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.

Do the Next Right Thing

I tend to be a planner. I like lists. I like being prepared. I like knowing what to expect. I work best with goals and plans and my resulting to-do list. (Can I get a show of hands?)

Seasons of pain, though, strip away my plans, my sense of security, my vision of what life will look like next week, next month, next year. I’ve seen it in depression, when plans and the simplest tasks become a burden under its overwhelming weight. I’ve seen it during mysterious seasons of illness, when I was forced to slow down, to ask for help, to adjust my expectations of what I could physically do. We saw this in the midst of infertility, when we lost our ability to plan, to envision our future, to hold onto a time line.

Grief, fear, depression, illness—these cannot be planned away. They cannot be sped through via a list or well-laid preparations. They slow us down. They lay waste to our plans—and our ability to craft new ones. Pain has a way of shattering the facade of our control, our ability to predict the future, of our sense of power. In such moments, life can feel terribly overwhelming.

How are we to move through these seasons? How are we to move through this season, when the world as we knew it seems to crumble?

Some of us are facing sickness. Some of us are fearful for loved ones. Some of us are grieving, are anxious, are depressed, are angry. Some of us are numb. We’re isolated, cut off physically from communities, from loved ones, from our normal routines. It can feel overwhelming to the point of paralysis. How are we to navigate this?

When we face seasons of pain, in which our lives and hearts are cracked open and laid bare, we lose our ability to plan ahead. How can we, when we need all the energy and strength available to survive each day, each hour, each moment? All we can do is steadily live through the pain, to keep moving forward breath by breath. All we can do is the next right thing.

The reality is, this is all we ever can do. Even the best of our plans and the most glorious of our daydreams require us to make a tiny litany of choices to see them take on flesh and blood. Pain in all its forms only makes this more apparent: all I can ever do in any given moment is the next right thing.

So in this global moment of chaos, of grief, of fear, of suffering—what is the next right thing for you to do? What is the next right thing to live faithfully where you are in this moment? What is the next right thing to move through this season? What is the next right thing to choose life?

Though there will be similar themes, what this looks like will take on different forms for each of us. Over the last week, for me it has meant taking a walk, reading a novel, and eating ice cream. It has meant calling a friend and keeping my distance from people I’d much rather embrace. It has been cooking through long recipes and pulling pre-made meals from the freezer. It has meant staying informed and also knowing when I need to pull away from my news feed and the latest reports. It has meant slowing down to keep pace with a toddler’s fascination with things I have come to see as mundane. It has been watching my favorite cooking show, praying more, and letting myself have the space to have a good cry.

The next right thing is not always glamorous or easy. It doesn’t always feel good. Sometimes it’s doing dishes or folding laundry or sanitizing those door handles. Sometimes it’s changing dirty diapers or tending to scraped knees. It may be finishing that project you’ve been putting off or renewing your resolve (once again) to stay at home.

The next right thing may also not be something you do at all. It may be taking time to rest. It may be stillness. It may be giving yourself space to grieve. It may be giving yourself space for delight. It doesn’t have to be monumental. It may not be something you can check off a list. But it may still be the next right thing. So do it.

As we walk through this season together, it will be easy to think about what we can’t do, what we can’t control. It will be easy to think weeks ahead to what may (or may not) happen. When your mind starts down these trails, when you find yourself uncertain, paralyzed, overwhelmed, fearful—Pause. Breathe. Look at where you are in this moment, consider what the next tiny step is towards faithfulness, towards life—and do the next right thing.

How to Care for Your Mind in the Time of Social Distancing

“The human heart is like a millstone in a mill; when you put wheat under it, it turns and grinds and bruises the wheat to flour; if you put no wheat, it still grinds on, but then ‘tis itself it grinds and wears away.” - Martin Luther

We find ourselves in an unusual predicament. We are living in a time in which the circumstances in our world spark anxiety. It’s a concerning situation. Every day we see the coronavirus spread. We see the loss of life. We see empty shelves in our grocery stores and hear rumors of shortages of medical supplies.

This is compounded by the practices of social distancing we are adopting to slow the spread of the virus. Even if you had no prior predisposition towards anxiety or depression, the situation is psychologically vulnerable. We’re more isolated and less occupied. All the while with more fodder for our twisting, spinning thoughts.

What are we to do to care for our minds in the time of social distancing? How can we practice psychological self-care when we’re forced into a unique circumstance that keeps us from common means of keeping ourselves healthy?

During this time, I’m finding some advice from Martin Luther. (See last week’s post on Luther’s wisdom about loving our neighbors during a public health crisis.) He was no stranger to depression or anxiety. He knew what it felt like to be locked in cycling thoughts and fears. He also knew what it felt like to be socially isolated.—He spent nearly a year sequestered in Wartburg Castle during the beginning of Protestant Reformation, when his life was at stake.

