I have a countdown app on my phone that lets me know how much time I have left on this earth. Currently, I’m at 58 years, one month, and nine days until the date of my demise. I suppose that’s a little odd, and begs the question of how I even found the data to make such a countdown.
When I was in a family class in college, our professor had us fill out a form that gave a guess as to how long we were going to live. It used family history, health, and lifestyle information to make an educated guess as to how many years we might last on this earth. If I remember correctly, my number was 113.
Around that time, two of my great-grandparents passed away at the age of 99. They were both heavy smokers, but somehow lived to be nearly 100. And my great-grandma on the other side was still alive and healthy (she eventually passed away at the age of 101). All four of my grandparents were still living, and were in reasonably good health. My parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins were all pretty healthy as well.
When I combined all of that information in a very unscientific manner, I decided that I was going to live until the age of 100. Somehow, that number stuck in my brain, and I kind of accepted January 21, 2079, (the day I will turn 100) as the approximate date of my demise.
As the years passed, and I began to experience all of the hardship life throws at us, I started to really get excited for the fact that this world is not my home. I love my life and it is full of so much beauty. But like most of us who have put our trust in Jesus, we look forward to a day when our trials are over and we get to go home. Heaven is a place of rest, joy, exploration, and all things new. It’s finally seeing my Savior face-to-face and giving Him a really long hug.
When the hard days came, I began to remind myself that home is coming. Therefore, when I got a smart phone, it only made sense to add a countdown so that I could always be reminded of how much time I left. Not exactly so I would know what I have left to endure, but so I could make each day count.
Obviously, I know that the exact date is quite arbitrary. I could pass away tomorrow from an aneurysm, or I could live to 120 (though my life insurance company doesn’t exactly think that’s likely). But having a countdown has been good for me because: a) It reminds me that there is an end-date, and that I should make the most of each day, month, and year; and b) it makes me feel funny and quirky and provides a good (if slightly morbid) topic of conversation. 😊
In the midst of all these hardships of life, I’ve prayed for many years the words of this hymn: “Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it; prone to leave the God I love. Here’s my heart, Lord, take and seal it; seal it for Thy courts above.”
I know my weaknesses; I know my failings. To my shame, I know from experience that it doesn’t take long for my life to steer away from Jesus. Hard times cause me to question Him. Good times cause me to simply forget His presence in my life. I want to be on a trajectory that’s constantly bringing me closer to Jesus, but I’ve found that it doesn’t take much more than a nudge to get me off course.
It’s because of this that I’ve prayed that hymn repeatedly. I do love Him; I want to be close to Him. I have experience after experience that has caused me to know that my life is infinitely better with Him. So, I’ve asked Him to seal my wandering heart to His over and over again.
As you know, depression is something I’ve been fighting consistently for several years. I’ve had good days and bad days, but overall it’s been a constant struggle. Recently, I finally realized that depression may be something I struggle with for the rest of my life. When I realized this, my first response was despair. It feels so hopeless, so daunting. Those 58 years I have left are terrifying. But then God gently reminded me of this hymn that I’ve prayed for years. He reminded me that when I’m depressed is when I’ve felt closest to Him. I’ve had to rely on His strength to get me through each day, each hour, in order to simply function. His Word has brought me comfort. Wandering away hasn’t even been a temptation in those times because I’ve been clinging so tightly to Him.
So, if depression is what God is using to seal my heart to His, then I will embrace it gladly. Because not only does it bind my heart to His, He also heals my heart at the same time. It’s not as if some all-powerful being is using my pain to make me subservient to Him. Instead, a loving God is using something in my life that is awful to draw me in to His arms every day. He seeks me in my pain, and He heals it.
Just like the Apostle Paul prayed that God would take away whatever his “thorn in the flesh” was, I’ve prayed that God would take away my depression. And maybe, in time, He will answer that prayer. But for now, I find comfort that, like Paul, this “weakness” makes God strong in my life. I have a Comforter that will never abandon me and holds my in the midst of my darkness.
And if depression is what it takes for my heart to be sealed to God’s for all eternity, then I will walk the next 58 years with strong hope in the midst of sorrow. I will wake each day with an Advocate who will fight on my behalf. I will cling to Him, knowing that the “courts above” are waiting for me, and that He has sealed my heart to His.
Last week, I returned from spending a week in the beautiful country of Haiti. I know – it’s a terrible time to travel. But my friend, Morgan, was moving back to Haiti, and I chose to travel with her to help her move and get settled in. Being away from my family during such a crazy time wasn’t easy, and in addition to that, I’m isolating from them now that I’m home, just in case I picked up COVID during my travels. It’s not fun, for either Josh, myself, or the kids, but it was worth it to us to help Morgan and have an opportunity to see her world.
There are many things I learned or was reminded of on my fourth trip to Haiti:
I’m not as scared of lizards as I thought I was.
It’s worth it to pay the money to ride the horse up the mountain instead of hiking it–especially if you’re over the age of 40.
A moto (small-scale motorcycle) can carry any combination of four humans, three humans and three goats, or two humans and a big screen TV.
I am terrible at learning new languages.
A house that is not lived in for seven months will play host to a large number of banana spiders, lizards, and tarantulas.
Avocados can grow as big as a toddler’s head.
Always bring more cash.
You CAN seat 15 people in a minivan in 90-degree heat, and it is done on a regular basis in some parts of the world.
Tour guides can be aggressive and territorial.
The back spot on the moto is the least comfortable for your butt, but most comfortable in terms of personal space.
In addition to this, I was reminded of another very important fact — road maintenance is a luxury I am very thankful for.
During our time traveling to Haiti and also within the country, we spent a lot of time on a variety of different roads. Interstates, highways, side streets, dirt roads, runways, rock roads, streets with trash burning in the middle of them, wide-open roads, traffic-congested streets, and trails that simply bypassed the road because the road itself was so terrible. As we spent many hours on these roads, it became pretty clear that road maintenance in many parts of Haiti is minimal at best.
As this wasn’t the first time I’d spent a lot of time on Haitian roads, this wasn’t a surprise to me. In fact, more surprising was that there are actually some pretty nice roads in some of the areas we traveled, and my butt was quite thankful for those parts.
But as we were bouncing along one day, I began to reflect on the importance of maintenance (despite the fact that my brain was drumming against my skull). That morning I had woken up simply feeling really down and depressed. There was no obvious reason why – it wasn’t the normal time of the month when I get depressed, I was feeling good, I was eating fairly healthily, and I’d been having a great time. But sometimes this happens – sometimes I just wake up feeling depressed for no clear reason.
Right now, I’d say that I’m in “maintenance mode” with my depression. I recently adjusted the level of my anti-depressants, and that change allowed me to feel great on a pretty much everyday basis. I haven’t had many down days, no suicidal thoughts, and I’d been handling stressful situations well (such as packing and preparing to leave my husband and kids for over a week in the midst of a pandemic and hybrid schooling). I’ve spent the past couple of years working hard at getting a handle on my depression, and right now it’s (finally) fairly smooth sailing. It took a lot of REALLY HARD work to get here, and I’m enjoying it immensely.
But here’s the thing about anything we build in life – it has to be maintained. If you think about the roads we went on in Haiti, most of them were full of washed out areas, giant holes, mud pits, and rocks. Driving a four-wheeled vehicle on the roads was a slow process – it was faster to take a moto because you could dodge the holes so much easier. I’m guessing that at some point when those roads were first built, you could go over them fairly easily. And as I said, there are actually some roads that are currently in great shape. But it’s entirely possible that by the next time I go to Haiti, those roads could be full of potholes and cracks as well, because the likelihood of them being maintained is so small.
The same is true with depression. I’ve done the hard work. I’ve changed significant things about the way I live my life. I’ve prayed, studied, eliminated major stressors in my life, found medical solutions, consulted with friends and professionals – basically I paved a brand new road for my mental health.
