Companions in the Darkness Discussion Guide

I’m excited to share Companions in the Darkness now has a discussion guide!

You can use these questions to guide your own personal reflection as you read Companions, or with a book club or small group to discuss with others.

SPECIAL OFFER: If you decide to use Companions in the Darkness with your book club or discussion group, I will join your group for one session for FREE to do author Q&A or lead the discussion. Message me to work out the details.

If you don’t already have a copy, you can purchase your own copy of Companions in the Darkness wherever books are sold.

Hope Is An Audacious Thing

Over the last several months, I’ve been meditating a lot on the nature of hope. It may seem ironic, really, that a book about depression would spark such thoughts, but as I’ve told and retold the stories of the Companions, I can’t help but circle back to what kept them alive in the dark.

If, in the midst of our suffering, we had nothing to turn to that was bigger than our pain, no reason to expect an end to our agony, no whispers of the possibility of redemption, we would have much reason to be pitied. In a world like the one we live in, where pandemics strike and justice goes unmet, I need hope to be more than wishful thinking or a spiritualized cliché. I need a hope that’s deep and robust enough to withstand the darkness.

I’ve returned often to a story I heard too late to include in the book. Martin Luther, the great Protestant Reformer, struggled with depression on and off throughout his life. One of those seasons came after his teenage daughter, Magdalena, died in his arms. It’s a heartrending scene. As you can imagine, Martin and his wife Katie were devastated. But as the carpenters were nailing the lid on Magdalena’s coffin, Luther yelled, “Hammer away! On doomsday, she’ll rise again!”

Every time, it sends chills down my spine.

When I hear a story like that, I can’t help but think of hope as an audacious thing. It plants itself in the darkness and defiantly insists that, in the end, light will have the last say. Hope stands in the midst of burned out ruins and refuses to accept a blackened shell as the end of the story. And it can stand by a graveside, as the hammers still ring, telling death not to be proud.

Such hope does not remove our pain. (And it does not cure depression.) But it does prove strong enough to sustain us in the midst of the greatest of suffering. Hope gives us the strength to stare the darkness in the face—and still defiantly insist, “This is not the end.”

There will come a day when sorrow and suffering and sin will forever be undone. A dawn will rise where there is no more death, no more tears, no more sickness. There will come a day when our joy will be complete, a day when nothing will take that joy away from us.

Hope reminds us of this Day. Hope sends roots down deep, to keep us tethered when we are battered by life’s storms. Hope gives us the courage to keep breathing, to keep loving, to keep seeking joy where it may be found, even in the valley of the shadow.

My friends, I know so many of you are bearing your own weight of grief. It may be the death of a loved one or an unresolved illness. It may be chronic depression or anxiety. It may be unemployment or disconnection from your loved ones. There is a fair share of suffering.

But yet there is hope. Defiant and audacious hope. And that hope will not disappoint us.

Advent Hope for a Weary World

A few weeks ago, Companions in the Darkness released into the world. I suppose some might say it’s strange to talk about depression during such a season of the year, one purportedly filled with “comfort and joy.” But I beg to differ.

This is not only because many people struggle with depression during the holiday season. It is also not only because of the weariness many of us are feeling after all 2020 has brought our way. Though both of these things are true.

No, for me, it is the season of Advent that makes space for conversations about depression during this time of the year. Advent gives me the space to be honest about the dark and to sit with it for a while. Advent invites me to be honest about the pain and the brokenness I see and taste in the world. For it was into this darkness and because of this brokenness our Savior came—and will come again. Advent offers me hope that as dark as the night may become, it will never be the end of the story.

I wrote about this hope earlier this week over at the Vere Institute:

“If all we had were the questions, weariness, or pain, we would be worthy of pity indeed and dwelling on such things would truly be depressing. But here in the valley, here in the dark of winter, we are met with a spark of hope. We sing of it: "A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices." Why? Because the valley—and all it brings—is not the end of the story for disciples of Jesus.

“In this Advent season we are reminded of the hope that offers to sustain us no matter what valleys we may be asked to walk—or how long they may endure. We are reminded of a God who stooped low to enter our world for our redemption. Of a Savior who took on flesh and all its pain and became one of us. We are reminded that Christ joined humanity in the mundane of every day life, of work and play, of dirty diapers and sawdust, of celebrations and funerals. He stepped into it all and in everything invited His disciples then, and us today, to follow Him.

“But in the season of Advent we also remember Christ's second coming, the one His people wait for today, when He will restore all things. We find hope as we long for this yet-to-come advent, when all of creation will be remade and there will be no more tears or sorrow or pain.

“This promise of the Kingdom fully come offers us hope as we walk through the valley today. And even more—it offers us a pathway to find joy in the midst of suffering, to stare into the darkness yet not be overcome. We can walk through the valley—and speak honestly of it—and yet not fear. We can walk with another through the valley and not be dismayed. For even the deepest of valleys can become a sacred place when we are joined by Immanuel—God with us.”

If you are finding joy in this season, thanks be to God—may you rest in the joy of His presence. And if you are weary, as so many of us are, may you know the quiet thrill of hope offered to weary souls—for our God keeps company with you there.

A blessed Advent, and a Merry Christmas to you all.

Why I Wrote Companions in the Darkness

I’m asked often why I wrote my book, Companions in the Darkness. The stories in it are unusual, I’ve heard. It’s not often we hear about depression and faith or about the struggles of our spiritual heroes and mental health. What led you to this?

