Fleeing (Garden #3)

I’m outside of the Garden, and it’s very, very dark.

For some reason, I’ve left the place where I’ve felt the most joy, the most peace, the most love in my entire life: the Spirit’s presence. The area outside the Garden is, unfortunately, very familiar. So the darkness isn’t that restrictive--I know exactly where I’m going. Rarely do I intentionally choose to stray from the Garden. It starts very innocently. I don’t acknowledge the Spirit’s presence because I’m too busy, too stressed, too tired, too lonely. And then maybe I click on something I shouldn’t, search for something that brings me a little closer to the darkness, continually look when I shouldn’t.

Then before I know it, I’m outside of the Garden. I’ve left the comfort, I’m no longer standing at the gate just looking outside, I’m actually outside and my back is to the Garden. Wisdom would say to literally run away from the darkness back toward the light. Supposedly it’s best to flee. However, I too often think I know better than the Spirit. I’m ignoring the Spirit’s quiet promptings and attempts to guide me.

That’s something crazy, I think: the voices outside the Garden are louder than the voice inside the Garden. Or, rather, it feels easier to listen to them than the Holy Spirit. The reality is that one of the effects of the darkness is that the farther and farther I get from the Garden, the more my senses are deadened to the Spirit. My conscience rolls its eyes, my vision gets blurry, my hearing is jumbled, my tastes are manipulated.

Once I allow myself to creep into the darkness, I start moving faster away from the Garden. There’s no excuse anymore--I’m near sprinting toward the darkness, not even pretending that I’m trying to go back to the Garden. The further away from the Garden I get, the darker my surroundings, the louder and more sinister the noise gets. I look at people as if they’re objects to be used for my enjoyment; I treat my family as nothing more than oxygen-dependent annoyances; my motivation doesn’t go any further than scrolling social media; I turn up the volume on my TV show instead of listening to the Spirit.

There’s a false comfort in the darkness. It feels good, even as it destroys me. As I run, I twist an ankle. Thorns tear the flesh from my arms. Limbs fall on my shoulders. I trip over a log and fall headfirst. My shoes fall off and my feet are cut and scraped. And I convince myself that these things feel good--that this is relaxing, or fulfilling, or productive. It’s all harmless fun, even though I know that these things will cause lasting damage. Instead of considering the consequences, I trick myself into thoughtlessness.

The darkness slowly becomes unfamiliar, but I’m undeterred. I’ve gone farther than I came last time, but...how much worse can it be? I’ve already come this far, why not a little farther? It’ll feel better to keep going, why not test the limits? So I cautiously, coolly continue forward. The feelings of ecstasy and pleasure are immediate.

Juxtaposed with these feelings are the terror and dread that have been slowly creeping into my soul ever since I left the Garden. They’ve intensified. It’s as if something clicks and I realize how far away I am from the Garden. Like when you go swimming in the ocean, and the undertow takes you far away from the shore before you realize what’s happening. I turn around to head back toward the Garden, but there’s little hope of climbing back up this slippery slope I’ve just charged down. I fall to my knees, helpless, trying to ignore the pain from my wounds and injuries.

Just as I consider going further into the darkness, which by now is indescribably dark, I see a light coming from the Garden. My eyes are jaded so I can’t swear to it, but I’m pretty sure the light is growing. I squint and stand back up. In this extreme darkness, any light stands out. But this is a different kind of light. Not like my phone’s flashlight at night--it’s like a strike of lightning shaped like a sunrise. There is nothing that compares to it. As it grows, my smoky, foggy eyes can tell it’s the Spirit. I recognize that I need this light. I find myself reaching out, actually reaching my hand toward the light from the Garden. That’s the only place I want to be. This darkness is torturous, even though it felt so pleasurable just minutes earlier. I detest myself and my soul wants to be in the light of the Spirit’s presence.

The Spirit is singing over me, even in the midst of the darkness. He hasn’t stopped; I’ve just stopped listening. Only one word leaves my mouth: help. I know the Spirit isn’t going to teleport me back into his presence. He isn’t going to pick me up and drop me back in the Garden. That’s part of the freedom I have: if I want to leave the Garden, he’s not going to make me stay. But his light reveals a path back up the slope, the route I can take if I really want to live with the Spirit. I have to do the work, I have to choose to return. He’ll help, of course, and he’ll make it possible. It’s a miracle that he’ll let me back in with all the mistakes I’ve made.

I begin to climb back to the Garden. It’s slow going, and every once in awhile I’m tempted to stop and look around the darkness again. I’m ashamed to say that sometimes I let myself go backward. But the Spirit continues to reveal the path and continues to guide me, encouraging me the entire time. The facade that I’ve been wearing begins to fade. The Spirit knows everything I’ve done, there’s no need to pretend that I never left the Garden. Once my behaviors are in the light, no longer hidden in the darkness, they hold much less power over me.

We make it back to the Garden, and I begin to come alive. My conscience slowly awakens, my vision focuses, my hearing returns, my tastes desire what the Spirit desires. There is definite guilt, and I have to repent of my journey into the darkness. Immediate forgiveness greets my sorrow. The Spirit has rescued me, and I’m again confused as to why I would ever leave his presence.

I’ll have the scrapes and bruises and scratches for a while--they don’t disappear immediately. I never return from these voyages unscathed.