And now that I’m in “maintenance mode,” I know that doesn’t mean I can just sit back and ride it out, or try to go back to life as it was before. Instead, I take stock of where I’m at and how I’m feeling on a regular basis. I keep an eye out for cracks and warning signs. I’m aware of potential pitfalls that may come and how my mental health may be affected by them. I wish I could say that my depression is something that I’ve been healed from. I’m sure that’s possible for some, but so far it hasn’t happened for me. I’ve realized that this is something that may be with me long-term – possibly all my life. And so I’m learning what it means to maintain my mental health.
For me, that looks like paying attention on those days when I wake up feeling down. It means knowing that often simply eating something is a helpful tool for fighting that feeling. It means looking at the calendar and being aware that there are usually certain times of the month that are more difficult and preparing for that. It involves knowing that sometimes a walk with a friend will get me out of a funk, or that doing something financial helps me use a different part of my brain and causes my thoughts to shift. It’s being aware of what foods I’m eating and how that affects how I’m feeling. It’s reading Scriptures that have given me strength before, and crying out to God when I feel overwhelmed. It’s reaching out to a few key friends to ask for prayer. It means knowing my limits and saying no to things that will push me past an acceptable margin – and knowing when it’s worth pushing past that margin occasionally for the right reasons. It’s knowing when to consider jumping back into counseling or scheduling a med check-up with my doctor.
So that morning when I woke up feeling down, I ate breakfast, took my meds, told Morgan how I was feeling, and texted Josh to ask for prayer. I didn’t allow the depression to hijack my day – though there are days when that has definitely happened! But I addressed it in ways that I knew would help, and as the day went on, I slowly began to feel better. The next day was a little easier, and within a couple of days I was feeling great again.
Maintenance is all of these things. It involves awareness of the problem on a subconscious level — a willingness to acknowledge that the problem hasn’t gone away, but also acknowledging that some major battles have been fought and won to get me to this point. And it involves knowing how to address the minor problems that come up, before they become major problems again.
Maybe you’re still in the midst of the battle, but I pray it gives you hope to know that it’s possible to hit a “maintenance mode.” Keep fighting for it, and when you get there be sure that you actually do the work to maintain the ground that has already been won. Trust me, it’s a beautiful place to be.
One question I asked more than once as a kid was, “Why don’t we still have miracles like they did in the Bible?” I grew up hearing stories of seas and rivers being pushed aside to allow an entire nation to pass through, Jesus healing blind men and lepers, and thousands of people being fed by a little boy’s lunch. Looking around me, I didn’t see God doing the same things He had clearly done so long ago, which led me to question why the miracles hadn’t continued. My own kids have asked that question as well. And in reality, it’s probably one that most of us have wondered from time to time.
I’ve heard many different answers to this question, many of them valid and true. Some say it’s because miracles still happen, but we simply don’t see them because our eyes aren’t opened to it. Others say we don’t have enough faith, so how could miracles occur? I’ve also heard that the healings and major miracles of the Bible provided validity to the message of Christ; they were needed in order to prove that He was who He said He was, and to prove that the apostles also had the power of Christ. Now we rely on the testimony of others instead of miracles.
I’ll not argue with those statements – they make sense of a difficult question. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in recent years, it’s that miracles happen daily — I continually see the power of God present in my life, in situations that could only occur through His power.
That’s a pretty bold statement, and you may be rolling your eyes in skepticism, or possibly anticipating some amazing, dramatic stories. I hope I don’t disappoint too much – I don’t have any dramatic tales to recount. But I do have evidence of a life lived following the Holy Spirit, and my need for Him each and every hour.
The past couple weeks have been pretty rough for me emotionally. That’s fairly typical for me around this time of the month, if you know what I mean. 😊 But this time the depression has been a little stronger, my doubts a little heavier, and my struggle a little more poignant. Every day I look in the mirror I notice that I’m getting a little older and a little flabbier. Wrestling through school at home has had huge swings of stress and relief. Tensions between Josh and myself have been high – we’ve had very little quality time together lately. Parenting a teenager and two pre-teens gives us some stressful moments with our differing opinions on how to handle situations. I alternate between feeling pointless, overlooked, and overused. In addition to this, I’m exhausted – my brain is throwing thoughts at me like a strobe light every night before bed and every morning when I wake up – and when I’m sleeping my dreams are vivid and stressful. And to be honest – I just want to be ALONE much of the time.
But miracles never happen unless there is a need. When our lives are going well, what need do we have for a miracle? Do we seek supernatural help when all is right in the world? No, we seek it out when we are at the end of our resources, and know that the only answer is one that God Himself can provide.
And so, in these times of desperation, when I feel hopeless and desire a way to escape from it all – that’s when I see miracles every hour.
There’s an old hymn that goes, “I need Thee, oh I need Thee. Every hour I need Thee. My one defense, my righteousness. Oh, God, how I need Thee.”
That’s where I’ve been – needing Him every hour. And every hour, He’s given me a miracle.
This past week, I was angry at Josh for the way he had handled a situation with one of our kids at bedtime. I don’t even remember the specifics of it, though I do remember he was angry with me too – I think because he felt undermined by my response. Instead of yelling at him, I just gave him a cold look and went upstairs. My mind was raging with one critical thought after another – my brain jumped from dwelling on his ineptitude as a parent to the fact that he doesn’t mow the lawn often enough to the way I have to do everything around here. I knew I wasn’t doing him justice – he truly is a great husband and father – but my anger and my self-righteousness were having a heyday with my brain. I wanted to yell and scream and rage. I wrote in my journal all the terrible things I wanted to say to him. I tried to read my Bible to get me back on course, but the words could barely register in my highly emotional brain. I took a melatonin to try to get myself to just go to sleep, but I just couldn’t. Josh came to bed awhile later, while I was still pretty worked up. And while my greatest desire was to lay into him with all the ways he has failed me, a miracle occurred.
I simply asked him to pray for me.
And he did. He laid down his anger toward me. I laid down my anger toward him. He prayed for me and I sobbed and sobbed. All the emotion and all the rage melted away in my ugly tears and snotty nose. We went to sleep together, not healed completely, but at peace with one another.
If that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is. To me, this is just as much evidence of God’s presence in our lives as a healing that happens in a room full of witnesses. This is just as miraculous as God providing money when it’s needed, healing when it’s impossible, or finding a close parking spot at the grocery store. 😊
If God can be present in our lives to the extent that His Holy Spirit enables us to make the choice to love when it seems impossible – I call that a miracle. When two people lay down their anger and their pride to pray for one another – I call that a miracle. When I pull myself off the couch to play with my kids, even though I’m exhausted beyond belief – I call that a miracle. When I truly listen to my son’s opinion on something instead of forcing him to conform to my plans – I call that a miracle. When I choose grace when I have been hurt by another – I call that a miracle. When thoughts of suicide and escape plague my mind but I choose to dwell on truth instead – I call that a miracle. When I listen to the Holy Spirit whisper, “There’s a better way. Follow me.” – I call that a miracle. Maybe many of you can do these things on your own. I probably could to some extent. But for the most part, I am a person who needs the constant presence of God in my life to help me make wise choices and to choose love over my selfish desires.
Every hour – sometimes every second – I’m faced with these choices to die to myself and to live for others. Often, I fail and make the wrong choice. But when I do choose love, I know it’s only because the power of the Holy Sprit enabled me to do so. And I consider that a miracle of extreme power.
Throughout the course of my life it’s become clear that if left to my own devices, I would fall into sin over and over again. The truest miracle here is not just that the Holy Spirit helps me to make the choice to live for Him daily, hourly – it’s also that the inevitable sinfulness of my past, present, and future has been fully covered in God’s grace. He has the power over sin and death, and He has chosen to use that to rescue me.
