Children of the Dawn: Or Why Excuses Don't Matter

I mentioned I love light—I love the imagery of light, the symbolism of light, the metaphor of light. Light in all its facets represents hope to me, but why?

Is it because I grew up reading about light in the Bible? Is it because light has long symbolized purity and goodness in literature? Or is it because of the many times I wasn’t sure if I would make it to morning light, the times the dawn brought hope searing into my heart? In those moments, I didn’t want another day. I wanted night more than anything, the time of sleep and escape, but nights were never escape to me. They were just darkness and despair. Dawn, on the other hand, meant I had made it to another day. This was hope rapping on my heart’s door with jarring insistence—“you have lived, and you will continue to live.” Yet dawn meant there was another day ahead.

I don’t know when my depression started. Likely it was sometime in high school. I remember writing the below poem during my junior or senior year.

Song of the Wearied

The sky the color of dried blood,

The weary sun

Drifts below my horizon

To another waking one

To greet another weary people,

Another sandpaper day.

How little I envy you,

Shrinking orb,

Your eternal progression

On your chafing, circadian course.

Daily you reiterate the journey

You have made a thousand arduous times

And must make

A thousand arduous times more.

You trek dismally onward,

Searingly conspicuous,

Through the vulgar sky.

Disrobed before the world,

You stare dismally downward

With a vacant gaze of blanched light.

How I pity you

As I watch you rise, cheerless,

Each still, somber morning

And descend in heavy-hearted grace

Every ashen night.

I see you submerged

In the chilling ocean

And know you wish

You could drown.

How grateful I am

For night's shadow

And life's brevity,

How thankful

For revival

And ultimate escape.

That was how I felt—I was looking forward to “ultimate escape,” not because death meant entering into the presence of God but because it meant the end of pain. I didn’t care where I was escaping to, just as long as it meant an end to the present. To be honest, I didn’t care for light back then.

God knew that. He was fully aware yet sacrificed His Son for me anyway. That was how He demonstrated His love for me, that Jesus died while I was still a sinner (Romans 5:8)—while I hated the light. Every time I lied, I stuck to the shadows. Every time I manipulated someone, I hid in darkness. Every time I hurt myself, requiring others to care for me, I remained obscured in the gloom, hoping that no one would see my dysfunction, my shortcomings, my sin. But Jesus saw it all, and he still came for me.

“‘This is the judgment: The light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than the light because their deeds were evil. For everyone who does evil hates the light and avoids it, so that his deeds may not be exposed’” (John 3:19-20 CSB). Jesus spoke these words to Nicodemus, a Pharisee who came to him by night in discreet curiosity. Jesus was talking about us—you, me, our neighbors, our friends, our families, our bosses, humankind, everyone. We live our lives in the shadows for fear of being found out. We have done wrong, in some small or large way, and we don’t want anyone to see it. Now we all have trying circumstances, as the world is broken, the Enemy is real, and we all sin against God and each other. I am not discounting the fact that we struggle with Bipolar Disorder, Major Depression, Panic Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, schizophrenia, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, you name it. We contend with these conditions, and sometimes it is difficult, seemingly impossible, to make the right decision.

Yet take a different example of making the right decision and the temptation to sin. What if I made a mistake at work, lying about it could save me, and confessing it might cost me my job—does the danger there absolve me if I lie to cover up my mistake? I might try to rationalize, desperate to appear innocent in my lie. My family is relying on my income, if I keep my job I can do better next time, but whatever the rationalization might be, it is still rationalization. It still tries to dress up a lie and present it as true. It is still hiding in the darkness, loving my sin, my lie, more than my Redeemer, who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

Mental health conditions present a unique set of issues and temptations others might not understand.

There is the temptation to self-harm and the temptation to take our own lives, for example. I’m not saying those who self-harm are less redeemed than other believers, nor am I saying that taking one’s own life is an immediate ticket to Hell. I do not believe either of these things. I am saying that self-harm and suicide are temptations, and yes, that giving into these temptations is wrong. Now stick with me.

I remember a particular time I gave into the temptation to self-harm. In college, one of my roommates was having a birthday dinner. Everyone had already arrived at the restaurant, but I’d had class and was running late. On the way to my apartment to get ready for the dinner, I received news that my cousin’s cancer had returned and the prognosis didn’t look good. I felt overwhelmed, sad, angry, and despondent, the emotions warring inside me. The idea to harm myself was clear in my head, screaming at me from within. I remember the moment when it all converged on a choice, a decision point. I stood at the bathroom sink and looked in the mirror. I saw someone I didn’t recognize—could that be me? The emotions erupted, and I harmed myself. It ended up being so bad that a couple of my roommates came home. I eventually made it to the dinner and remember it to this day, as one more scar.

What went wrong? I could explain to you the tsunami of emotion that overcame me that night. I could tell you depression had such a tight hold on me that I didn’t see any other way of dealing with my emotions. I could tell you these things, but like in the above situation with lying to keep my job, I would be rationalizing. There are a hundred reasons why we do the things we do, but they are explanations at best, excuses at worst. They are not justification. I wronged myself, and I wronged my friends that night. Moreover, I wronged God, treating His image bearer as a canvas for my despair, carving my anger onto my own body.

This blog post is not nearly enough space to say what I mean, and there are many aspects of this topic I would love to discuss. Feel free to start a conversation in the comments or message me. For now, I want to end with this: “‘But anyone who lives by the truth comes to the light, so that his works may be shown to be accomplished by God” (John 3:21, CSB). This directly follows the quote from above about those who sin hiding in darkness. Jesus tells us there is a way. He later says He is the Light of the world. Approaching the throne of grace, we can have confidence. Our deeds might be lackluster, even our righteous acts tainted, but we are covered by grace and mercy and are now children of light (Ephesians 5:8). We are children of the dawn, and though the night is dark, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death (and don’t we, as those with mental illness?), we will fear no evil, for God is on our side (Psalm 23:4-5). We don't need our rationalizations, we don't need our excuses. We have justification in Christ, and that is enough. God loves us and will love us to the end, until mental illness is but a faint memory and glory is all that's present.