When I sold most of my possessions several months ago, one of the few things I kept was a mid-century modern crucifix that shows Jesus with both hands nailed above his head, kind of off to one side like Martha Graham or Jerome Robbins. It’s part of a “traveling alter” I set up wherever I move, and whenever I joke about it, I call him Rock Star Jesus, sometimes Jesus Christ, Superstar. Personally, I don’t think that’s blasphemous, although I probably would have at one time. Plus, I didn’t keep the crucifix because it’s a good joke. It actually means something to me.

There’s a story in the Acts of John that Jesus danced with his disciples the night before his crucifixion. When one considers that the cross represents surrendering personal will to divine will, this becomes a beautiful image. Jesus had so completely given up his own will, so surrendered to the father whom he trusted, that he could actually find joy in giving up his life.

That’s why I like Rock Star Jesus. He reminds me to surrender—joyfully.

Tonight I went for a walk around the neighborhood. I drank a lot of coffee this evening and felt like I needed to burn it off. It sort of worked, but about halfway back, the coffee really started working, and I thought, Uh-oh. Anyway, up until the coffee kicked in and I started power walking, it was a lovely midnight stroll. The full moon hung in the sky, the smell of honeysuckle drifted across the cool air, and I was kept company by the sounds of the crickets and the bullfrogs.

As I walked, I thought a lot about a book my friend Marla gave me last year called Learning to Walk in the Dark. The book is by Barbara Brown Taylor, a former Episcopalian minister who left the church, as I understand it, in favor of a more-encompassing form of spirituality. In short, Barbara proposes that although the term dark is almost exclusively associated with things that are bad or wrong or scary, almost all of us would agree that the times in our lives we have labeled dark are also the times that our souls have grown the most. So even though the dark is often unfamiliar and uncomfortable, it’s just as necessary to our spiritual path as the light is.

Tonight as I walked up my parents’ street, the street I grew up on and have walked more times than I can count, I tried closing my eyes. This is something I often tell followers to do while dancing. It helps put your focus more on what your feeling and less one what you’re seeing. But whether your dancing or walking along the road, it’s hard to do. I found tonight that when I’d close my eyes, my ears would immediately tune in to sounds I hadn’t noticed before—a train going down the tracks, my shoes striking the pavement, a church bell in the distance. But I could only go maybe a dozen steps without opening my eyes.

Going down a familiar hill, I tried putting one foot on the road and one foot on the grass. I can keep my eyes closed longer this way, I thought, I can see with my feet. But still, my eyes kept popping open.

It’s hard to trust what you can’t see.

Last September, Marla and I drove to Little Rock to see Barbara Brown Taylor speak as part of a lecture series at an Episcopal church. This is the sort of thing writers really get off on. It was like going to a rock concert. For over an hour, I sat on the edge of my pew in absolute wonder at Barbara’s ability to not only write and speak beautiful words, but also to accurately and compassionately comment on what it means to be human.

Go read the book (after you read this blog).

When Barbara finished lecturing, she opened the floor up for questions, and I jumped out of my seat and headed for the microphone in the middle of the room. First I thanked her for being there, then I brought up the story of Jesus dancing, and then I asked how a person could take joy during the difficult times in life. Barbara said she wasn’t sure that most of us have the same spiritual DNA that Jesus did, so it’s difficult. But then she said, “Obviously you’re going somewhere with this, so what do YOU think?”

So there I was stood, in a room full of people, thinking, Oh crap, I wasn’t prepared for this.

But I said, “Well, I’m really fascinated by this idea that Jesus trusted God so much that he absolutely knew that God had a plan. And I know that personally there are times that something happens—a breakup, a death—and I think, This is the worst thing. But then maybe a few years go by and I look back and think, That’s the best thing that could have happened. So the older I get, the more hesitant I am to label anything as bad. But sometimes I get frustrated that it takes so long to have that perspective.”

Barbara said that was called wanting a “spiritual shortcut.” Things take as long as they take and that’s where the growth happens. It’s not overnight, and it’s not right away. She said that sometimes when bad things happen, the best we can do is maybe drink a beer with a good friend.

I remember talking to my therapist that first time on the phone and saying, “Well if we can take care of everything in six sessions, that’s great, but I’m willing to come for a year if that’s what we need to do.” She said, “I’m just going to go with my gut and say it’s going to take a year.”

Here we are three years later, and even though the last three years have been full of challenges, I can’t tell you how glad I am that I didn’t take the shorter route.

So I think about shortcuts a lot. This time in my life feels like walking in the dark, stumbling along, trying to find my way. Some days I try to close my eyes and feel my way through it, but it’s hard to trust what you can’t see. It’s hard to surrender. It’s hard to dance when you know your old life is dying and you don’t have a promise of resurrection. It’s easy to want the difficult times to be over. I think that’s why Jesus said, “I don’t want to do this if I don’t have to,” like, “I don’t want to do this if there’s a shortcut.” But obviously there wasn’t. Shortcuts don’t really get you where you want to go. Resurrections happen on the long road.