So maybe it’s time for us to start looking for miracles in a different way. When God shows up, maybe it’s most often in the small ways that no one else may ever see – a choice to yield to another’s desires, following a prompting to befriend a stranger, listening to truth instead of lies, or choosing grace when it’s the hardest thing in the world to do so. Those “small” miracles may take even more power than a mighty healing, and in the end may have just as much impact in a person’s life.
Last week I shared a lesson I had learned long ago about The Silence of God. Today, I want to share another experience in which I learned about listening to God. This one fills me with shame, because I left this moment in time with an incredibly deep sense of regret and missed opportunity.
But first, I want to share a story from Scripture about a man named Elijah. Elijah was a prophet of God in the Old Testament who had the privilege of very publicly proving the power and majesty of God to the Israelites at a time when most had turned away from Him. As an unfortunate result, Elijah angered a few key enemies and had to run for his life. He fell into a deep depression (isn’t it interesting how our highest times are often followed by our lowest?), and an angel of the Lord came to comfort him and strengthen him. (Read the full story in 1 Kings 18-19.)
As Elijah was dwelling in a cave at the mountain of God, the “word of the Lord came to him.” And God simply asked him a question: “What are you doing here, Elijah?” Elijah replied by stating the facts that were currently assaulting him: “I have been very zealous for the Lord God Almighty. The Israelites have rejected Your covenant, broken down Your altars, and put Your prophets to death with the sword. I am the only one left, and now they are trying to kill me.” And God simply replied, “Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.”
The story continues, “Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave.”
I can’t imagine being in Elijah’s shoes. The fear, the awe, the unexpected ending – Elijah had experienced a holy moment.
In the same way (except much less powerful, scary, and awe-inspiring), I can recall a very specific time when I had the opportunity to experience the still, small, gentle whisper of God.
Several years ago, my mother-in-law went to Colorado to take care of my nieces and nephew while my sister-in-law and brother-in-law went on a much-needed vacation. Because I knew these beautiful, amazing, very energetic children would be a bit of a handful for one person, I offered to come along and help as well. It was a great opportunity to spend some time in my favorite place, as well as with some of my favorite people.
One afternoon when the younger two kids were taking a nap and the oldest was in school, my mother-in-law (who knows me well) suggested that I take advantage of a few free hours to go enjoy a hike in the mountains. I readily agreed, grabbed my backpack, and headed off to a trail I’d been wanting to hike for a while. I knew I’d be cutting it close – I had to be back in time to pick up my niece from school, and it was about a thirty-minute drive between the trailhead and my sister-in-law’s neighborhood. But I was pretty sure I could make it happen.
I made it to the trailhead in great time, and started to hike my way up the mountain. It was beautiful, as expected. At one place there was a great overlook, so I spent a few minutes there, enjoying the gorgeous views and the blowing wind. Then I kept going, keeping a close eye on the time and the trails app I had on my phone, making sure I’d have enough time to make it to the top. I knew it would take a lot less time to hike back down the mountain, but I was definitely starting to cut it close. But I REALLY wanted to make the summit, so I picked up my pace and pushed myself as hard as I dared. Finally, I made it to the top, and I allotted myself a few minutes to enjoy the view, climb around, and take some pictures. I kept looking at the time, and it was incredibly windy, which only added to the frantic feeling I was experiencing. I really didn’t want to be late picking up my niece, so I hurried away from the summit pretty quickly.
Oddly enough, as I was turning to go, the wind stopped. It had been windy for most of my hike, especially at the summit. But suddenly there was complete and total stillness. There was no one else around – I had seen no one else on the trail all afternoon. I was alone, on the top of a mountain, and it was completely still and silent.
And like the idiot I am at times, I turned away, walked down the mountain, and completely missed a uniquely holy moment.
Within a few minutes I regretted that I hadn’t stayed where I was, removed my shoes, and spent some time in worship. I had been so worried about the time, my obligation to my niece and my mother-in-law, and never letting anyone down, that I had let those concerns trump my deeper need for communion with my Savior. I didn’t trust that He could have cared for those small concerns. I even had a way out – my mother-in-law had assured me that if I was running late that she’d pick up my niece. But I had created too many habits of control and independence over the years that I couldn’t change my plans to accommodate an unexpected opportunity that had arisen.
Once that first twinge of regret came, I could have turned around. But part of me was certain the opportunity was already lost – and the other part of me was still a slave to my need to DO ALL THE THINGS. I had squeezed every minute out of this free afternoon that I could, and there wasn’t any margin for changed plans and quiet moments with God. Honestly, the whole situation was quite parallel to the way I was living my life in that season – running on empty, maximizing each minute in my day so that every box on my to-do list could be checked off – with no space for the unexpected.
As I processed that experience over the coming days, I regretted more and more my decision to ignore that still, small voice of God. Even now, I’m quite convinced that I missed something incredibly important, and I wish I could go back and change things. But one thing is sure – I learned an important lesson in listening to God. I learned that I have to let go of my agenda, and be ready to follow His. Yes, my obligations are important. Yes, I need to live a life of action and not sloth. But I also need to be ready to drop my schedule and my to-do list, and sit at His throne when He calls. If I do not, I will miss some of the most important things in life.
The beauty of the story of Elijah is that immediately after Elijah heard the gentle whisper — the still small voice of God — he still didn’t quite get it. God asked Elijah the question He’d asked him before, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” And Elijah had the EXACT. SAME. RESPONSE. He’d just experienced the presence of God in a mighty yet gentle way, but still He struggled with the circumstances of his life. He had a physical response to the voice of God, but the reality was that he was still struggling. His life was still in danger; he still felt discouraged and alone.
But God did not shake His fist at Elijah in anger. Instead, He showed the love and grace that we know stems from His very heart. He told Elijah where to go and what to do next. He gave him the path forward for a new king and a new friend to come alongside him in his ministry. And he reassured him that no matter how alone he felt, God still had many of His people who had not yet given into the way of the world.
To me, this speaks volumes for the way God relates to us in our missed opportunities. He gives us these beautiful moments to see Him in a new way, yet sometimes we’re so distracted by the “stuff of life” or the heartache we’re trying to heal from that we miss the very source of healing that Jesus offers. And instead of berating us or giving up on us, He sees our pain and our misdirection, and He gently pushes us forward and reassures us in a new way.
My heart still breaks that I missed a holy moment with my King. And I know that I’ll never get that particular opportunity back on this side of heaven. But in his infinite grace, God has provided other holy moments. And though you can be sure I will still fail many times, my eyes are now open wider than they were before and my life is being lived at a much slower pace. I now have margin so I have less of those missed opportunities. I pray the same for you.
Last weekend I had the opportunity to spend some time with my sister and nieces at a beautiful cabin in the Colorado mountains. We had a great time laughing, hiking, resting, and playing together. As a bonus, I also got to spend a little time with my sister-in-law, her husband, and my other nieces and nephew. The time with family was refreshing.
Even beyond family, though, there is something about being in the mountains that always feels like coming home to me. Despite many prayers over the years, God has never said “yes” to us moving to Colorado. In many ways, I’m really ok with that – I love our home, our community, and our village of friends. It would be very hard to move away from that. But a big chunk of my heart is in Colorado, and some of my deepest moments of growth have happened in the shadow of a mountain.
That’s why this past weekend, on Sunday morning, I hiked up the mountain behind the cabin to worship and spend some time alone with Jesus. While there, I was again reminded of some important lessons I’ve learned through my experiences with God in the mountains – experiences that have directly shaped the intimacy I have with Jesus. And intimacy with Jesus is not a phrase I use lightly. Through my deepest struggles over the years, especially with depression, that closeness with Jesus has been what has pulled me through. It has been an anchor that has held me to the Truth, even when my heart, mind, and body were overwhelmed with sorrow and struggle.
