Hope in the Shadowlands
August 20, 2025
February, 2022
I left my home for what I thought would be a quick doctor visit. Instead, I stayed for 200 days of treatment.
Weeks later, my son’s best friend told his mom, “It’s like a light went out in the neighborhood.” And he was right — something was missing.
Cole (my son’s best friend) lives in our neighborhood, and I saw him almost every day, even though we didn’t talk most of the time. My presence was a part of his everyday life, and when I left…there was a shadow where light once existed.
Today, I am at a local coffee shop that is missing a light. Sola Coffee was started by a wonderful husband and wife whom I have written about once before. It’s been only a few years since the terrible disease called ALS, took Jeanne from us. Our community slowly watched her health and abilities decline, each having said our long goodbyes over several years of suffering. We stood by astonished as her beloved family endured suffering more beautifully and authentically than I have ever seen. Every day, they were full of gratitude and contentment in one of the hardest trials I have seen a family endure.
Even as I sit here today, I can feel Jeanne’s presence and see her light living on, though dimmer now than when she was here. The casual and simple beauty of the healthy hanging plants, the eclectic decor repurposed into something beautiful, the warmth of the staff toward our local community…. each one is evidence of her DNA left behind. Jeanne was thoughtful, selfless, creative, tender, and effortlessly beautiful. You can see her whimsical fingerprints on every wall of this place, where thoughtful creativity is displayed in every little detail. I love this place.
I remember after her funeral, I thought I saw her everywhere I went, as I do with each friend who joins eternity, leaving me behind. I see their shape everywhere I look. Suddenly, their face is on strangers’, and I, unknowingly, chase their shadow for weeks. Their light goes out, and like a physical light in a dark room, for a brief moment, the light remains.
Today, I caught a glimpse of Jeanne in her daughter’s almond eyes. I see her meekness, and I find Jeanne there as Sally’s gentle smile lines deepen with each passing year. The kindness they have always shared is still there, but now I can see a quiet, stubborn strength in her as well. It is the strength of one who refuses to be overcome by the sorrow this life has given her, choosing instead a joyful calm and holy acceptance of the trials that come her way, knowing with absolute assurance that…
Hope is possible in this shadowland.
Three years after Jeanne’s death, I still feel the void in this coffee shop, at our gym, and in our community.
I think of her often; her deep and patient love for her children, the tender affection she shared with her husband. I even find myself missing the way John cared for her in the final days as he devoted himself to making her last chapter as comfortable and full of love as possible. I miss her, and I miss the part of each of them that was lost with her.
In death, most kind-hearted people are hesitant to mention the deceased to their loved ones, because we don’t want to make them sad or make them feel pain. The truth is, those left behind are already walking around with their pain, carrying grief’s weight into every moment.
Mentioning the deceased’s name reminds their loved ones that we still miss them; we still remember. Sure, it may awaken their heart to the pain, but at least they find a companion in it. You cannot make them sad. They already are… Perhaps your remembering may lighten grief’s heaviness for a moment. I cannot speak for every person in every circumstance, but I have found that for most, mentioning their beloved is a blessing to their day.
In death (and in all loss) there is a scattering and a darkness, a void that cannot be ignored. A deafening silence.
We were not made for death.
We resist it, we fear it, and yet we all must face it.
And so we live in the shadowlands.
We wait and we ache. We catch glimpses of light, but we feel the weight of absence too. My season with cancer has only sharpened this reality for me: life here is one long Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.
The silence feels endless, the waiting heavy. But hope is not gone. A steady flame still burns.
As Mr. Beaver once said of Aslan’s return:
“Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight,
At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more,
When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death,
And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.”
One day, death will be no more.
One day, tears will be wiped away. One day, the silence will give way to singing, the shadows to light, the winter to spring.
“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” (Revelation 21:4)
That will be our Easter Sunday; the daybreak we long for, the end of sorrow, the beginning of forever, and complete joy.
That day we will look upon Jesus face to face, unhindered and unhidden. Until then, we live with longing. We grieve, but not without hope. We walk in the shadowlands, but we walk with the promise that dawn is coming, and with it, our King.
-Rachel
