk on.  Walk on, with hope in your heart,

And you’ll never walk alone.

You’ll never walk alone.

During the broadcast, I sang that song.  I sang it with all my heart.  With all my soul.  Like I always do.  But it did nothing to lift my spirits.

I came through the day.  I came through my storm.  But I did not hold my head up high.

But that day is past.  And there IS a golden sky and sweet music this morning.

And I was NOT alone, even when I felt completely abandoned—even when I could see no hope, Hope was there, walking beside me.

Perhaps that’s why I write LDS horror books and why my own stupid stories make me weep like a romance novel editor.  I feel the emotions of my characters so deeply, because, quite frankly, they come from inside me.  It’s called “horror” for a reason.  You see, we all walk through storms, through darkness.  But there is that “LDS” part too.  It’s NOT really about the darkness.  It’s about passing through the storm—passing through darkness to get back to the light—grasping at hope in the midst of hopelessness—and finding it.  LDS horror, at least to me, is about finding, in our own way, that our loving Savior is still there.  He will not abandon us.  He will walk each step of the way as we drag our own individual crosses to Calvary.  “Hold on!” he cries.  “I know it hurts.  I know the pain you’re feeling is real.  I have felt it too.  All of it.  I have carried it all.  And I WILL take it away.  Just don’t give up.  Please believe me.  Believe IN me.  Walk on through the wind and rain of this life.  Let me be your hope.  Let me be your golden sky.  And you’ll never walk alone.”

As it says in one of my favorite hymns, in the final verse which we rarely sing in Church, but we always sing in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir,

The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose

I will not, I cannot desert to his foes;

That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,

I’ll never, no never, I’ll never, no never,

I’ll never, no never, no never forsake.

I know it’s hard sometimes.  I know sometimes it feels as if there is no hope.  I know sometimes all you can see is darkness.  I know sometimes all you can feel is the weight of your own cross.  But hold on.  Walk on, dragging your cross.  He has never abandoned you and He will never abandon you.  He is there, walking beside you, cheering you on, even when you can’t hear Him.  And the storm WILL pass.  And you WILL be lifted off your cross.  And you WILL see Him there with a golden sky and hear the sweet silver song of the lark.

You never walk alone.