So I want to share these experiences with you. Perhaps you desire to seek God out, and if so, I pray you’ll bear these things I’ve learned in mind. However, if you have to learn them on your own, I understand that too. The lessons we learn for ourselves are often the hardest, but they stick the strongest. But I will still share my stories here, because I want to bear witness to the things God has taught me.
First let me say, however, that in all the things I’ve learned and heard from God over the years, Scripture has been the truest and most reliable way for me to hear Him speak. Consistent time in His Word has filled me and reminded me of the truth of who Christ is. It’s stretched me and challenged me, given me comfort and peace. It’s been the measuring rod of truth for every emotion and conviction I’ve had. Any time I believe I’ve heard God speak, I’ve measured it against the truth of Scripture because I know that my thoughts are fleeting and my heart is easily swayed. Scripture is an anchor for me.
All that being said, I want to share with you three stories of times I learned very important lessons on the topic of listening to God. I don’t think I’ll include them all in this specific post – that would take too much time. But today I want to get started with a time I learned about the silence of God.
Many years ago, before Josh and I had kids (so maybe 17, 18 years ago?), I was at a bit of a low place in my relationship with God. I don’t remember specifically what was going on, though based on the timing I’m guessing our struggle with infertility was part of it. I mostly remember feeling almost compelled to go and spend time with God in the mountains. In my arrogance, I thought that if I spent some time and money to “go be with God,” that He would be so honored by my efforts that He would show up and speak to me. I was certain that my time with Him would lead to clear direction for my future and lots of warm fuzzies. 😊
So I went to Estes Park, and spent several days hiking, reading, and praying. In many ways I absolutely loved it. It was restful and peaceful. Rocky Mountain National Park is one of my favorite places on the planet, and I loved hiking the trails and being in nature. But the reality was, that despite all the time I had poured into God, I truly felt that He was silent. He hadn’t shown up. He didn’t speak to me. He was there, I suppose, but there was no “aha” moment or deep life-changing word from God. I felt that He had held back from me what I had been seeking.
On my drive back home through Western Kansas, I became increasingly discouraged and angry. And I laid out my hurt before God. I told Him that I didn’t understand why He had been silent. I had put myself out there. I had invested money and time in order to hear Him and spend time with Him, and it felt like He had barely shown up. I told Him that if that’s the kind of God He is, that won’t show up when I put effort into spending time with Him, then I wasn’t sure that He was a God that I wanted a part of. His silence had been painful, it had hurt, and it led me to doubt His love for me.
I fully believe that God can handle it when we rail against Him. He wants us to be honest, and He’s big enough to handle our doubts, our complaints, and even our arrogance. But that doesn’t mean that He won’t put us in our place when the situation requires it. And as I laid out my case against Him, that is exactly what God did.
As I was about an hour away from home, I could see a thunderstorm forming in front of me. At this point, I had pretty much decided that my relationship with God was going to have some big changes. I couldn’t trust Him anymore. I couldn’t give my life to a Being who didn’t show up when I showed up. But as I drove into the thunderstorm, in the final leg of my trip, about as far away from the mountains as I could get, I finally began to hear God speak.
The thunderstorm was vicious. It was loud. There was incredible wind, blinding rain, large hail, and thunder and lightning that pounded the sky. I quickly pulled over – there was no way to drive through this. And as I sat there, a tiny insignificant creature at the mercy of a simple Kansas thunderstorm, I clearly heard God say, “Yes, I am here. I have always been here. But I am mighty. I am powerful. And I will speak when I want to speak, and I will be silent when I want to be silent.”
And then, as the storm moved away, a double rainbow filled the sky, touching the ground on both sides of the interstate. This wasn’t the setting I had imagined God would use to speak to me, but perhaps because it was so out of place is why I remember it so clearly. And in the rainbow I heard the promise from God that He would always be with me. That He loves me with an everlasting love. That despite my arrogance and my desire to set up the perfect way for Him to speak to me, He alone is God. I am not. He may be silent at times, but the promise that He is there is always true. He is worthy of my life, my praise, and my submission to His leading in my life. I can trust His power in my life as much as I can trust His love. No, He didn’t speak in the way I’d hoped. No, He didn’t give me a clear and definite path forward – at least not in the way I’d expected. Instead, He showed up in His time and in His way and reminded me that in the midst of the silence and in the midst of the storm, He is there, and He is mighty beyond my understanding.
And that is what I needed to hear from Him the most.
When I started this blog, one thing I intended to write about is the medical aspect of my depression. I’ve hesitated a bit to share this, because frankly, I’m not a doctor. I have no medical experience or training. In fact, most medical procedures make me a bit light-headed. When my mom injured her collarbone in a skiing accident, I was in the hospital room when the doctor tried to shove it back into place. I was just standing there watching, not bothered at all, and then suddenly I realized I was kind of woozy and that I might faint – not my finest moment. 😊 I can tell myself all about mind over matter, but at some point my body and my mind separate and I just can’t handle some things. Clearly, the medical world is not the best place for me.
The other reason I’m hesitant to share is that I don’t want to give false hope. Depression comes in many forms and for many reasons. Just because I found answers in the route I took, doesn’t mean that is the route for everyone. I still maintain that healthy coping skills, learned through a trained counselor, can have the biggest impact in your ability to survive depression. A healthy community of friends and family who support you is equally important. And I promise you a deep relationship and dependency on Jesus is what got me through this more than anything.
However, despite my reservations and caveats, I do feel compelled to share a bit of my story, in hopes that it might help someone else who may have a similar source of their depression. I may not be anything close to a medical expert, but I have lived in my body for 41 years, and I had a front-row seat to everything that had an effect on my battle with depression. I studied my symptoms and every attempt at a cure very closely. I balanced the insights and input from multiple doctors with my own careful observations. I am NOT an expert on your situation, but I can definitely tell you what I learned about mine. I hope in some small way that it helps.
Several years ago, when I finally realized that I was truly struggling with depression, my husband gave me some very wise advice. He suggested that I start to keep track of how I was feeling on a day-to-day basis. In a small notebook, I started recording daily how I was feeling. I created a number scale that helped – “1” meant I was extremely happy, “3” meant I felt good and pretty normal, and “10” meant I was suicidal. Between “3” and “10” was a broad range of varying levels of depression. Eventually I also added a similar scale for anxiety, as that became more and more pronounced. Along with the date, I also included the day of my menstrual cycle. This really helped me track and confirm the fact that the severity of my depression had a very direct correlation to the cycle my hormones were undergoing every month. Over the course of time, I had gone from having a few days of PMS-like symptoms each month, to three solid weeks of hard-core depression each month. I had suspected hormonal issues all along, but to see hard evidence was simultaneously daunting and empowering.
Armed with that information, I spent months (and beyond) pursuing a solution. I met with my therapist as well as trusted friends and mentors. I read books and took a personal retreat to Colorado for a time of reflection and rest. Eventually I took a leave of absence from my job, and then quit my job when it was clear that would be best for my mental health. But alongside the spiritual, mental, and emotional healing I sought, I knew there were physical issues that needed to be addressed.
Over these months and years, I saw/spoke to several doctors, received guidance from nurses, tried multiple medications and supplements in varying dosages with all their side effects, had one trip to the ER, and underwent a lot of testing to help determine my underlying issues. None of it was easy. I had to balance advice from multiple doctors, friends who had tried supplements and oils that worked for them, and well-meaning people who advised that if I simply exercised more I’d feel better. There was one day where I saw both my functional medicine doctor and my primary care doctor within an hour of each other – both who are individuals I highly respect – and I had to weigh their separate advice and make the decision for myself what was the next best step forward.
