It feels audacious to say, but I no longer struggle with writer’s block. In fact, the essay and poem ideas jotted in my pocket-sized Moleskine brim so full, I lack the time to enflesh them. Why this intense fertility of thought? I sometimes wonder. It could be my voracious reading habits. Or perhaps it’s all those writing hours constrained to my son’s naptimes and the occasional Saturday afternoon. Maybe it’s pure grace. Lately, I’ve wondered if it also has to do with letting the fields lie fallow. It seems counterproductive to leave profitable fields unplanted and uncultivated, to let them simply be. From what our limited vision can perceive, rest seems a prodigal waste. The land, often abundant in soy, corn, and wheat, nourishing bodies across the world, now lies useless—dead.

In the visual arts, there is a concept called chiaroscuro. It refers to the effect of the contrast between light and dark to define shapes and objects. If you can, visualize with me a painting of a singular vase near an open evening window with the light and shadows falling on and around the vase to give it form and substance. Chiaroscuro creates both drama and depth in the artwork. The famous Italian Baroque artist, Caravaggio, was well-known for using chiaroscuro in his later works, using shadows and beams of light to enhance the storyline of his paintings, like The Calling of Saint Matthew. In chiaroscuro, the dark gives dimension and definition to the light while the light brings depth and clarity to the dark, as seen in Caravaggio’s masterpiece. These bold contrasts affect the entire composition.

It is 1990, and my mom is jubilant. She unpacks the groceries and holds up a tin can in victory. There is a blonde boy pictured on the front, with Arabic writing next to his smiling face. This was a far cry from Skippy or Jif, but two years into our new lives as missionaries to France, we were desperate for peanut butter. When my mom finally found it in a neighboring city, it had been imported from North Africa. She grabbed the can opener, and we peered inside. Our first hint that something was different was when we tried to spread it. We had to wrestle clumps of it onto the bread because it lacked the oil necessary for a smooth spread. When we tasted it, there was a distinct lack of salt or sugar, making the whole affair rather bland.

Whenever I tell someone that I am a professional chaplain in hospice, it is usually only a matter of seconds before I get asked, “So, how do you know what to say to people who are suffering or dying?” Disappointment usually follows my words: “I honestly don’t. I just show up. Sit with them. Let them know that no matter what, they aren’t alone.” I wish I could offer a quick fix, some sophisticated and thoughtful string of words in just the right way to immediately steal one’s pain away and stop the spiritual bleeding. But I have come to learn that that’s not the point. And it’s definitely not possible.

Not too long ago, as we wrapped up a season of commitments, my husband and I reflected on what worked and what didn’t, what refreshed and fulfilled us and what was burdensome. We had served a community we deeply loved for almost six beautiful, fellowship-building years. But a shift had taken place in my heart, new needs with our growing children were presenting themselves, and though we valued the work we were doing, we decided it would be wise to take a break. Then, just a few short months into our “break,” a new opportunity appeared—all shimmery shiny—sparkling just over the horizon, and I felt the zing of the new and improved and the warm blush of somebody needs me, and before we knew it, we were committed again. Whoops.

When we travel, my wife often reminds me to take the next exit a quarter mile after we’ve passed it. I sigh, she apologizes, and the kids cry and ask if we’re lost—it’s a game we play. From city to city, coast to coast, we’re always in a state of rerouting. Rerouting… rerouting… rerouting… I hear these words echo down the crooked roadways of my own life. For many of us, this road is dotted with burned bridges, detours, and reminders that the destination is distant. As we live, we find ourselves at the mercy of hopeless and unplanned events, which, without the understanding of the nature of God, leads us to perceive Him as cruel and distant. But what if these detours serve a purpose in the grand scheme of the Great Unfolding, and if so, how do we navigate them? 

Everything starts here… The Way Back to Ourselves Literary Journal is proud to announce our SPRING Collection 2025: IN HIS GARDEN, which will be published in APRIL of 2025. Submissions will open Feb. 1-March 1, 2025. Come learn more about our theme and details. Questions? Email us at thewayback2ourselves@gmail.com. We’d love to hear from you! Please be sure to submit your literary journal entries to our new email during the submission window only: editor.twbto@gmail.com.

Stepping into the stately restored mansion, I noticed an uncomfortable increase in my heart rate as I took in the group of women standing before me in the foyer. We were gathered at a day retreat for healing from emotional and sexual wounds—not a luxurious spa day, unfortunately. Feeling uneasy, I sensed physiological signs of resistance to the painful subject at hand arising within me, so I grabbed my name tag as a distraction before the host started the introductions. It had been eight years since my first support group, so I was by no means new to gathering with others in a healing space. Yet still, I could hear the voice of shame nagging at me in those first awkward moments of greeting.

Have you ever taken the time to think about time itself? My apologies for the existential question so early in the year, but I think it is an important one. At the beginning of a new year, we seem to be more aware of the time we have or wish we had, so we begin to make goals or New Year’s Resolutions based on how we would like to spend the 168 hours we get each week. Spend… There is an economic energy to our relationship with time, isn’t there? Even the words we use to describe our use of time reminds us of currency and consumerism. We always say we never have enough time—because we are always hustling for more—and we fool ourselves into thinking that next month things will slow down. But let’s be honest: Things rarely slow down. 