Luther’s advice doesn’t replace the importance of appropriate mental health care, and I know that for those of us with mental illnesses like depression and anxiety, adhering to his wisdom will be that much more difficult. But regardless of whether we live with a mental health diagnosis, he gives all of us excellent practical advice on taking care of our minds.

1. Get Out

When Luther found the “millstone” of his heart grinding away, he rushed out among his pigs “rather than remain alone by myself.” If you live in an area like I do, some of you may actually be able to find the companionship of farm animals. For the rest of us, following this advice might mean taking the dog for a walk, if you have one, or simply going outside and paying attention to the world around you. Watch the birds, who your Father in Heaven cares for. See the budding trees and flowers your Father in Heaven clothes. Breathe in deeply the fresh air and root yourself in your place. Let the physicality of the life around you pull you from your mind.

2. Flee Solitude

Luther also often counseled those who struggled with anxiety and depression to “flee solitude,” for it was solitude that gave thoughts space to fester. This is incredibly difficult advice to follow now, as we practice social distancing, so we may need to get creative. Use the technology available to you to connect with someone from afar—call someone on the phone or video chat with a friend. Think of creative ways for in-person contact that still maintains recommended social distancing practices. I’ve heard of neighbors gathering outside on lawn chairs spaced six feet or more apart and of friends picnicking with self-provided food, separated by a similar buffer. These things do not replace in-person contact or assuage our innate need for human touch. But they are some of our best options to follow Luther’s advice.

3. Find Delight

He also recommends to “joke and jest,” as a way to make morbid thoughts fly. He encourages the depressed and despondent to relish good food, to partake in activities they enjoy. He understood the importance of delight in fighting the battles of our minds. This, again, may need to be reimagined during this time—but keep your eyes open for and seek out even the simplest forms of delight and sources of laughter during this tumultuous season.

4. Dwell on Truth and Hope

Finally, give the mill of your heart something fruitful to “grind.” I’m all for staying informed. It’s an important part of engaging with the world. We do no one a service by sticking our heads in the sand or downplaying the current situation. But there does come a time to pull away from the headlines and the news feeds. As your anxious thoughts build, pull away and give your mind something different to process. Replace your morbid thoughts with a source of hope. Luther would encourage you to turn your eyes to Christ. He would encourage you to sing. Meditate on Scripture. Pray. We must live with eyes wide open to the reality facing us, all while anchoring ourselves in the truth of the sovereignty and goodness of the God we worship. Feeding our minds with truth positions us to be better able to abide with peace in the midst of the chaos.

Stay well, friends.

Let's Build a Wall...Of Self-Care

Today’s post is a guest post from my dear friend Alison. She’s sharing with us some practical tips about how we can practice good self-care.

Although sometimes self-care can be painted as selfish (and, to be honest, I have seen some people use it as an excuse to be), I find that a healthy self-care practice, like the one Alison helps us think about here, is actually an important part of our discipleship. It helps us remember that we are finite, that we need rest, that we need other people. Good self-care can make us more effective as disciples of Jesus, better able to love God and love others. I hope you’re encouraged and challenged by what she has to share.

Alison is a pastor and a poet - and an integral part of my own “wall” of self-care for the gray New England winters. You can find her sermons on her church website and her occasional thoughts on her blog.

Enjoy!

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I don’t know about where you are, but where I am? It’s the most horrible time of the year. It’s overcast, it’s cold, it’s snowy, it’s icy, it’s gross. And gross weather means gross moods, gross feelings about oneself and one’s existence, and even, at times, gross walks with God.

Over the last eight winters living in New England I have learned that in order to protect myself against this madness, I need a good defense system. Like a wall. And not a wall where I block my friends out and don’t let them know what’s going on with me. And not a wall of blankets where I bundle myself in bed for the next two months. But a wall of self care. Like a defense system, built out of regular, healthy actions I take, to take care of myself.

But hang on a second, isn’t self care selfish? Isn’t it un-Christian? Isn’t it…wrong? No, it isn’t. Jesus instructed us to "love others" as we "love ourselves", as though loving ourselves was something he expected us to do naturally. And self care doesn’t mean we ignore everyone else or ignore God - taking care of others, and loving God is also part of a good self care system. Because those things, as well as being rewarding to God and to others, also are wonderfully rewarding to ourselves.

So how do you build a wall of self care? You do need to be intentional about this, and keep track of what you do. The best way I’ve found? With those excellent and ancient tools: the pen and the sheet of paper.

1. Start out with a piece of graph paper, or even some kind of habit tracker like this one Ashley made as a free printable for her Evermore Paper Co blog.