I could detail all of this for you – and to be honest I started to, and then deleted it all – but seriously it’s really long. So here’s something of a (still too long) summary and advice that hopefully will help you understand the physical aspects that may be involved with an individual’s depression.
The first bit of advice is to be persistent and patient when pursing the medication that’s right for you, as it could take awhile to find the right one. I have several friends who had success on a low dose of the first medication they tried. I was not so lucky, but it’s good to know that it can happen. I tried three (maybe four?) different medications at varying dosages over the course of several months. Each had awful side effects for me – the main side effect being extreme tension and anxiety. I was jittery a lot, my legs would shake anytime I was sitting still, and stress sent me into a tailspin. Thankfully, my primary care doctor and his nurse were amazing at helping me walk this road. Eventually I took a DNA test that helped determine the best medication for me. That medication still had those side effects, but I learned to live with them and adjust dosages when the side effects became too pronounced. I am still on that medication now, and it truly does help me to be more stable and to get through the worst days. If you do get on a medication, be sure to read the side effects closely. Some will go away in time, but others are dangerous – serotonin syndrome is a real and scary thing. You have to be the one who cares for yourself and is aware of what you’re feeling… and voices your concerns over and over again to doctors as needed.
The other thing I would say is to look carefully at underlying issues that may not even seem connected to depression. When I hit a point where my medication was working, but I still wanted to figure out what was going on, I decided to see a functional medicine doctor based on the advice of several friends. He used a heavily-scientific approach, testing various systems of the body to see how symptoms might be connected. I really appreciated the scientific approach he had – I was afraid he was just going to tell me to stop eating gluten and call it good (which would be sad, because I really love bread!). Unfortunately, this was an expensive process, but we had health account money that had to be used by the end of the year, so we did it. I’m not saying you have to do this – I certainly don’t have it in the budget anymore, so I know that it’s not realistic for most – but it is wise to look beyond medication as the only physical cure.
Because I had kept track of my depression and my cycle alongside it, I was 99.9% sure that my depression was based on my hormones. More than that, though, testing revealed that it was really gut issues that were the root cause of my hormonal imbalance and my resulting depression. For most of my adult life I had dealt with acid reflux, and had been on acid reflux medication for at least five years just to keep me from a constant upset stomach. I had also taken a stool softener for years on the advice of a nurse practitioner because I had intestinal pain from an over-abundance of gas. That, combined with a diagnosis of SIBO (Small-Intestinal Bacterial Overgrowth) – an intestinal infection – meant that my digestive system was seriously struggling. On top of that, the tests showed that my iron levels were too high, my cortisol levels were tanked (that’s from years of living a ridiculously stress-filled life for too many years), and my liver was inflamed. All of those things explained many weird and annoying issues I’d had over the years – things that my doctor could never quite figure out.
Interestingly, it was the intestinal infection that proved to be at the root of most of my problems. Research and my experience with medications showed that depression often happens when our body doesn’t produce enough of the hormone serotonin. What I hadn’t realized is that serotonin is primarily created in the gut. And because my gut wasn’t healthy, my brain couldn’t be healthy. Years of antibiotics for various reasons, along with band-aid medications for reflux and gas, had created a very unhealthy balance of bacteria in my digestive system. I had far too much bad bacteria, and not nearly enough good bacteria. In addition to that, reproductive hormones are closely tied with gut health, which may have contributed to my years-long struggles with PCOS, PCBS, PMDD, infertility, heavy periods, and inconsistent menstrual cycles.
So my functional medicine doctor helped me fight my gut infection with supplements, though I imagine my primary care doctor could have done the same thing if he’d realized that he needed to look deeper at my digestive issues and their ties to my depression. I took supplements that fought the infection, while also taking probiotics to replace the bad bacteria with good. I stopped taking my acid reflex meds and stool softener. And then, over the course of the next few months, some remarkable changes happened… that landed me in the ER. I know, I know, that doesn’t sound good, but really, when we sat back and figured it all out, it was actually a sign that my body was healing.
You see, once my digestive system started healing, my body began to create its own serotonin again. Which was amazing! However, the only way we figured that out was when I started having some strange situations where I started passing out/nearly passing out. I got incredibly dizzy, disoriented, couldn’t sit up straight, and it usually happened right after I ate. When it happened pretty severely one time, we decided to go to the ER. Unfortunately, all they did was run a bunch of tests, say I was fine, and look at me like I was crazy for taking supplements. But when I saw my primary care doctor the next day, he was quickly able to see that the issue was serotonin syndrome—an excess of serotonin in the body. He immediately lowered my very high dosage of anti-depressant. I had been on 225 mg, and I went down to 75 mg within a few days. And suddenly I was back to normal. As we reflected on what happened, and conferred with my functional medicine doctor, it became clear that my body had finally started developing its own serotonin, so it no longer needed such a high boost from my anti-depressant. The combination of my own serotonin, plus the excess from the anti-depressant had flooded my body with too much serotonin, hence the passing out and other weird symptoms.
Over the coming months our money for health expenses ran out, so I stopped seeing my functional medicine doctor. It was a hard decision, but we just couldn’t afford to keep going when insurance didn’t cover any part of it. But I have been able to maintain my gut health through probiotics. It’s actually interesting too the other ways my body changed during this time. I used to be cold ALL THE TIME – now I actually get hot. I also gained ten pounds – not my favorite change, but I think my low weight before hadn’t been healthy in some ways. I also developed seasonal allergies, oddly enough. So my body clearly went through some not-so-great changes, and unfortunately I never was able to ask my functional medicine doctor where all that came from. However, my depression has been manageable, and I even reduced my anti-depressant dosage again. I’ll take ten pounds and some seasonal allergies if it means that my depression is under control.
I have noticed that when I’m on a lower-quality probiotic my depression gets worse, so I have to be careful to buy something that has the right ingredients (note: high quality doesn’t necessarily mean more expensive, but you do need to look for the right things – ask me if you need some help finding something).
In addition to this, on the advice of his therapist, we started to give our son who had struggled with depression a probiotic designed for kids. That small change made a big difference for him too. In hindsight, he had been on antibiotics several times one year because he had recurring sinus infections, and the probiotic helped him build up the good bacteria in his system again. As a result, he became a much happier kid and didn’t have the down moments he’d had for so long.
Trust me when I say, I’m not selling something here. I don’t have a link for a probiotic or supplements that would benefit me or a friend. I buy my probiotics on Amazon, because I like my free two-day shipping. 😊 I just want you to know that although anti-depressants, therapy, Jesus, friends, and family are all VERY important parts of the healing process, there may be some underlying medical issues that are worth looking into. Our culture is not exactly known for healthy eating, and our medical world is very quick to throw a prescription at any symptom that may pop up. In fact, there’s even more to my story than what I’ve already shared, including anti-anxiety meds, a not-so-great neurologist, CT scans, a brain scan, and a recommendation of anti-seizure meds despite inconclusive results. Navigating the medical world was no easy task for me, even when I had a primary care doctor who I respected very much. Despite all that, I’ve learned that the systems of our body are interconnected, and there is wisdom at looking at the whole picture of your health when trying to get to the bottom of mental health issues.
All this being said, I know I still have a lot to learn. I still struggle with PMS and its accompanying depression some months, though usually just for a few days instead of three weeks. I’m still on a low-dose of my anti-depressant, and plan to be on it for the foreseeable future. I’ve had to try out various probiotics and ways of eating when things have seemed a little off. And realistically, I’m a 41-year-old woman. I have years of fluctuating hormones ahead of me and I honestly don’t know what to expect with that. I know I will have to adjust and adapt and keep learning about the systems of my body and how I can keep myself healthy both mentally and physically.
But I’m thankful I have a way forward. And when depression hits hard I have coping skills that I’ve learned to help me fight it. I have Truth I can rely on when the voices of self-hatred start. I have people I can confide in who willingly walk this road with me.
