Hope Carried to Others - Light and Strength

As I sit beside my aunt on this quiet All Souls’ Day, the room feels hushed and sacred. The daylight has faded, and the darkness outside has begun to settle in thick and soft. The faint glow of a lamp pools in the corner, touching her face with a warm halo of light. Christian piano music drifts through the room — simple, slow, and full of longing. Her beautiful blue eyes, once so lively and curious, are dimming now, yet even in their fading there is something luminous, something that seems to look beyond me.

The care facility is mostly quiet and the shadows are dancing. I sense a presence deeper than sorrow, a peace that passes understanding. The light of Christ is quietly shining through the thin veil between this world and the next.

In that stillness, the words of Isaiah 40:28–31 echo in my heart:

“Have you not known? Have you not heard?

The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth.

He does not faint or grow weary; His understanding is unsearchable.

He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might He increases strength.

But they who hope in the Lord shall renew their strength;

they shall mount up with wings like eagles;

they shall run and not be weary;

they shall walk and not faint.”

I whisper the passage quietly as she dreams of a place she is going, but also of this life she has lived. I think about how those who hope in the Lord do not merely survive — they are renewed. Their strength is not their own. It comes from the One who never grows weary, who carries us when our own legs can no longer move.

The hope of light carries her now.

My aunt’s breathing is slow, deliberate, and fragile. I can almost see her surrendering, not to death, but into the hope of God’s arms.

The veil between earth and heaven is thinner than we think. I imagine the communion of saints — those who have walked this journey before — gathering in welcome, a gentle cloud of witnesses. Her mother and father wait for her carrying light. The darkness at the window cannot overcome the light that fills this space.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” — John 1:5

That verse from John’s Gospel feels alive tonight. It’s not just poetry; it’s a reality I can feel pulsing in the quiet room. The same hope-filled light that shone over the waters at creation, that led Israel by fire in the desert, that dawned in Bethlehem and burst forth from the tomb. This light is here now. It glows softly on her face, and it steadies my heart.

I find myself thinking about what it means to be a “hope carrier.” Hope carriers are not untouched by pain. They are not immune to grief or fear. Instead, they walk through the darkness holding the small flame of faith, trusting that God’s light will lead the way. My aunt was one of those souls, someone who carried light for others. I want to do the same.

Even in this moment of sorrow, I realize that God’s hope is not something distant. It’s not a promise that things will be easy, but that we will never be alone. Hope, as Isaiah describes, is renewal: a divine strength that comes when our own strength is gone.

Ignatian imaginative prayer is not simply reading Scripture, but entering it. God gave us imagination as a doorway to his presence. I close my eyes and try it now. I imagine myself standing in the world before dawn, the air cold and still. Then a light rises — soft, golden, and steady. It stretches across the horizon and fills every shadow with color. I feel its warmth on my face, and I know that this light is Christ. He is not far away. He is already here.

I imagine Jesus turning to me and saying, “Do not be afraid of the dark. My light is stronger.” I hold that image like a candle in my hands. Jesus is the hope-bringer.

As I sit with her, I also feel the rhythm of the Church moving toward Advent — the season of waiting and watching for the Light of the World. It feels fitting to hold vigil for her in this season of hope. Advent teaches us that light grows quietly, one candle at a time. Each week we light another flame, each one a sign that darkness is being undone.

This is what it means to live as a hope carrier: to carry the Advent light in our hearts even when the night feels long. To remind others — and ourselves — that God is near.

The light shining in this room is not only for my aunt; it is for me, for our family, and for all who grieve. It is the same light that will one day guide me through my own darkness. I think of how Christ’s light meets us in every season — in the hospital room, the graveside, the morning after loss, the laughter of a child, the blooming of a flower — whispering, “I am with you always.”

The Ignatian way of prayer encourages us not only to think about this truth, but to feel it, to see it, to imagine ourselves living within it. When I imagine Jesus sitting beside my aunt, holding her hand as gently as I do, my sorrow softens. I can picture him leaning close and saying, “Come to me, all who are weary, and I will give you rest.”

It’s not an escape from grief; it’s an encounter within it. Ignatian prayer helps me realize that God is not outside of this moment, God is at its very center.

Outside, the darkness continues to deepen, but inside, something brighter glows. The longer I sit here, the more I understand: the darkness is never absolute. The light of Christ is always breaking through.

When she finally takes her last breath, I know the darkness will not have won. The light that has guided her all her life will carry her home.

And I will carry it, too.

To be a hope carrier is to hold that same flame, to bear witness to the truth that even in sorrow, God’s love is stronger than death. The light shines in the darkness — and the darkness has not overcome it.

Going Deeper

Experience Ignatian Visualization of Light

 * Close your eyes and imagine yourself standing in the quiet of dawn. See the first rays of light breaking over the horizon. Feel that light as the presence of Christ.
 * Ask: Where do I need this light in my life today?
 * Picture that light touching a loved one, a fear, or a wound. Let it heal and warm.

Pray with a Scripture Meditation

* Read slowly [Isaiah](https://bible.usccb.org/bible/isaiah/40) [40:28–31](https://bible.usccb.org/bible/isaiah/40) and [John 1:1–5](https://bible.usccb.org/bible/john/1).
* Reflect: What word or phrase stands out to me? What might God be saying through that?

Use Music as Prayer

* Play or hum one of these songs:
* [“Be Thou My Vision”](https://youtu.be/Optrm7lF16s?si=PUoW8O18TVaLiCBz) — for seeing Christ as the center of your life.
* [“You Raise Me Up”](https://youtu.be/0-8Tp0IVSl8?si=t1GEkl52__jksfQK) — to feel the strength God gives in weakness.
* [“Light of the World” ](https://youtu.be/dCRunZGYBi4?si=OEsVdX96wnmoLya7)— for Advent hope and renewal.
* [“It Is Well with My Soul”](https://youtu.be/zY5o9mP22V0?si=ZJOy_ieBBtYGTYYO) — to rest in God’s peace amid sorrow.
* As you listen, let the lyrics and melody become your prayer.

Name an Advent Intention

* As you prepare for Advent, light a candle and pray:

“Lord Jesus, Light of the World, shine in my darkness.

Make me a carrier of hope for others.

Teach me to trust in Your promise,

and to walk in the light that no darkness can overcome.”

Photo by Fateme Yousofpour on Unsplash

Thank you!

The “Into the Deep” weekly blog is a free offering to live our mission of accompaniment. If someone forwarded this to you, please be sure to sign up at the bottom of this website page so that you receive an email each week with the new blog.

Comment!

If something our writers shared resonates with you, please feel free to write a positive and uplifting comment by scrolling down to the bottom of the page.

Support Us!
You can help support this free offering with a small monthly donation! Your recurring generosity enables us to continue building our home of accompaniment. If you would like to donate, please do so here.

Stephanie Clouatre Davis

Stephanie Clouatre Davis graduated from Loyola University New Orleans. Stephanie speaks to adults and teens around the nation at parishes, high schools, and dioceses in various venues including retreats and conferences. With humor, joy, and stories, Stephanie not only fully engages her audiences but also inspires them to challenge themselves and build a stronger relationship with God. She lives in Covington, Louisiana with her husband Michael and two girls Emma and Abby.