The woods can be magical, most any season. In winter, I like to tread along ice-edged streams, moist paths lined with ground ivy and resilient ferns. My eyes inevitably look up at towering trees, lean in expectation of warmer days to come.

Yellow Creek State Park, where the lake becomes an icy mirror reflecting the winter sun, is one of my favorite places for snowy walks. I missed doing that this year.

All the more reason to recall past outings, mostly on long summer days.

When Jim and I met, he described a stay at Seph Mack Boy Scout Camp, bordering what was then a lazy stream, before the lake was created in 1969.

Part of his initiation into the Order of the Arrow was camping alone in the woods. He was led to a secluded spot by another scout after being tapped out—selected to spend a night in the dark. Even as a kid, Jim was braver than I’ll ever be.

As he remembers, he could take along his sleeping bag and that was about it. Maybe a flashlight. Details are hazy, but from the moment he was tapped until noon the next day he wasn’t permitted to speak a word.

This came after he completed other steps demonstrating he was worthy of one of scouting’s highest orders. When I asked him about that night alone he said, “I don’t remember being stressed about it; it was an honor.”

I would have shivered until dawn, wondering what creatures might be on the prowl. (At nine months pregnant, the only copperhead I ever saw was on a sun-splashed, rocky bank of Yellow Creek lake.)

When I was a church camp counselor, I took kids on overnights around campfires, but a co-counselor always accompanied me. That companionship made a world of the difference. If I was a little apprehensive, I don’t think our campers knew it, they simply trusted us to take good care of them.

We are born into the human family and need nurture and love to thrive. Bishop Desmond Tutu writes that our natural tendency is to cooperate and help one another; it’s the only way we survive. Despite the inhumane ways we treat each other, we’re interlinked; it is other people who help us become human. (Love: The Words and Inspiration of Mother Teresa, p. 4.)

A quote on the book’s back cover adds, “I am what I am because of who we all are.”

Without you, I am less. People throughout my life have imprinted my character with elements of their own. Each connection—a grocery store cashier, a child swinging on the playground, a radiologist at the cancer center—enables me to become more human and humane.

It is hard to conceive of living without human contact. From that first smile as a baby, we yearn to be known and accepted by people. Jim’s solo overnight as a teenager would have been drastically different if he wasn’t returning to friends the following morning, even if he wasn’t permitted to talk until noon. The denial of communication reveals how important it is.

I don’t know if he prayed that night, but I have no doubt I would have! It’s innate to seek hope beyond the natural world, especially when overwhelmed with darkness.

1 John 1: 15 NLT promises, This is the message we heard from Jesus and now declare to you: God is light, and there is no darkness in him at all.

Even when I can’t see the light, I have enough evidence to know it’s there.

I depend upon faith and a web of family, friends and medical folks to help me reach the other side of this weary winter. The sweetness of companions, sharing meals, conversations, and communal moments of silence—this is what it means to be human.

Our days are shaped by the cycle of changing seasons. Do you sleep more and find yourself more isolated in the winter? The return of Daylight Savings Time brings an end to our sleepy hibernation, offering more afternoon and evening sunlight for outdoor visits with neighbors.

Spiritually, I’m walking through Lent believing the obstacles I encounter on this cancer journey are gifts in disguise, refining me to reflect more of heaven’s light where it is needed. I pray that’s true for you, too.

A doctor recently read my test results and said, “It’s hard.”

I nodded. “Yes, it is.”

That was enough to know he cares. God’s constant presence is mine. It’s not an abundance of words but a depth of heart that light the way when the woods are dark.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Cancer/Indiana Gazette