I pray the same for you.
As always, if I can help in any way, or if you want more information, please feel free to contact me. The worst thing you can do is keep quiet when you need help. There is no freedom in silence.
Fair warning: When reading this post you’re going to have to stifle themiddle school boy inside you. I know, I know. The use of the word “but” creates so many opportunities for jokes, elbow nudges, and giggles. I am the mom of three boys, so trust me that I see the danger in the use of this word in any context. BUT (see what I did there?), I have confidence in your maturity. Or at least, I have confidence that you can pretend to be mature for a little while. 😊
Over the years of my faith, I’ve found much comfort in the Word of God. I’ve also found heartache, confusion, challenge, hope, insight, wisdom, rebuke, direction, and much, much more. It’s not an easy book to read, because it dives deep into your heart and mind, requiring a response to the most important questions you’ll ever encounter. Within that has come wild comfort in my darkest times. My journals during my times of deepest depression are filled with scripture after scripture that showed me how deeply God understood my pain, and how desperately He wanted to be my salvation within it.
One passage that has stuck with me for many years is Psalm 13:
“How long, O Lord? Will You forget me forever? How long will You hide Your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and everyday have sorrow in my heart?
How long will my enemy triumph over me?
Look on me and answer, O Lord my God.
Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death;
my enemy will say, 'I have overcome him,'
and my foes will rejoice when I fall."
Many times, I have been able to connect with the honesty and the vulnerability shown by the author of this psalm. He even goes so far as to demand an answer from God in the midst of his angst and sorrow. The fact that this is recorded in the midst of a book of worshipful psalms says to me that God is not afraid of our sadness, our hopelessness, our pain, and our questions. He can handle our doubts and our fears, and does not shy away from us when the pain of life overwhelms us.
However, the psalmist doesn’t stop here. He continues:
"BUT I trust in Your unfailing love;
my heart rejoices in Your salvation.
I will sing to the Lord,
for He has been good to me.”
The author reaches inside himself, recalling the things of the past that his God has done and the ways He has come through for him. And he chooses to remember that God is faithful. He elects to sing to his God, trusting that in the midst of the sorrow and pain, God has brought salvation, and will continue to do so. It’s a deliberate choice he makes, and the use of the word “but” is powerful here. Life is incredibly hard right now, BUT I will choose to trust the One who has proven Himself trustworthy.
In addition to this, Jesus Himself spoke words of comfort to His disciples on the night before He was crucified. After explaining to them the trials and the joy that were imminent, He said, “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. BUT take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)
And Romans 5:6-8 shows God reaching to us at our lowest point: “You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man someone might possibly dare to die. BUT God demonstrates His own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”
Ephesians 2:1-5 illustrates this as well: “As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins, in which you used to live when you followed the ways of this world….BUT because of His great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions.”
These are just a few examples of how God does not use logic the way He could, but instead reaches to us in our lowest times. Scripture is full of these, “but God” moments. If you read closely, you’ll find that God’s logic consistently bends in our favor. He does not say, “You tried your hardest, BUT it wasn’t enough.” He doesn’t say, “I love you, BUT you still must pay this price.” He doesn’t say, “You are my child, BUT you must learn to walk on your own.”
Instead, He whispers and shouts over and over again, “Life is hard. Sin is impossible to overcome. You will have pain on this earth. BUT TAKE HEART! I have overcome the world! I am your salvation! You don’t have to strive – I have already paid the price that will redeem you from the pit. I love you with an everlasting love.”
You see, He uses this one little conjunction that could be construed as a negative, and instead switches it to the positive – using it to reassure us of His deep love and salvation. It’s beautiful and poignant and brings me peace. I am so unworthy of His love, but He gives it so freely.
I could end this here. However, I feel led to comment on the misuse of this word. I’ve seen a sad theme lately among many of my friends and acquaintances, and it has broken my heart. I don’t think it’s done out of hatred or unkindness, but maybe simply confusion and a lack of perspective.
As you know, there has been a huge momentum swing for the black community over the course of the past month. Years, decades, and centuries of abuse, neglect, bias, and racism have come to a head, and the world is finally starting to realize that there is a real issue here. I am heartened by so many of my white friends and family who are standing with and using their influence to fight for those who have been marginalized and damaged by systemic racism. We are reading, learning, listening, and doing our best to come alongside our black brothers and sisters – joining them in their battle and validating the pain they have felt. We are confronting our own white privilege and trying to understand our role in changing the story.
Unfortunately, some of the story is being lost by this word, BUT. We are intelligent people, so we want to see all sides of the issue. And social media will certainly give you all sides of the issue if you have any diversity at all in your friends and acquaintances. So, what started as people standing together in the face of injustice and racism quickly shifted to:
“I know they are suffering, BUT they shouldn’t be rioting, causing physical damage, and being violent.”
“That police officer shouldn’t have used excessive force, BUT if the perpetrator hadn’t resisted arrest then none of this would have happened in the first place.”
“There are definitely some bad cops out there, BUTmost are good.”
“I know protesting is important, BUT why do they get to gather in large groups when I can’t go to a graduation or a baseball game?”
Honestly, there is great truth and logic in many of these statements. BUT are these statements helpful? I would argue that no, they are not. These statements shift our attention away from the true issue. This is what is called a “red herring.” Whether intentional or not (and I truly believe/hope that most of the time it’s unintentional in this setting) a red herring is something that is misleading or distracting from the true issue at hand. Yes, absolutely, most cops are good and noble and I’m incredibly thankful for the work that they do to keep us safe, BUT that’s not the main issue right now. The main issue is that blacks have been systemically oppressed for centuries and it is time to take the next step toward changing that. I agree that Rayshard Brooks made some poor choices by getting drunk, grabbing a taser, and running away from police, BUT this situation is a symptom of a much bigger problem with the way a police system is designed to interact with those who are struggling. I agree (along with many of the black community) that violent and destructive rioting undercuts great strides that have been taken and is simply wrong, BUT I can also see that many have felt unheard for so long that they feel they have no other way left to fight a system that has persecuted them.
When we use the word “BUT” in the context of this conversation, can we dare to use it the way Jesus would? When I was in college one of my most memorable assignments was to go through the gospels and record the way Jesus interacted with people. This paper I wrote was life-changing, because it was overwhelmingly clear that true and genuine compassion is what radiated from Jesus in his interactions with people. He did not say, “I’m sorry that you are crippled, BUT because it’s against the rules to do work on the Sabbath, I can’t help you.” Instead he flipped it and said, “Yes, it’s the Sabbath and it’s against the rules to do work today, BUT my love is much stronger than the rules.” He had a way of getting at the heart, and keeping the main issue at the forefront. I believe that if Jesus were standing here today, His heart would be one of compassion for each person He interacts with on every side. I believe He would say, “I see your pain, BUT I am with you.” “I see the oppression you have lived under, BUT I will walk this road with you.”
Could we shift the way we use the word “but”? Could we choose to end such statements in a positive way? Could we simply see the issue for what it is, instead of distracting with other issues that may not be directly connected? Can we lay down our rights, our arguments, our sense of righteousness, and instead use logic that flows in favor of the downtrodden and oppressed? Can we choose to not be distracted by side issues, in the same way that Jesus did not get hung up on our sin but instead willingly laid down His life so that we could live?
Our brothers and sisters are crying out in pain. Pain that they did not deserve but instead inherited, just as we inherited some of the guilt for the way this system operates. Let’s not say, “I see your pain, BUT maybe it’s not as painful as you think,” or, “I know this is wrong, BUT isn’t this other issue wrong too?” Instead, let’s say, “I see your pain, BUT I will walk this road with you. I won’t minimize your pain. I will do all I can to change this broken system.”
