A Lament for Rapid Cycling and Unstable Blood Sugar

This semester I’m taking a Spiritual Formation class centered around Lament and Joy. Specifically what it means to have joy, and how to properly lament. This week we wrote laments, and mine came out in the form of a poem.

Mother God, I know you see me,
I know you’ve heard my cry.
Days past you have come near to me.
You haven’t passed me by.

And yet again I’m wanting
to feel you here close by.
I crave you when my moods are low
and sugars far too high.

I feel I’m in the desert,
for my mouth is always dry.
And then my mood will flip again
to hypomanic highs.

I know I haven’t looked for you.
I haven’t south with soul or mind.
I go forth like I don’t need you.
It’s a wonder I’ve survived.

Keep near me in the darkness.
Don’t let me slip away.
Help me learn again to seek you,
so by your side, I’ll stay.

You’re the God who called me,
from the darkness of my life.
From wickedness you’ve saved me,
and then you claimed my life.

So through this I will praise you.
Yes, even with my cries.
Knowing you will take my hand again,
And wipe tears from my eyes.

Doctors, anxiety, and images of God

I’ve been type 2 diabetic since I was 9 years old.

Yes, you read that right. A nine year old was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes, an affliction that doesn’t often strike people under 40. I’ve spent most of my life in and out of doctor’s offices, getting regular blood work, battling high blood sugars, and all of the other things that come with a diabetes diagnosis.

Now, because of the stigma that comes with a type 2 diabetes diagnosis (and yes, I firmly believe that there is stigma), I feel that there are some things that I should explain. My grandfather was a diabetic, so I have a family history. I also have PCOS, which often leads to, among other things, type 2 diabetes. Trauma and many other factors contribute to a diagnoses of type 2 diabetes. There’s often an assumption that type 2 is “the kind you can make fun of.” I’m treated as if this is something I chose. But I didn’t choose to be traumatized. I didn’t choose to have PCOS. And I didn’t choose to have a family history. Also, what 9 year old doesn’t want carbs and sweet things? How many health focused nine year olds do you know?

But, perhaps that’s a rant for another time. Anyway…

If you know me at all you know that I genuinely hate the doctor’s office. I’ll go psychiatry and therapy appointments without complaint, but the offices of my primary care physician and endocrinologists office have always felt a little bit like going to the principal’s office. There’s a lecture about how I put myself into this situation (I didn’t). How I’m not doing anything to help myself (I am). How I need to be better (I’m trying). For a long time I straight up avoided appointments because I didn’t want to hear the lectures about my weight and blood sugars. I’ve feared doctors cold opinions and horrid bed side manner. I’m tired of being accused of being a bad diabetic by people who won’t take a moment to listen to me.

So this weekend when my newly implanted Dexcom screamed numbers of upwards of 250 at me, I was panicked over the possibility of having to go the ER. No. I thought. I will do literally anything. I ended up messaging my endocrinologist and waiting with baited breath while my sugar went down on its own. (Not the wisest decision I know, but the fear is a big thing with me.)

The next morning I cried a little on the inside when her caller ID flashed on my cell phone screen. I knew I had to answer, but I wasn’t excited about the lecture. After letting it ring once, I picked up the phone.

She didn’t lecture me, though. She wasn’t angry, but there was concern in her voice. She was less interested in what I had done wrong. She didn’t take her time telling me about how I’m a bad diabetic. Instead she said “well, let’s see what we can do to make this better.”

I was taken aback. I had been expecting a lecture. I agreed to a new plan, involving using insulin for the first time, she made me promise to call her if things didn’t get better quickly, and we hung up.

Later that day in a Spiritual Formation class we were talking about our images of God, and that’s when it clicked.

You see, often I look at God the way I look at most doctors. I’m afraid to call to Her. Afraid to ask for Her help. Afraid because I don’t want Her to be angry, perhaps. Afraid because I’ve been told I should be, perhaps. But always afraid.

And yet, I think God looks at me with pity, much the same way my endocrinologist must have after seeing my high blood sugars. I wonder if God has the same softness in Her voice when She sees what I’ve made of myself. I wonder if She says, “Let’s see what we can to make this better.”

I wonder if God isn’t the angry principal, ready with a cane, the way I sometimes imagine She is.

Loving God,

We thank you for the ways you wrap your arms around us, like a mother attending to her child. We thank you for the ways you call us out of the darkness we have created. The way you help us make things better. Grant that we may come to you in our times of fear and worry without fear of retribution, but rather with the knowledge that you our loving creator, and that you treasure us so very deeply.

In the name of your Son we pray.

Amen.

