In an era obsessed with high-definition clarity and curated perfection, Sarah Bessey offers a radical counter-narrative: that love is most potent when perceived through the blur of darkness. Her recent reflection on a solitary walk along the Prince Edward Island shore at night reframes spiritual and relational uncertainty not as a deficit to be fixed, but as the very medium in which grace operates.
The Luxury of Uninterrupted Time
Bessey begins by grounding her meditation in the tangible reality of a silver anniversary trip. She describes the days spent with her husband as "precious coins, doling each moment out with awareness of the privilege of both the place and the time." This framing elevates a simple vacation into a deliberate act of resistance against the fragmentation of modern life. The setting itself—a literary tour of L.M. Montgomery sites in Prince Edward Island—serves as more than just backdrop; it anchors the narrative in a tradition of finding profound meaning in rural, coastal solitude. As Bessey notes, "Beauty like a blessing at every bend in the road" was not found in grand gestures, but in the quiet rhythm of walking where "Nary a chain restaurant or Starbucks to be found." This choice of setting is crucial; it strips away the noise of consumer culture, allowing the reader to focus on the raw elements of wind, sea, and stone.
"Sometimes you just need to get a grip, girl, and get up and walk out the door."
The narrative turns when Bessey chooses solitude over comfort. Despite being exhausted, she rejects the easy option of room service to walk the beach alone on the summer solstice. This decision is not framed as heroic stoicism but as a necessary engagement with the unknown. She acknowledges her physical limitations—her near-sightedness and sensitivity to light—which forces her to wear sunglasses that obscure her vision as dusk falls. "I regretted my earlier choice of sunglasses," she admits, noting that everything grew dark while she remained on the shore. This moment of self-imposed blindness becomes the catalyst for her theological insight.
Seeing Through a Glass Darkly
The core of Bessey's argument rests on a reimagining of 1 Corinthians 13:12. She recalls the old translation, "For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face," and applies it literally to her experience of walking in the night without proper vision. Rather than lamenting the lack of clarity, she finds sufficiency in the mystery. "We do see through a glass darkly, that's just true, but we are experiencing love anyway and it is utterly sufficient for me." This is a powerful reframing: the inability to fully comprehend the divine or the future does not negate the reality of love's presence.
Bessey writes, "I'd rather hear what is true and pure even if it's not quite in 4K definition. I'd rather a hint, a taste of grace than an absence altogether." This preference for the obscure over the hyper-visible challenges our cultural obsession with data, certainty, and visual proof. She argues that this elemental knowledge "doesn't depend on scholarly articles much as I love them or seminary approved texts." Instead, it is found in the sensory experience of the wind and the sea. Critics might note that this romanticization of uncertainty could be difficult for those seeking concrete answers to suffering, yet Bessey's point is not to dismiss clarity but to validate the partial view we all inhabit.
"Basically, this isn't love as explanation, it is love as salvation."
The author connects this sensory experience to a broader spiritual reality, suggesting that God is present in both the light and the night. She lists biblical archetypes—the burning bush, the parted sea, the storm ceasing—as evidence of divine action occurring in moments of obscurity. "It is all the ways we are loving each other the best we can right now," she observes, grounding high theology in the mundane reality of human effort. The argument holds weight because it refuses to separate the spiritual from the physical; the salt air and the dark water become the vehicles for revelation.
The Human Element in the Dark
The piece concludes with a tender interaction that brings the abstract back to earth. Her husband, Brian, finds her on the shore and gently removes her sunglasses, replacing them with her clear glasses. "There," he says, "Now you can see everything." Bessey uses this moment not to dismiss the darkness she just experienced, but to show how love bridges the gap between partial sight and full understanding. The act of being seen and cared for by another person becomes the ultimate proof of her thesis.
She posits that even if we only perceive a "faded and out of focus" glimpse of grace, it is enough to sustain us. "Love through a glass darkly is still love," she asserts, emphasizing that the feeling of connection remains valid regardless of visual precision. This is a comforting counter-narrative to the anxiety of not knowing enough or doing enough in a world demanding total transparency.
"God is in all you can't even imagine and God is the making all things right just over the horizon."
Bottom Line
Sarah Bessey's piece succeeds by transforming a personal anecdote about poor eyesight into a profound meditation on the nature of faith and love. Its greatest strength lies in its refusal to demand certainty, offering instead a validation of the partial, dark, and imperfect ways we experience connection. While it risks oversimplifying the pain of those who feel truly abandoned in the dark, the essay ultimately provides a necessary reminder that clarity is not a prerequisite for love's reality.