When the Shadow Will Not Let Go
Dear Savannah and Sutton,
There is a quiet courage in turning toward what hurts rather than away from it. Not to analyze it, not to fix it, but simply to acknowledge it without pretending it is something else. Because what we refuse to face tends to harden. But what we are willing to face can soften and become fertile soil for something new.
-Dad
Inside Out Lectionary Letters
Year A - 6th Sunday in Lent (Texts, Art, Hymns)
Passion Readings for March 29, 2026
Isaiah 50:4-9a / Psalm 31:9-16 / Philippians 2:5-11 / Matthew 26:14-27:66
Scripture as a Mirror of the Soul
Psalm 31 is a psalm of trust, but not the kind that avoids pain. Verses 9–16 sit in the middle of the psalm and give voice to an extended season of distress. The language is relentless: sorrow, grief, anguish, groaning, weakness, failure, rejection, slander, and fear. The psalmist is not describing a bad day or even a difficult season—it feels cumulative, like years of wear on the soul. Relationships have fractured. Reputation has eroded. The future feels uncertain. The inner and outer worlds both feel hostile.
There are times in the inner life when the shadow does not feel like a part of us—it feels like all of us.
The language of this psalm captures something that many of us recognize but rarely say out loud; the sense of being worn down over time. The quiet erosion of hope. The feeling of being forgotten, misunderstood, or trapped in patterns that don’t seem to loosen their grip. It is the texture of depression, of long-term anxiety, of grief that doesn’t resolve neatly.
And in those seasons, the instinct is almost always the same: to run, to hide, to numb, or manage the pain just enough to get through the day.
However, Psalm 31 does something different. It does not rush to resolution. Nor does it deny the pain. Instead it turns and faces it. And in doing so, something subtle begins to shift. The shadow side begins to change from antagonist to companion: From something I want to destroy, to something I need to hear. From something that embarrasses me to something that holds me in balance.
And then the hope that is birthed by trust is proclaimed in the prayerful declaration:
“My times are in your hands.”
This is not certainty. There is no guaranteed outcome. It is trust that even in the midst of unresolved pain, something larger is holding what we cannot yet hold ourselves. Turning toward the agony is not surrender to it, but the beginning of transformation. So, what if the willingness to face the shadow, the hurt, the fear—honestly, without panic—is what makes the ground within us tender enough for the seeds of grace?