WALKING ALONE AT EVE (WITH EVE): DARKNESS, DEPRESSION, AND THE DESIRE FOR GOD
For many years, I believed my family was born under a black cloud. Mental and spiritual struggles ran deep across generations. My grandfather died by suicide before my father could remember him, and my grandmother wrestled with depression and addiction, always reaching for something just beyond her grasp.
She pursued religious practices in search of relief. When they failed, she moved on. Eventually, prescription painkillers became her refuge, dulling the ache she couldn’t name.
My father and I share the same shadows. We’ve both experienced psychiatric care and know what it means to carry a darkness that doesn’t ask permission.
That darkness reminds me of the hymn Walking Alone at Eve, with lyrics by Thomas R. Sweatmon and music by W. A. Slater. Part of the early gospel tradition, the hymn draws from popular melodies of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Slater’s tune is simple, almost folk-like, and some suggest its popularity owes more to its cadence than to the strength of its words.
But I find meaning in that simplicity. Hymns like this linger not because they are perfect, but because they are familiar. Their plainness makes them easy to carry and return to in quiet need. Walking Alone at Eve may not be praised for its poetry, but it captures the feeling of moving through dusk into night, and the hope that something sacred still waits in the dark.
The hymn’s image of dusk giving way to night mirrors what I imagine Eve felt after being cast out of Eden: standing alone in the fading light, the sky dimming as the stars begin to rise. Her story lives in me, not as shame, but as a mirror.
I imagine Eve after the Fall, walking the edge of an unknown wilderness, the light behind her, the future unclear. She has long been blamed for everything that followed a single decision. But I don’t see her that way. As someone who knows the terrain of depression, I see Eve not as a temptress or transgressor, but as someone who longed to be closer to God.
In eating the fruit, she acted out of a deep yearning. It wasn’t hunger for power or rebellion, but for understanding. To see through God's eyes. To close the gap between Creator and created. The serpent’s words appealed not to vanity but to the ache of curiosity: “You will be like God, knowing good and evil.” And Eve wanted that closeness, even if she couldn’t predict the cost.
What she gained wasn’t just knowledge, but awareness—bringing both light and grief. In that moment, humanness took on a new texture. No longer innocent, but awake. No longer untouched, but reaching.
This is why I believe depressives, in particular, are children of Eve. We live with a void longing to be filled by God. We carry quiet questions: Why do I suffer? Why am I here? Where is God?
Maybe these are the same questions Eve asked, wandering outside Eden’s gates.
I have been thinking about how "eve," the closing of the day, and "Eve," the first woman, both carry the same weight of uncertainty. Both seem like endings. When dusk slips toward night, it feels as though the light is gone for good. In the same way, Eve’s choice in the garden has long been seen as the end of humanity’s glory.
But what seems an ending is often a beginning. Nightfall is not just losing light but starting our search for it. The Fall from Eden was the same. It opened the way for grace, teaching us to seek God not because we walked beside Him in perfection, but because we longed for Him in the wilderness.
There is a story from Sikh tradition called The Lantern’s Light that echoes this:
When the sun first began to set, people feared the darkness would last forever. But in one small hut, someone lit a lantern, refusing to surrender to the dark. Others did the same. One flame became many, challenging the night.
I think of Eve this way. Her choice was not the moment darkness swallowed the world, but the moment a small light sparked in the shadows. Her yearning for God did not end in the Fall—it grew stronger. Like those lanterns, we too can bring light into places where shadows gather. Each step toward God, each brave question, becomes a flame that holds back the darkness.
In the garden, God’s presence surrounded them, woven into every tree and breeze. After the Fall, that nearness had to be sought. God’s voice, once familiar, became distant.
And in our world, there’s not just one forbidden tree. There are countless distractions, false promises, and easy comforts. The fruit is everywhere now. And God’s voice, though still present, is harder to hear.
Here, Walking Alone at Eve speaks clearly.
Walking alone at eve and viewing the skies afar,
Bidding the darkness come to welcome each silver star;
I have a great delight in the wonderful scenes above,
God in His pow’r and might is showing His truth and love.
In the quiet dusk, the hymn reminds us God is not absent. He is present in the slow unfolding of night, in the stars that pierce the sky. Just as Eve learned to listen differently after the garden, so must we. Depression, though painful, often becomes the place where we most urgently seek God. In that seeking, we see His love through a new lens.
I imagine Eve learning to walk with God again, not in a garden of perfection, but in the dust and silence of a changed world. Her faith was shaped more by exile than innocence. In Eve walking into the night, looking at the stars, I recognize my own journey.
The hymn’s second verse deepens the mood. The walker is no longer walking. Now they are still.
Sitting alone at eve and dreaming the hours away,
Watching the shadows falling now at the close of day;
God in His mercy comes with His Word He is drawing near,
Spreading His love and truth around me and ev’rywhere.
The shadows fall, and the stillness becomes a space to dream. The world darkens, but God draws close, not with noise or drama, but with mercy. He comes with His Word, quiet and constant. His love surrounds the speaker, just as it must have surrounded Eve as she sat with the knowledge of all she had lost, and all she still hoped to find.
The night is overwhelming for many of us who suffer. For depressives, it can be when the weight presses hardest. This verse reminds us the shadows carry God’s soft, steady presence.
The third verse takes us deeper into intimacy:
Closing my eyes at eve and thinking of Heaven’s grace,
Longing to see my Lord, yes, meeting Him face to face;
Trusting Him as my all wheresoever my footsteps roam,
Pleading with Him to guide me on to the spirit’s home!
This is the turning point. No longer walking. No longer sitting. Now, the eyes close in trust rather than despair. The speaker rests in the dark, longing for God’s face. This is not resignation. It is surrender. It is a soul saying, “God, I trust You.”
To close your eyes and think of Heaven is not to escape. It is to choose hope. It is to say that even in the darkest night, there is a home being prepared. There is a God who still calls your name.
My family’s experience with depression has taught me we are not lost causes. We are seekers. Like Eve, we may have chosen hard paths, but we never stopped longing for God. Her story is not just failure. It is boldness, desire, and the cost of awareness while choosing love.
It is because of Eve’s choice that we are able to experience God’s grace the way we do today. God did not love her less after she ate the fruit. He loved her more. He walked with her like He walks with us.
Our mistakes do not define us. Each time we turn from the serpent to God, we grow stronger. Each time we ask our questions instead of hiding from them, we take a step closer to grace.
We can walk the shores Eve walked, whether cloudless or storm-filled. Even when we cannot see stars, moon, or sun, we believe they are still there. We must choose to find Him. And trust that as dusk turns to night and night turns to dawn, a beautiful day may follow where we will all sing:
O! for a home with God, a place in His courts to rest.
Sure in a safe abode with Jesus and the blest;
Rest for a weary soul once redeemed by the Savior’s love,
Where I’ll be pure and whole and live with my God above!