I readily acknowledge that I find myself making the same mistake many times in my interactions with others. I make judgments based on logic that stems solely from my own perspective. But today I have been reminded that our God has the highest sense of justice and righteousness. He is the creator of our moral code, and the one who has the highest right to call us to accountability for our sins and double standards. BUT He also has the highest sense of love and compassion, and that love and compassion are what prompted Jesus to die for every single one of us. May I show the same love and compassion that He shows, and lay down my right to be right, so that others may live. I am not saying that we excuse sin, injustice, or the other issues of the world, but that we look at each of these things from a perspective of grace, just as Jesus does.
I’m going off-topic today. I have something rolling around in my brain, and although this blog is primarily about my fight with depression, I hope you won’t mind a little sidetrack about something that very directly affects me and my family.
You see, I have an adopted son who is biracial. His birthdad is black, and his birthmom is white. He’ll be twelve years old in a few days, and he is hilarious, goofy, witty, intelligent, creative, charismatic, ornery, timid, energtic, brave, messy, thoughtful, athletic, sensitive, loyal, and lazy — yet hard-working when you least expect it. He hates school and loves his friends. He loves to play basketball and football, and is constantly on the move. Anything that requires him to sit down, be still and focus is like torture to him (hence the hatred of school). He’ll be in sixth grade this fall, his last year of elementary school.
I also once knew another boy who reminds me a lot of my son, Jonathan. This boy was named Zach, and he was also the middle of three boys in his family. Zach had A LOT of the same personality traits that Jonathan has. I think a lot of the words I used above to describe Jonathan would apply to Zach when I knew him best as a middle and high school kid.
I don’t remember specific details, but when Zach was in middle and high school, I know he got in trouble a few times. He was a good kid from a solid, Christian family, who were supportive of the school and community. But he made some mistakes and got in trouble a few times at school. He didn’t like to follow the rules, he pushed the limits, didn’t go for the clean cut look (his hair was REALLY long at one point), had a very diverse group of friends, and he didn’t like school — so he tended to act out and get in trouble from time to time. Nothing too major as far as I remember, but I do know it caused his mother quite a bit of worry along the way.
Zach was a great kid, and is now a husband to a beautiful wife, dad to two beautiful girls, a coach, and a high school teacher with a master’s degree. He had his problems in his growing up years, but his strong family, his faith in God, and a community that cared for him helped him surmount any obstacles in his way.
I have often looked at Zach, seeing his similarities to my own son, and it has given me hope that it is possible for Jonathan to succeed in life. I know that even though Zach had some rough years that caused his mother to get on her knees quite a bit, he made it through and is now a successful young man who serves his community and his church. And I hope for the same for my son.
However, I reflect on this today because there is one difference between Zach and Jonathan that shouldn’t matter, but unfortunately it does.
Jonathan is biracial. Zach is white.
And I fear that could make all the difference.
If Jonathan goes through some rough years when he enters middle school and high school, will the color of his skin cause teachers, administrators, youth leaders, police officers, and bystanders to fail to offer the same compassion and grace they showed a white boy several years ago? Will he have the same support from his community that Zach had? If he’s not athletic enough, smart enough, or makes some poor decisions, will he be knocked further down, or will those who support him give him a hand to lift him up? Will there be underlying, undetected racism that directly impacts the course of his life?
I truly don’t believe that very many in our community and school district would willingly and knowingly treat our young man different than a white child of a similar personality. However, many of us don’t truly realize the underlying prejudice that guides our thoughts and actions. I myself have had to evaluate and reevaluate my thought processes over the years since I became the mother of a precious biracial boy…and I’m ashamed to say that what I’ve found dwelling in my mind has not always been what it should have been. I have attempted to purge every hint of racism out if me, yet I know I still have room to grow. I would maintain that very, very few of us are completely innocent in the way we view and treat others who are different than us, as much as we would wish to claim that we are.
So my question remains…what does the future hold for my curly-haired, brown-eyed, dark-skinned son? And not only him, but the other children of his skin color who maybe don’t have the shadow of a loved one’s white privilege to protect them? Will their mistakes be given a disproportionate response because of the color of their skin? Will they be shown grace and be allowed redemptive opportunities so they can learn from their mistakes and become strong young men and women who contribute to the community? Or is our culture so lined up against them that they will be running uphill their whole lives, never able to stumble for a moment because our culture will never allow them room to fail?
I do not want to read about another Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd or Trayvon Martin, where a disproportionate response and unjust punishment was inflicted on a human being simply because of their skin color.
I do not want my son’s story to end like those I have read before.
I want my son to be treated the way Zach was treated — a kid who struggled, but was lifted up by those around him and was given grace and the opportunity to try again. He faced the consequences of his actions, but those consequences were not unjust or unreasonable. He was not required to sacrifice the fun, ornery, and intelligent parts of his personality in order to fit into the society around him. He was given guidance to help him become a man who is now a responsible, contributing member of our society and who loves Jesus with all his heart.
Can we do that for the Jonathans of our world? Can teachers approach them with grace and allow them the freedom to fail and try again? Can police officers treat them as they would a fine, upstanding young white man who made a mistake and needs to learn from a failure? Can we come behind these young men and women, encouraging and lifting them up in prayer, seeing them the way Jesus sees them?
Please, please, please join me in some soul-searching in how we perceive others. Ask God to search our hearts, showing us the hidden prejudices we didn’t know existed. Ask Him to heal our hearts and our culture.
When I became the mother of a bi-racial boy, I had no idea what I was doing. My exposure to and my understanding of systemic racism was minimal at best. Honestly, I still don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m trying to learn. Please, learn with me. Grow with me. The only way our world changes is if we change first.
Embarrassing Story Time! 😊 I have a bit of an embarrassing story to tell, but because it very directly pertains to the subject of mental health, I feel compelled to share it here. Please know that I am NOT making light of what some people struggle with on a daily basis. Instead, my goal is to transparently share my absurd story, in hopes that others can see what my eyes were opened to – that although panic is at times very illogical, it is still very real.
This spring, we decided to buy a pool for our backyard. It became clear that even if the pools do open this summer, we probably won’t want to go hang out with large groups of people who spit, pee, and wipe their runny noses directly into the water. Yuck.
So we scoured the internet for the best deal, ordered our 15-foot Intex pool, forced our children to watch YouTube videos about pool maintenance, found out our order was never going to be delivered because it was damaged in transport, ordered another pool, and finally received the blessed box that promised to contain several summers’ worth of entertainment for our family.
Despite the fact that it was April and barely 70 degrees, we wasted little time in opening that box and setting up the pool. We found the most level spot in our yard, spread the ground cover, and got to work putting it together. Then we turned on the hose and watched in anticipation as it very slowly filled with 3,841 gallons of water.
As it filled, we noticed that maybe our ground wasn’t quite as level as we first thought. In fact, once the pool was full, we could see that one side was about two inches lower than the other. It didn’t seem like too big of a deal, though I was rather nervous in some ways – especially since that one side of the pool seemed to be bulging out quite a bit. And that side of the pool was closest to our house.
However, we pretty much just ignored it and let the kids play in the freezing water for a couple weeks.
Then it rained one day – a lot. We have a pool cover, and by the time the rain was done, the cover was filled with quite a lot of dirty, nasty water. Josh, Micah and I attempted to pull the cover off of the pool while allowing the rain water to be funneled over the edge of the pool. Unfortunately, water is really heavy, and we failed in that attempt. What we did accomplish was to move the cover with all that heavy water to one corner of the pool – the corner that was already strained because it was holding more water pressure than it was designed to.
THANKFULLY, the wall of the pool didn’t collapse. However, the support posts sunk drastically lower in the ground, and it became clear that if we didn’t drain and move the pool, we could have a disaster on our hands.