Stand(ing) in the Rain

A love letter to the music of the harder years…

Several weeks ago, I found an old mp3 player from when I was a child. I must’ve been 11 or 12 when I owned in, judging by the song choices. It was like walking back in time, sifting through my adolescent brain. I have to admit that what I found there touched me in ways that I wasn’t expecting.

Even then, small me had a taste for sad, more emotive music. It wasn’t until I was around 12 that I started listening to My Chemical Romance, which I still consider to be my favorite band. There’s so much I could write about the musical obsessions of my childhood, but that’s not what this blog post is about.

See, there’s one song in particular that hit just a little bit harder than all the rest. I first heard it on K-Love, my mom’s preferred radio station at the time, when I was 9, and I remember, even then, being struck by the lyrics. And listening to them recently sent me back to memory lane, the trials I faced as a 9-year-old (and don’t even try to convince me that children can’t go through trauma and trials), the loneliness, the beginnings of depression and bipolar disorder in my under-developed brain.

The song, as you may have guessed by the title of this blog post, is Superchic[k]’s “Stand in the Rain.” I still remember my mom ordering the album, Beauty from Pain 1.1 for me when I was 9 or 10, and it was all I listened to for weeks. She could probably still recite some of the lyrics for you, if you asked.

I don’t know what it was about the song that drew me to it. There was something about not only the expression of pain by the narrator, but the resilience in her words. I won’t force the entire song upon you. But here are some of the lyrics:

She won’t make a sound, alone in this fight with herself and the fears whispering if she stands she’ll fall down. She wants to be found. The only way out is through everything she’s running from, wants to give up and lie down.

So stand in the rain. Stand your ground. Stand up when it’s all crashing down. You stand through the pain, you won’t drown, and one day what’s lost will be found, if you stand in the rain.

“Stand in the Rain” (Beauty from Pain 1.1) by Superchic[k].

Looking back from the perspective I have now, it makes sense. At that point in my journey I was right in the middle of the years of heavy bullying that marked my childhood and pre-teen years. Things at home weren’t much better, with my parents freshly separated, and my dad berating me every time he felt the urge. I wasn’t good enough, I felt. Not for my peers, not for my parents, not for myself. Every day was a battle, and pre-teen me was exhausted.

And yet, there was motivation in the song that I hadn’t, until recently, realized I needed so badly. I needed the encouragement to keep standing. At a time where it didn’t feel like I had people in my corner, I needed that reminder that I could keep standing, and that I could make it through the hard things.

Of course in the years that followed I would discover more bands, like My Chemical Romance, Evanescence, Linkin Park, and many of the other bands that made space for the emotions of an entire generation. But for me, it started with Superchic[k], and I’m okay with that.

Loving God,

We think you for all of those things that pull us through hard times. The outpouring of emotion from your creation creates the backdrop of sound that carries us through hard things. We thank you for the musicians, the artists, the poets, and the creators that bring us music we can dance to, cry to, and more importantly, survive to.

Grant that we may go forth and pay it forward by creating inspiration for those who need it in our lives. Let the comforting words flow from our lips, let the offerings of our hearts be a blessing of peace to your creation.

In your Son’s name we pray,

Amen.

Ashes

Wednesdays are the busiest day of the week in my house. My mother works from home a majority of the week but on Fridays she works for part of the day, and on Wednesdays she works all day. And while I only have one class in the evening, I find myself struggling through readings and assignments that I’ve neglected. With all of that in mind, we struggled to find time today to observe Ash Wednesday together. We decided to that would take the hour that I have between her coming home and my class starting to impose ashes together, and light the candles that came in our Lent in a Box from Allensville-Trinity UMC.

I found myself in something of a questionable mood as we gathered at the kitchen table to read through the Ash Wednesday home liturgy together. I fumbled with mom’s phone to bring up music, and with a few breaths let out some words that I’m not proud of.

And that’s where I have to admit that I’m frustrated this year. I’m frustrated that I have an evening class on a day like today. I’m frustrated that my mom and I could hardly find the time to line up our schedules to observe today. And even more, I’m frustrated that I can’t be with my people in person. When I preached to the Allensville-Trinity time almost this time a year ago, I didn’t realize that this would be the last time I preached to my internship congregation. I confess that last year felt like the lentiest Lent that I ever Lented.

I didn’t imagine that that season would follow me through the year and cover my mind constantly. I struggle to decide what to give up for Lent, as it already feels like I’ve given up so much in the past year. I’m more painfully aware of my humanness, my brokenness, and indeed, my mortality, than I’ve ever been in my whole life.

And yet, the ashes have been a constant. Ashes are smeared on my forehead, and I’m reminded again that I am dust, and to dust I shall return.

