Several years ago, I attended an exhibit at Union Station entitled “Dialog in the Dark.” Participants spent an hour in complete darkness with eight other people and our guide – who was blind. I was excited and anxious going in, insecure and off balance during, and filled with all kinds of conflicting feelings coming out. It was an interesting exercise in trust – of our guide, our instincts, our other senses.

Our group was guided through a series of “familiar” settings (a park, a boat, a market, a city street), but nothing could break the darkness. Interestingly, though, as I reflect on the experience even these many years later, I have some visual memory of the places as I experienced them through touch, smell, and sound. At the time, however, everything just seemed so dark, and I kept reaching for something to hold on to in order to get my bearings. We all were given a cane, and this grounded me in some respect, but I felt quite out of control and totally reliant upon this guide. At that time, I had a blind student in one of my choirs, and I gained a newfound understanding of what he must go through. I had thought I was being sensitive to his needs, but I realized I had quite missed the boat.

One of the most frustrating things about the experience was the response of our “group.” We were always moved from one “setting” to the next via a transition area that usually had us lined up against a wall – regular markers of certainty for me. Then the guide would say, “Ok, now move single file toward the sound of my voice.” It seemed logical to me that we would continue to walk in the line we were in against the wall, but invariably, almost everyone would start moving toward the guide at the same time, running into each other and each other’s canes. And we didn’t seem to learn from this as we went along. I kept thinking, why don’t these people just wait – and move together as one body? – we could then retain our bearings by  our juxtaposition to one another. It didn’t happen, but everyone at least tried to help each other. In spite of that, I felt myself drawing more and more inward, and feeling more and more alone. As a group, we did seem to get braver as we went along, perhaps a bit more comfortable in the darkness.

We ended in a café setting where we had a short debriefing session – everything was still completely black, however. Then we were instructed to walk toward the guide one last time, turn to our right, and “walk toward the light.” I felt a brief moment of Stockholm Syndrome – having been held hostage by my blindness, I was just beginning to give in to my captor, and suddenly the very dim light up ahead seemed almost an intrusion.

I suspect that for many of us, sheltering in place, maintaining social distancing, and having to rely on others – in addition to ourselves – to keep our community safe in these uncertain days feels a bit like flying blind or living in darkness.

Lord, keep us in discomfort in our “darkness,” so that we will run to your “light” more eagerly.