2. Make a list down the side of different activities that you can do during the day that help you take care of you. I try to make my list out of a variety of different activities that address the different needs I have: physical, emotional, social, intellectual, and spiritual needs.

3. Keep track of what activity you do every day. Just before you go to bed, check off what you have done.

4. The goal is not to do ALL the things every day - rather, to be consistently doing a few of them every day. These little bricks on your self-care chart make up the “wall" that you are building for yourself. A day with a solid group of bricks in it, is another notch in the wall built. A day with no bricks in it is where the defenses come down and some of those gross moods, gross thoughts, gross behaviors can creep in.

If it’s hard for you to think of what might constitute self care activities, I thought I would leave you with some suggestions. Don’t start with all of these on your chart, that would be overwhelming! Maybe two that really speak to you from each group?

Physical: go for a walk, go outside (can sometimes be hard in winter!), exercise for X minutes, dance for X minutes, drink X cups of water, eat some vegetables, eat some fruit, eat three meals, take a shower, brush your teeth, brush your hair, go to bed before Xpm, get 8 hours sleep

Emotional: take a moment to be aware of what you are feeling, write in your journal, make a list of things that are stressing you out, make a list of things you are thankful for, visit a counselor, give yourself X quiet minutes alone, say no to something, say yes to something, take a thought that you keep having that’s really hurting you and tell it to go away, take something you keep beating yourself up about and forgive yourself

Social: call a friend, see a friend, write a card to a friend, pray for a friend, give a gift to somebody, go on a date, have some intentional play time with your kids

Intellectual: read a book, read the paper, look at some art, listen to music, play some music, watch a movie, do a crossword, work on a project

Spiritual: listen to worship music, memorize a bible verse, read the bible, pray

Of course, what constitutes good self care for you might be completely different to what it means for me. If you have any other suggestions for items other people can put on their Wall of Self Care Chart, leave them in a comment below.

Happy building, all!

Meal Trains Aren't Just for Cancer and Babies

I learned how to make pie the year my mom had cancer. She was recovering from surgery over the holidays and confined to the couch. I carried lumps of pie dough and bowls of meringue to where she lay, for her to inspect and coach me through to the right texture. Sometimes, I would walk in and find her asleep, and I would quietly tip toe back to the kitchen and go with my gut and my memories from sitting in the kitchen when she’d baked them year after year. It was a strange role reversal—I was the one in the kitchen, she was the one ill on the couch. I felt maternally protective of her rest.

My dad became caretaker as my mom went through the cycles of treatments, those multisyllabic poisons they pumped into her chest to ward off a deeper evil. I was away for my third year of college, trying to support from afar. My mom dealt with prescription changes and side effects. We all found ways to keep ourselves sane. 

Casseroles and baked pastas would appear and reappear in my parents' kitchen. A friend, who in the following years would win my heart and become my husband, made a chicken pot pie with his mom and drove it to our house. We had friends who prayed, who gave rides, who kept us company on the hard days. They let us vent, cry, hope. They kept showing up. 

There are many families with our story. There are many who have walked longer roads and darker ones. There are many whose story didn’t end as happily as ours. 

For many of us, the Christian community rallied around us. They were a safe place to share the news of what we were going through. We knew we would be met with sympathy, with support, with prayers, and a meal train.

But what if my mom’s diagnosis hadn’t been cancer? What if she’d started exhibiting erratic behavior or paranoia? What if she heard voices telling her to harm herself? What if depression suffocated all delight? What if, instead of a breakdown in the cells in her chest, there was a breakdown in her brain? What if she had been diagnosed with a mental illness?

For the families I know who have been crippled by mental illness, the response is quite different. They may hesitate to share out of fear or shame or awkwardness. If they do garner the courage, they’re often met with spiritualized criticism or silence. 

And yet they are experiencing a lot of the same challenges my family faced as my mom went through the crisis period of diagnosis and treatment for cancer. They face strange role reversals. There are increased and ever-shifting caretaking responsibilities. They go through cycles of doctor appointments and prescription changes and side effects. A spouse may need to step away from a job, causing financial strain. They feel lonely and tired and wonder if there will be a day when life will return to a normal rhythm. 

The churches I have been a part of know how to support families through challenging illnesses. (And new babies, but I digress.) We have our traditional tools: food and prayer. Sometimes we raise money for medical bills. Sometimes we volunteer to watch young children or chauffeur to appointments. We send cards and notes. We know how to support our extended family of brothers and sisters in Christ. Mental illness shouldn’t be excluded from this extension of love and support. 

Do you know a family going through a mental health crisis or strained by severe mental illness? Respond like you would if it were any other illness. Send them an encouraging card. Let them know you’re praying for them. Take them a meal. Offer to watch their children. Ask them what practical things you can do to help. Be a friend—and keep showing up.