There’s so much I could say about what Ash Wednesday looks like this year. And perhaps I’ll try, through blogging, to work through my feelings on Lent. But for now, I leave you with the sermon that I preached last year for the Allensville-Trinity charge in Roxboro, NC.

Beneath the Ashes, Ash Wednesday Sermon from February 26, 2020.

          During my senior year at North Carolina Wesleyan College, my father’s house burned down to the ground. His brother had smoked a cigarette on the porch and hadn’t put it out as well as he thought he had. My grandma sent me pictures of the wreckage after she called me to tell me what had happened, and they brought tears to my eyes. I came home immediately.

          By some miracle, my dad had gotten out in the middle of the night and spent only a few days in the hospital. The man who wheeled him to the front of the hospital from the burn unit commented on how lucky he was to be leaving after such a short stay. Later that day, my sister and I went with him and his girlfriend to see the house. The roof had caved in from pressure of the water used to put out the flames. The once cream-colored walls were covered in ash, the bed that I slept in when I stayed the night was covered in ceiling tiles and debris.

          Dad’s girlfriend had never been to the house before, and she was horrified. “Goodness, Mike,” I remember her saying, “this looks bad.” I privately thought that she couldn’t understand the full extent of the destruction. She didn’t know what the house was supposed to look like. But I knew. I still remember the deep blue carpet, the lavender walls of my bedroom, and the front porch where my sister and I used to sit and talk in the cool night air. Dad’s girlfriend couldn’t fully understand, because the only mental image she had of that house was one of an ash-covered ruin, no longer fit for living.

          Ash Wednesday is not typically anyone’s favorite day in the life of the church. As the former pastor of my home church said, “there are no cards for Ash Wednesday.” While for festivecelebrations like Easter and Christmas, we expect to see full pews and smiling faces, we don’t anticipate Ash Wednesday and the start of Lent with such eagerness.

          On Ash Wednesday we acknowledge our humanness, our mortality, and our sin. We also start the season Lent, the season where we prepare our hearts and minds for Easter, and the joy of Jesus’ return from the grave. But we can’t celebrate resurrection without first going to the tomb. And the journey there is one of repentance. Today we’re forced to remember just how human we are, and how real our sins are. Today we know that we are dust, and to dust we shall return.

          In our Psalm for today, King David cries out to God from the depths of his own sin and shame. “I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me,” he says. David, who is described in scripture as being a man after God’s own heart, has committed an atrocious, unspeakable act, you see.

          This is the same David who was anointed by Samuel in the presence of his brothers. The same David who defeated Goliath with a stone for the glory of God. King David has abused his power by taking another man’s wife and causing her husband’s death. God has forced him to see his own sin through the words of the prophet, Nathan. And all that is left for him is the guilt and horror of what he has done. All he can do is sit in his own sin, and weep. David has reached rock bottom. His life has gone “up in smoke” and its feel like all that there is left to do is sit in sackcloth and ashes, an ancient sign for mourning and repentance. 

          Regret for our sins isn’t an unfamiliar feeling, is it? And yet, in our culture, we will go to great lengths to avoid having to look at the charred remains of our sins.   It’s not by accident that Ash Wednesday isn’t anyone’s favorite day in the life of the church. If sitting with the reality of our own mortality as represented by the ashes on our forehead is hard for us, then sitting with our sin is doubly so. 

          We know what it is to feel the full weight of what we have done to ourselves or to others. We know the feeling so well that we’ll go to great lengths to avoid feeling it. We’re prone to running away; prone to avoiding the charred wreckage that is left behind in the wake of the trail we blaze with our sins. 

          We think of our sins often as hurting other people, but the ugly truth is that, while we often hurt other people, we hurt ourselves as well. And we hurt God. Our angry words don’t just hurt the people that we meant them for, they hurt us, and they hurt God. The sins we do in hiding that we think no one sees or notices, they too hurt our relationship with our creator. What we think is done in secret doesn’t stay a secret.

          The heart-breaking truth is that we all covered in the ashes of our own sins, and we have no one to blame but ourselves. Like the ruins of my dad’s once beautiful home, we are left unrecognizable by the grime of our sin and shame. But we haven’t been left to rot in our imperfection. Because God sees what we, and other humans, can’t. God knows what we’re supposed to look like beneath the sin, and God calls us to repentance. As we cry out with broken hearts, and long to enter again into the joy of worship, and freedom from our sin, God longs to wash us clean and bring us back into wholeness.

          Yes, we are dust, and to dust we shall return. But we worship a creator who can make beauty out of dust. Like I could look past the charred remains of my father’s house and see the treasured memories of the home I’d once lived in, God can see past the smolder wreckage of our lives and see the beauty of what was, and what might still be. Today we wear ashes and sit with the knowledge of our own mortality. But we can enter into a spirit of repentance and know that God will not leave us in the ash. Thanks be to God.