As we drained the pool and watched all of that precious, perfectly balanced and chlorinated water run out of the hose onto the street, I was quite discouraged. We had wanted to do this really fun thing for our family, and we had pretty much just messed it up. Because it was going to be cold for at least a week, we let the mostly empty pool sit for a while until we could summon the energy required to sufficiently level the ground for Attempt #2.
This past Saturday was finally the day when we were ready to try again. We got started mid-morning. First, we emptied the rest of the water out of the pool, and then moved the pool and the incredibly nasty tarp off the rancid, awful-smelling grass underneath. Then we started the process of adding some dirt to make a level surface.
There’s an area under our treehouse that has long-been considered the “dig area.” This is the place where the kids were allowed to dig when they were little. It’s also the only place the dog is allowed to dig, but he hasn’t quite gotten the memo on that yet, unfortunately. Anyway, this area is where we put excess dirt when we happen to have it from some project, or we also pull dirt from it when we need it for another project. So obviously, since we needed dirt, this is where we dug from.
Apparently, however, some earthworms had been making this area their home for quite some time. As Josh started digging, he remarked on the amazing number of worms, and how we should use them for fishing sometime. Although I don’t really like squirmy things like worms, and I especially hate snakes, I didn’t really think too much of it. I have a garden, and I’m used to coming across the occasional worm. In fact, when I see one I’m usually kind of excited because I know how good they are for the soil.
I wasn’t prepared, though, for the sheer number of worms that were in that dirt. As Josh filled up the wheelbarrow and moved it to the area we were leveling, my task was to break up the dirt clods and spread out the soil with a rake. However, I was quickly revolted by the number of worms. There were so many! Every time I hit a dirt clod with the rake, there was another one (or two or three). And some of them were HUGE! I was trying to be careful because I didn’t want to kill the worms, which almost made it worse. Every time I saw a worm, part of my brain would freak out because it was so disgusting and sneaky. The other part of my brain would say, “But they’re so good for the soil. Be nice to them!” I kept making weird comments and noises, trying to laugh off my extreme aversion to the worms. I tried trading tasks with Josh, thinking that if I did the digging it would be better than breaking up the dirt clods, but it was just as bad. I found myself almost retching, but then laughing at myself and trying to tough it out. I don’t see myself as a squeamish person, and I can generally fight my way through most things. It was an insult to my pride that I was being so dramatic about it, and that I couldn’t just suck it up and push through it.
I kept pushing myself to keep going, and then after one more disgusting dig, I finally gave up, ran to the house with my arms flailing like a windmill, and said, “I can’t do it anymore!” I yelled inside for Micah to come and take my place, walked to the middle of the yard, and then I laughed at myself, and then I couldn’t breathe, and then my legs were shaking, and then I was leaning over with my hands on my knees, and then I was bawling for no apparent reason.
In short, I had a full-on panic attack…over earthworms.
As I said before, I try not to be a dramatic person. I try to tough things out and I’m a really hard worker. I understand the power of mind over matter. But there was something about that particular situation that sent me into a panic attack. It made no sense. It was completely illogical. It wrecked me for a few hours – at first I was shaky and couldn’t walk without help for a while. I was on edge, completely exhausted, and embarrassed. I kept my sense of humor and was able to laugh at myself, but it continued to have an effect on me. I kept replaying the whole experience in my head, and apologized to Josh multiple times for being so dramatic. His words of comfort were so helpful though. Despite the fact that I felt like I’d had a ridiculous reaction to an absurd situation, his simple response was, “It’s still very real, though.”
And that is the truth. Despite the fact that I had an extreme reaction to a simple stressor, the reality is that my physical and emotional response was very real. It wasn’t something I did for attention. It wasn’t a choice I made to overreact. I wasn’t trying to get out of work. The reality is that my body and my mind had a very extreme reaction to a seemingly benign situation.
As I was sitting on a patio chair, recovering from my first-ever full-fledged panic attack, it struck me how incredibly difficult this must be for those who experience this as a normal occurrence – and especially for those who have traumatic memories that are triggered by small, seemingly harmless situations.
That afternoon I reflected on the fact that this definitely goes in the top five worst experiences in my life. I don’t actually have any such list, but if I did it would probably be on it. It was miserable and it was awful and I never want to experience it again. But I’m thankful in some ways, because I was given a very, very small glimpse of what some struggle with regularly. My sense of compassion and empathy is expanded because of this experience, which is why I chose to share about it here.
If you have a loved one, friend, or even acquaintance who has struggled with a panic disorder, I hope that my sad, slightly humorous story has allowed you a brief glimpse into what a seemingly illogical reaction might feel like for that person. I know it has definitely given me a new perspective. And if this is something that you personally struggle with, I’d love to hear more about your perspective if you’re willing to share.
You’ll be happy to know that our pool is now level and full again, and that my children are currently freezing their butts off in there at this very moment. And although I doubt I’ll ever swim in it without thinking of the large number of worms crawling in the soil beneath it, I’m looking forward to joining my children soon – once the weather gets above 75 degrees. 😊
This morning, one of our ministers spoke about one of my favorite stories – Shadrach, Meshach, & Abednego. He even pronounced Abednego correctly (or at least what I would consider to be correctly), and that made my day. 😊 If you haven’t had a chance to read it (or watch the VeggieTales version 😊), I highly recommend you take a look at Daniel 3 in the Bible.
One of the main points that Kris made in his sermon was this: the furnace may be intended to destroy, but instead God uses it as a forge for our faith.
Our son, Jonathan, recently tried to create a forge in our backyard. He had an old fork that he really wanted to turn into a dagger. So he built a fire in our backyard firepit, feeding it with sticks and logs, and occasionally asking me to put some lighter fluid on it because it kept going out. Eventually, he got a pretty good fire going, but no matter what he tried, he could not get his fork to change much in shape. After a while, he gave up, realizing that our little backyard firepit wasn’t going to get hot enough to melt metal to the point where it could be reshaped.
And although it’s somewhat discouraging to realize this – often our faith will not grow until the fire gets overwhelmingly hot. When life is at its hardest is when we most realize our need for God and His power.
After church was over this morning, we talked about times when a furnace has become a forge for our faith. The boys were rather distracted and ready to move on with the day, as one headed to the bathroom, one was rolling around on the floor with the dog, and the other already had the remote in hand, ready to turn on a YouTube video. So our discussion didn’t get very far.
But Josh and I both shared about some pretty hard times in our lives. And the more I reflect, the more I can list time and time again when things felt really hopeless and scary – yet God showed up in a miraculous way. Sometimes He removed the obstacle or challenge right away. Sometimes He waited awhile, giving our faith a chance to grow. And sometimes, He simply stood in the fire with us, in the midst of the pain and the fear.
When I think of the season of depression I went through, the thing that most comes to mind is the God who was standing in the fire with me. At times I felt so hopeless and afraid and lost, but at those times He was so close. I had an intimacy with Him that I had never known before. He sustained me and filled me with strength that I never could have obtained without Him.
The fire of my depression became the forge for my faith. The months of anguish, heartache, hopelessness, and overwhelming sadness were some of the hardest of my life. And yet without the intense fire of that season, my faith would not have grown to the point where I have this deeper intimacy with Him.
I pray the same for you. That whatever furnace you are in right now becomes a forge for your faith to grow stronger and to be shaped into something you never even knew it could become. May you know an intimacy and closeness with your Father that you’ve never experienced before as He stands in the fire with you.
Fittingly, our worship team closed the service with this song. It’s been an anthem for me as I reflect on the fires I’ve been through in my life. I hope it speaks to you too.
NOTE: This is NOT our worship team, it’s Hillsong United, which means the video is eight minutes long and they sing a whole lot of extra parts. But you get the general idea. 😊
Feeble Hands 