When the Power Goes Out

When the Power Goes Out

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Did you know the human eye can see a candle flickering from over 1.6 miles away in complete darkness? That means even the smallest light has the power to pierce through the thickest night. And yet, when the lights go out around us, most of us panic, not realizing that the light that truly sustains us was never in the bulbs above but in the soul within.

There’s a big storm outside. O’ my Lord, the winds rage like wild spirits unchained, the thunder bellows with the voice of centuries, and the lightning dances across the sky like divine fingers pulling back the curtain of the heavens. The waters are beginning to rise, creeping into streets and minds alike. Then it happens the power flickers once, then again, and suddenly, silence. Darkness. Dang. We sit there for a moment, blinking, waiting, hoping, and when the lights don’t come back, a strange discomfort fills the room. We don’t just lose electricity we lose our sense of control. No air conditioning, no internet, no hot water, no television, no fans. We can’t get gas. We can’t charge our phones. We can’t hide from our thoughts. In just two hours, our nerves begin to fray like the ends of a worn-out rope.

Now imagine six days with no power. Six days of heat, stillness, silence. Six days of facing yourself with no escape route through distraction. And then, something begins to shift. What if that outage wasn’t just a physical blackout, but a spiritual invitation? What if the Divine Creator allowed the outer lights to go out so we could finally notice how dim our inner light had become? We’ve become so dependent on outside sources technology, comfort, routine that we’ve forgotten to stay plugged into the eternal current. Our devices are fully charged, but our faith is dying.

Our schedules are packed, but our prayers are few. We panic when the fridge goes off, but pay no mind when our compassion grows cold or our patience runs low.

I’ll never forget a night during one of those long blackouts. I was hungry and stubborn, and decided I’d toast a slice of bread over a candle using a bent coat hanger like some kind of urban survivalist. It didn’t end well. That bread lit up like fireworks on the Fourth of July. I dropped it, screamed, stomped it out, and ended up laughing so hard I cried.

There I was, in the dark, barefoot, holding half a spoon and a jar of peanut butter, thinking: “This is life now.” But in that absurd moment, I also heard something deeper a whisper from the silence: “Now that you’ve burned the toast and humbled your pride, are you ready to hear Me?”

See, the Divine Creator isn’t just present in the sunlight and calm He’s in the storm, too. And sometimes, He allows the world to go still and dark so that we finally remember the light we’ve ignored within. There’s an old parable about a village that had one great lamp lighting their square each night. It was fueled by oil that needed refilling daily.

 One day, everyone thought someone else had done it, and that night, the lamp didn’t light. The square was dark, and everyone stumbled in confusion, angry and lost. An elder spoke up and said, “You all love the light but forgot to tend to it.” That parable? It’s us. We love joy, peace, clarity but we forget to maintain our spiritual flame. We expect blessings without devotion. We want comfort without communion. We want the lamp to glow without pouring in oil.

When the power goes out, the Divine isn’t turning away He’s turning us inward. It’s in those moments of stillness that we see the truth: our strength was never in the wires overhead, but in the grace that sustains us beneath it all. We begin to notice the holiness of breath, the sweetness of stillness, the divine rhythm of the rain against the window. We begin to remember what it means to be human vulnerable, small, yet carried by something vast and eternal.

You know, my grandmother once said, “Sometimes the lights go out so your soul can light up.” And she wasn’t just being poetic. She meant it. Because when we are stripped of everything we lean on, we finally fall into the arms of the One who holds us. We stop rushing. We start listening. We stop scrolling. We start praying. We remember that peace isn’t found in the hum of machines it’s found in the whisper of the Divine. And suddenly, we become grateful not just for the return of power, but for the clarity found in its absence.

There’s a lesson in every flicker, every raindrop, every clap of thunder. The Divine Creator doesn’t waste storms. He uses them to reset us, to break us open and fill us with light that no outage can touch. And as you sit in the quiet, maybe sweating a little more than you’d like, maybe irritated, maybe tired take a moment. Ask yourself: what am I plugged into? Is my joy tied to comfort, or to something deeper? Is my faith real, or just ritual? And when this storm passes, will I return to distraction or remain connected to what’s eternal?

So here’s my closing word not a goodbye, but a reminder: when the lights go out again, don’t fear it. Welcome it. Light a candle, sit still, and whisper to the Divine Creator, “I see You in the dark.” Because the truth is, He’s always been there. Waiting. Loving. Illuminating. And now you are lit from within.