The new year is upon us, and everywhere I look, slogans are telling me to finish the year “strong” or to start the new year “right.” And then there are some who—and thank God for them—are reminding our weary souls that we can end this year or start the new year “soft,” if we need to. I must say, I really appreciate that sentiment with the year we’ve had! But, as I contemplate the many messages we are receiving now, as we do every year, I feel myself wanting to dig deeper and beyond these cultural sentiments.

There is something about the Advent season that brings to mind the complex interplay of light and dark. As I enter the week of Christmas, after a hard year of my own grief, I am thinking again about what the Light really means to us in our darkness, and it reminds me of an art class I took during my final semester of college. This class also happened to be during the same time my body and mind began to process a really hard situation I walked through the previous spring. In the midst of my depression and darkness, I didn’t realize how much that art class would transform the way I see the world. 

I have entered the season of Advent in a cloud of confusion and disillusionment. Hobbling toward Christmas, I feel as though a swarm of gnats is swirling around my head, my body, my very essence. For reasons I can neither see nor discern, I feel like I am being shaken upside down for my lunch money. Here—with my ankles to the heavens and my sense of identity falling all around my head like the lint and loose change from my pockets—I scan the sky for the Light and wonder why it still feels so dark. 

Not too long ago, amid the gentle light of the Advent candles, I found myself aching with remembrance. Sorrow from years of grief called forth by the light limned the halls of my memory with a cold shame I could not shake. Instead of basking in the joy we often expect to feel during the Christmas season, I grieved the ruins of my life—my heart gripped by lament—wondering if God’s promised Light could ever restore the desolation. In this space, God reminded me of the miracle of light sent to his people before the coming of the True Light we celebrate at Advent, a miracle that met God’s people in the ruins, just as it would meet me many years later.

Just last week, God met me in the most unexpected way. I was stirring our bubbling oatmeal as my husband reported the headlines about war escalating overseas and looming snow squalls. Noting his weary face, I imagined mine as weary too, but from somewhere deep within and without, the Spirit enthused my heart. As I looked out the kitchen window, I saw a radiant light beam through the back-wood trees, and I said to my husband, "We will see the sunrise tomorrow, here, or in Heaven." In this somber moment–where there were wars and rumors of wars–our only comfort was the beautiful assurance that, as believers in Jesus Christ, we would wake up tomorrow, either here or in Heaven, in the loving embrace of our Savior. 

I grew up with the inherited belief that details of our family stories should never be shared. To bring personal matters into the light only made room for judgement and gossip. Dark truths needed to be swept under the rug where they belonged. As a writer and in protest to this harmful belief system, I’ve combed for whatever light there is in my story, and I pray it comforts others.  

It’s December 1st. My husband, daughter, and I are making our way back to Ohio after a lovely Thanksgiving weekend spent with my in-laws. You’d expect me to be happy–and I am–yet I can’t help but notice the invasive darkness on the road before us. How it surrounds me, hangs low over me, and reminds me of realities I can’t shake. 

I often wonder about Mary and the tiny nativity she carried in her womb—long before the world embraced her son. I think about Mary, as she gave birth to the Light of the world in a humble burrow in a far-off place—long before she could fully comprehend the gravity of her calling. And I sometimes imagine what it must have felt like for Mary to raise the Son of God as her child—long before she could fathom the darkness she would soon endure because of his destiny.

COMING SOON… The Way Back to Ourselves is honored to present our Advent series at the blog, A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. Join us throughout the month of December as we make the journey toward Christmas and draw ever near to Christ’s eternal LIGHT. Enjoy powerful and personal essays from Rosa Gilbert, Kristine Amundrud, Donna Bucher, Deborah Rutherford, Heather Lobe Johnson, and Deidre Braley, as they collectively delve into the depths of the human experience and exalt the shining LIGHT of our Savior. We can’t wait to worship in word and wonder with you, so please bookmark this blog so you can return to it in the coming days. It is our hope and prayer that this offering meets you exactly where you are and helps shine Christ’s healing light in your darkest spaces.

Expectations. Do you know that our life is built on them? Think about this for a minute. The moment our feet hit the floor each morning, we enter the realm of expectations. We expect our morning routine to go as usual without interruptions and surprises; we expect our bodies to function as they should; we expect the sun to rise and the kids to behave. We go through the day, expecting to manage our daily tasks and perhaps the day to run smoothly. We expect people to do what they say and keep their promises, at least most of the time. We expect our partners to love us and give us their attention and affection; we expect our friends to be there for us when we need them.

The Way Back to Ourselves is excited to present our feature series, The Artist’s Interview. Each quarter, we talk with amazing creatives about life, faith, art, and everything in between. Check out this interview with Joel Adcock, writer, artist, and musician. Joel is full of authenticity, earthiness, and wisdom. He makes the Gospel accessible with his honest and invitational approach, and he also knows a thing or two about staying faithful throughout the inevitable suffering we face in life. You don’t want to miss this interview, where contributor Steve Veasey and Joel dive deep into life, faith, and the experiences (and artists) who shape us.