It was 1:30.
A normal day in Texas.
Birds sang.
Squirrels scampered, winding their way around the tree trunk, up and up.
The sun shone, causing a sheen of sweat to gather on my brow.
Normal everyday issues raced around my mind—the unanswered emails, the ungraded essays, and the unclean house.
A normal day in Texas.
Except that it wasn’t.
1:37:56.
The sky went dark.
The birds quit singing.
The outdoor lights came on.
The rooster crowed, warning me,
Harkening back to me the end of something, or perhaps the start of the opposite.
Sight was dimmed.
A total ekleípō, Greek for "disappearance."
Had I not watched the news or seen all the social media posts,
Had I been someone a century ago,
I may have stood in the same spot, interpreting the rooster’s three crows
As a repeat of Peter’s failed vow,
Of the end of one reality and the start of another.
Had I not had access to Google, Alexa, and the Weather Channel,
I may have seen the disappearance of the sun from view as
A direct reflection of my sinful nature,
A sign of the heavens’ displeasure,
A mark of the end of times.
But I knew.
What a difference that knowledge made.
I knew the darkness was temporary,
The abnormal twilight would only be in existence for 4 minutes, 13 seconds.
I knew the sun had not been destroyed,
I knew my life force, my lamp of heaven, my hope would reappear.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
1:37:56 made an impact.
It reminded me of other times
When birds have stopped singing,
When skies have darkened with no warning,
When my hope was hidden behind a force bigger than myself.
Reminders of other times—
At age 23, when I picked up the phone to hear, “Kim, your dad is gone.”
At age 35, when I heard the words, “I filed for divorce.”
On Christmas Day, at age 48, when I heard on the phone, “Jonathan isn’t coming back to your house. He’s living with me from now on. Merry Christmas.”
At age 51, when I heard the news that Mom’s lungs had frozen due to chemo, that there was no cure— and my own lungs gasped for air and my hand grasped for a solid surface.
At age 53 at 2:00 a.m., when a knock by some grim deputies confirmed my worst fear— I was now a widow, a word I hate, and a status I was not prepared to carry.
On each of these occasions, the sun disappeared.
The world grew dim.
No bird sang.
Stillness.
But each of these times, there was no certainty of 4 minutes and 13 seconds.
No prediction that in just a few moments, life as I knew it would resume.
No prediction that the darkness would ever end.
Each occasion had me looking at the skies,
Asking difficult questions.
As someone a century ago, asking if I had done something to deserve it,
How long this ekleípō, or darkness, would last.
How life could or would go on.
I feared
The end of joy,
The uncertainty of the future,
The knowledge of the cold that comes without the warmth of that life force I had taken for granted,
All I had was that moment in the dark,
Looking at the sky,
Hoping.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
However, each time, just as it did the other day at 1:41:09,
With an expectant eye toward the sky,
A small dot of light appeared in the darkness,
A small line of hope that life would go on,
With no understanding of how—or why—
But each moment as the clock ticked,
The light was revealed,
The source of life, the hope, the possibility of finding joy again
Found a spot in my heart.
Each other occasion when I experienced ekleípō, totality didn’t end in 4 minutes and 13 seconds.
It took time,
Lots of time,
Lots of tentative breathing, tears, sleepless nights.
Lots of star gazing.
Lots of fearful hope.
But the sun is still there.
Still . . .
No matter the stillness and silence of the birds,
No matter the rooster crow or the dimness,
The sun is still there.
Still . . .
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