by Br Walt
As December unfolds and the days grow shorter, darkness settles over the Northern Hemisphere. It’s not just a shift in light but something that seems to seep into our bones.
I feel it deeply, personally. Living with Seasonal Affective Disorder, I know well the weight of the long, dark winter nights and the effect of losing sunlight’s simple warmth. The recent election, too, has cast a shadow over our collective spirit, leaving a lingering sense of division, uncertainty, and weariness.
Darkness has become an unwelcome yet familiar companion, always present, always hovering.
And yet, here we are entering Advent, a season that beckons us to hold on, to look for light precisely in the darkness. Advent doesn’t deny the shadows that surround us; it acknowledges them. We are, after all, preparing to welcome Christ, the Light of the World, born into a world that was—and still is—full of darkness.
The Prophet Isaiah speaks to this very tension. “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness—on them light has shined” (Isaiah 9:2).
These words were spoken to a people familiar with hardship and uncertainty, not so different from us. They knew what it meant to wait, to yearn, to hope. Isaiah’s words are a reminder that in every generation, no matter how long the night may seem, light has and will find us.
But we don’t rush to that light; we meet it by embracing the darkness as part of our journey.
So how do we, in these dark days, embrace the shadows? One way might be to shift how we think about darkness itself. Too often, we see it as something to fear or avoid. But darkness has its own sacred purpose. Just as seeds take root in the dark soil and new life stirs in the womb's quiet, hidden spaces, so, too, our souls are nurtured in darkness.
Advent is a season that whispers, “There is no shame in the night; there is no need to rush to morning. Sit a while. Linger here. There is something for you to learn.”
In the dark, we encounter our vulnerability, our limits. We are reminded that, as much as we’d like to, we cannot control or predict everything. This acknowledgment of our smallness, our dependence, is one of Advent’s gifts. We are, as the Psalmist writes, “fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalm 139:14), but we are also fragile, in need of care, connection, and rest.
In embracing the darkness, we also learn something about hope.
Hope is not about denying reality or pretending everything is fine. True hope is forged in the fires of reality. It’s the kind of hope Isaiah spoke of—hope that emerges not in spite of the darkness, but because of it. The kind of hope that grows in the awareness that this world, with all its turmoil and tension, is still God’s world, and we are not abandoned.
As I look around in this season, I see many who are weary and hurting, longing for something more. Perhaps you are one of them. If you are, I want you to know this: you are not alone.
In the quiet of these winter nights, the God who is Love is drawing near. In the words of Isaiah, “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given” (Isaiah 9:6). This child, this Emmanuel, comes not just to the light but to the shadows, to the places of grief, uncertainty, and weariness. In those places, a holy invitation waits for us—to let Love find us where we are, not where we wish we were.
The Advent season invites us to light candles not to erase the darkness but to mark it, to remember that light shines brightest when all around is dim. Each flickering flame represents a different part of the Advent journey—hope, peace, joy, love. These are not fleeting emotions or quick fixes; they are practices, ways of being that draw us deeper into the mystery of this season.
So as the nights grow longer, I invite you to sit with the darkness. Light a candle if you can, but let it remind you not only of the coming light but of the beauty found in the shadows. Let it remind you that in this quiet season, God is at work, preparing something new. Just as the earth rests in winter to ready itself for spring, so too our spirits find renewal in this waiting, in this darkness.
May we be brave enough to lean into this season, to embrace the darkness and the lessons it has for us. And may we be reminded that even here, perhaps especially here, we are not alone.
Darkness may be a familiar companion, but it is not our final one. For unto us a Child is born, a light in the night, a promise that even the deepest shadows cannot overcome.
This Advent, let us walk together through the darkness, holding our candles of hope, peace, joy, and love.
May we carry these lights, not only for ourselves but for each other, knowing that even in the longest night, the dawn is promised. And as we move toward Christmas, may we find ourselves, like those shepherds long ago, awestruck at the gift of Love born into our world—into our lives, our waiting, and yes, even our darkness.
May it be so.