A dear, trusted friend first introduced me to Alicia Britt Chole and her writings. We both look forward to the day we can enjoy good talks, long walks, and great cups of tea together. Alicia is no stranger to disillusionment and spiritual pain, which makes her writings on the nights of faith wonderfully lived-in and relevant. It’s a grace to welcome Alicia to the farm’s front porch today…

Guest Post by Alicia Britt Chole

Perhaps it began on the front porch. Or rather, on the front porches. My family moved every year to a new city as my dad pursued a new dream. Growing up, the happy constant was the love of my parents and a few traditions like this one.

Denying the night’s place in our faith silences one of faith’s wisest teachers and creates an unsustainable version of what it means to follow Jesus.

Dad worked all day and most weekends, so this was a night tradition. Every once in a while, we started early if we happened to notice the lightning. But most times the tradition began when we heard thunder in the distance. Then Dad’s eyes would brighten as he announced, “A storm is coming!” 

When I was little, Dad would scoop me up in his arms and carry me. As I grew too big for scooping, he would hold my hand as we hurried to take our positions on the porch. Then, facing the storm in the darkness, Dad would tuck me under his arm as we sat together in silence.

Sometimes (depending on how porchy the porch was) we stayed outside for the entire storm. But always, we would stay as long as we could, enjoying the wind, rain, “thunderboomers,” and light show together. 

Our generation has simply lost that truth in our shared illusion that faith always needs full sun to flourish; in our unquestioned assumption that spiritual growth prefers the happy day and shuns the not-so-happy night.

Since I was small, I have associated night-storms with an invitation to spend time in the safe arms of my dad. 

That association eventually—but not immediately—transferred from my earthly dad to my heavenly One.

My earliest years as a follower of Jesus were filled with little night and lots of daylight. The first night-storm in my faith actually took me by surprise, and I initially interpreted it as a faith failure instead of an invitation to enrich my relationship with God. 

Such disconnects between the night and growth, nearness, and love have shipwrecked many souls.

Misinterpreting the night and overwhelmed by spiritual pain, we cut anchor and lose, or abandon, our confidence in God, in our ability to follow God, or in the community of God’s people. 

This may be where you are right now. If so, please know that you are not alone. And you are not as far away from home as you may think or as it may feel. The night is not your enemy. 

In fact, it never has been. 

Pre-fall, pre-sin, pre-conflict . . . the night was one of the original residents of Eden. Which means that in the beginning, walking with God required day-faith and night-faith. 

Our generation has simply lost that truth in our shared illusion that faith always needs full sun to flourish; in our unquestioned assumption that spiritual growth prefers the happy day and shuns the not-so-happy night. Consequently, we avoid the night, viewing it as spiritual-formation misfire or a senseless waste of time and potential.

This error is certainly not new, as even a brief reading of the counsel of Job’s friends can confirm. But in any age, when an error is elevated to the status of belief, creed, or doctrine, its power to undermine faith is amplified. Untruth can never heal. And truth—not optimism or daylight—is what genuine spiritual growth craves.

Denying the night’s place in our faith silences one of faith’s wisest teachers and creates an unsustainable version of what it means to follow Jesus.

But, facing the darkness together, I realized that night-storms are survivable when we view them as relational. 

So, if truth is looking a little fuzzy,
Or hope is sounding more than a little hollow.

If you are trying in vain to silence the questions,
Or find yourself each day just going through the motions.

If it feels like your faith is barely holding itself together,
Or if you have not felt anything in what seems like forever.

If you love God but are unsure if you still like Him,
Or are growing weary of those people who hang out with Him.

Please do not bail yet.
Join me in hope as we explore the gain in spiritual pain. 

Hope is really what my dad gave me on the front porch through many years of storms.

Yes, the night was dark and I could not see my way through it. But, facing the darkness together, I realized that night-storms are survivable when we view them as relational. 

Your nights are filled with holy invitations to grow your love for God. Love is refined—it is made purer and richer—through trust. On those front porches over the years, the storms could be scary. But my trust for Dad outweighed what I could see and hear.

So I encourage you to resist the urge to outrun or outgun your nights by moving faster, singing louder, or working harder to stuff your soul with distractions.

Instead, risk reclaiming the night as an unexpected friend. 

Your night will not last forever, but within it, there is priceless treasure that is too weighty to be held by sunshine.

[ Our humble thanks to Tyndale Refresh for their partnership in today’s devotional. ]