I suppose the short answer is that Companions in the Darkness is a book I needed. I needed these stories in the past, when depression first took hold of me. I need them today, as I navigate (with all of you) a season of lingering uncertainty and stress. And I will need them in the future, regardless of what it may hold.

When I first struggled with depression, I did not know the stories in this book. But how I wish I had. It’s impossible to know looking back, but I can’t help but wonder how the stories of the companions may have encouraged me, how they may have assuaged some of the guilt that came with depression, how they may have pointed me towards small steps I could take as I journeyed back into the light.

I heard the first of these stories in a seminary classroom, and in them I heard something I recognized. These heroes, these saints, had struggled with depression much as I did. So I set out to learn more about these companions and found others along the way. They became stories I treasured, stories I learned from, stories I needed to share.

“I’ve come to realize that the stories we choose to tell communicate something. Ignoring a struggle like depression in the lives of people in church history—those we still talk about today, those we may call heroes—communicates something. It says those stories don’t matter, or, worse, that we should be ashamed of them.

“That is why this book exists.… [The stories in this book] need to be told so that we can be heirs of the wisdom and comfort these brothers and sisters have to share. They need to be told so that we find the courage and freedom to tell our own stories. They need to be told so that we are reminded that God can still use us, that depression will not be our life’s epitaph.”

I am delighted and honored to finally be able to share these stories with you, as Companions in the Darkness finally releases next week. I pray they shine a bit of light for any of you in the dark.

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Want to hear more about Companions in the Darkness?

Join me at an event on launch day. You have two options!

Nov. 24, noon EST - Diana will be the featured guest at the next InterVarsity ESN Conversation. Sign up here.

Nov. 24, 8pm EST - Book Launch Party, Live at Facebook.com/DianaGruverWriter

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NOW AVAILABLE!

Order Companions in the Darkness from InterVarsity Press, Amazon, Hearts & Minds Bookstore, or your favorite bookseller.

I Need Stories From the Dark

I heard the first threads of their stories in a seminary classroom. Just months before, I had emerged from another bout of depression, and the taste of that darkness still lingered. The isolation. The tears—then the numbness. The heavy weight pulling me to stay in bed, to not think, to disappear. I wonder now if I would have noticed them if it hadn’t been fresh, if I wasn’t still reminded by a pill each morning of my own fragility. But in that moment, I had ears to hear.

I made extra notes in the margins of my notebooks based on this anecdote and that aside from my professor, and those wispy threads began to converge. These people in church history, the ones I was studying, the ones we still celebrated—they too knew that darkness. They too had been depressed. Why had I never heard their stories? Would my own experience with depression have been different if I had?

Looking back now, I wonder how many explicit messages I heard about depression. I don’t remember anyone specifically telling me I was a failure for succumbing to it, but it was the message I received just the same. As it tightened its grip on me during my senior year of college, I felt as though I should be able to try harder, as though I had to find a way to pull myself together. But I barely had the strength to make it to class most days—an emotional overhaul was beyond my reach. I felt guilty and weak. I felt like a “bad” Christian. I was surrounded by a culture of spiritual perfectionism and keenly aware of how far I fell short. I was broken—shattered was more like it—and the God of comfort I had known fell silent.

At the time, I didn’t hear stories about Christians suffering from depression, aside from the confided experiences of a couple close friends. I certainly didn’t hear stories about what it looked like to live in the midst of depression, those stories of what faithfulness looked like in the dark. I heard whispers and rumors of others who suffered like me, but our time in depression’s darkness was not a story to be told—or so it seemed. It felt shameful and awkward. I didn’t know what other people would make of my pain—I didn’t know what to make of it myself, of that pain that grew so great it became nothingness, numbness, the void.

But what if, in that moment, I knew the stories I would come to know later? What if I knew of the saints of the darkness, of these sisters and brothers throughout the church’s history who had traveled this road long before me, who had wept and wrestled as I did? It would not have removed depression’s darkness or dulled its ache, but it may have made it just a little less bitter—to know that this was not some strange or shameful thing that was happening to me, to know I was not alone, to know God was not finished with me yet.

I realize now that the stories we choose to tell communicate something. My experience has been that we like stories of the light, stories of victory, stories of perfectly packaged happy endings. And why not? They’re heartwarming. But when we prioritize these at the expense of stories from the opposite part of human experience—of struggle and pain—we send an implicit but clear message that those messier and more painful stories are not welcome. It is this sort of message that kept me uncertain and quiet about my own depression. It is this message that perpetuates stigma and judgment, that suggests Christians shouldn’t struggle as I did.

But there are saints among us—perhaps you’re one of them—who have stories from the dark, stories of the not-yet, stories that end with a question mark—and we need those just as much. We have these stories throughout our history, just waiting to be told. We have them living and breathing among us today. Stories like these give me permission to acknowledge and share my own struggles. They remind me I’m not alone. They remind me of how God is faithful when I can’t see him or when I wonder if I have the strength for faith left. They tell me depression will not be the end of my story.

In my own experience with depression, I have found stories of the dark in the lives of people throughout church history. They are a source of comfort, encouragement, and guidance to me. But they also give me boldness to tell my own story—because somewhere out there is a college student like I once was, weary and heavy laden with depression’s load, and my story may just be the one they need to hear.