Loving God,

Today we acknowledge that we are dust, and to dust we shall return. Help us to walk through this season of Lent together, even while we are separated. Walk with us on this journey, and prepare our hearts for your coming, for your triumph at Easter. Help us to remember our mortality, and our brokenness, and yet, to give thanks that you don’t leave us in our ashes.

In your Son’s most holy name we pray. Amen.

Trauma and other musings

What do you do when it’s past midnight, your brain is buzzing, and you can’t sleep? You write a blog post on the blog you’ve been neglecting, of course!

It’s been a while since I properly updated this blog. There are a flurry of things in my mind that I’d like to say, explanations I could give for abandoning this project for so long, only to take it up again. There are words I could ascribe to my time away, but all of them seem too poor and insincere. Truthfully it may take me some weeks to go into detail about all that’s happened in the past several months. But for now, I offer what I have, and hope that it is enough.

The truth is that I’m in a better, and very different place than I was in when I started this blog back in 2018. When I think of the person I was then, I laugh a little inside. ‘Oh how much growing I had to do’ I tell myself as I read through old blog posts. ‘Oh how unsuspecting I was. How bright eyed. Ready to take seminary by the horns.’ I had no idea what was coming. I couldn’t know that the next several years would change me in so many ways. I couldn’t imagine the heartbreak, the unbearable pain and loneliness that awaited me on my journey. At the same time, I couldn’t imagine the joy.

When God brought me to seminary in 2018, I was battling a single diagnosis, or so I thought. Bipolar 2 with psychotic features, medicated with… well to be truthful I can’t remember what my cocktail was at the time. I imagined the journey on which I was about to embark to be a straightforward one. I would go through the classes, get my MDiv, start my career as a pastor, and that would be that. Oh, how wrong I was.

It started with a conversation in my new therapists’ office in March of 2019. It was my intake appointment with her, meaning that she was asking me all of the standard questions of an intake appointment. She asked me about my childhood, my family, the various things that make me who I am. And then she asked, “is there any other trauma I need to know about?” I responded, joking, “not unless you count my dad.” Very seriously she replied, “I do.”

I was thoroughly taken aback. While my relationship with my father has never been wonderful, I had never imagined him as being a source of my deep seated pain and trauma. There must be some mistake, I thought. My dad may not be the nicest person in the world. But he was never abusive. Was he?

The short answer is: yes, he was.

The long answer is that my dad is a complicated person, full of his own pain and anguish. That’s something that I couldn’t recognize for a long time. With any luck, he’ll never see this blog post. But if he does, I want him to know that I’m not angry. Or at least, I’m not anymore. For a long time I held a ball of rage that nestled somewhere in my chest. The child inside of me longed for an emotional outpouring from him that never came.

I wondered what I did wrong for a long time. Surely I must have done something to deserve all of that pain? For years I told myself that I deserved it because I was a rotten child. Anyone who knew me when I was young can tell you that I was once a bit of a firework. The spunkiness of a young Arya Stark comes to mind. I was stubborn, determined, and hard to tame. But did these traits make me deserving of abuse? For a while I thought yes, but now I know that no child is deserving of what happens to them. None. Not even me.

And for all of the things he said to me, for all of the trauma he bestowed upon me… Well, I know that I should say I forgive him. And in some ways I do. But forgiveness isn’t something I can give him in a blog post just after midnight. For what’s it worth, I have at least decided to no longer hold onto the hot coals of my anger. Whatever pain he caused me is only magnified by my unwillingness to put it down.

First, came the trauma, or rather, the rekindled realization that there had been trauma. And then came the diagnoses. A new psychiatrist, back in November of 2019, diagnosed me with Borderline Personality Disorder, Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and then, much later, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. He decided, at the time, that I didn’t have bipolar II after all, it was a misdiagnosis. He changed his mind about that several months ago and re-added the diagnosis.

All of this to say, I believe that the same God who journeyed with me into the start of my seminary career walked with me through all of that pain. There were times when I was angry at God, times when I felt like screaming to the sky with all of my anger and pain. There were times when I wondered if God had brought me into the desert to die. There were times when I echoed the cries of David in the Psalms, “but I am a worm and not human.” There were also times when I wanted to die, and times when I thought I had on the inside.

But God is bigger than all of those things. God can handle my questioning, my anger, my hurt. God holds us when we feel broken and pieces us back together. While I’m no longer sure that pastoral ministry is the path of service that I will take, I do know one thing: I am loved, and that is enough.

Loving Father,

We thank you that you are indeed a very loving Father. You hold us close when we cry. You reach out your arms to us, like a mother reaching for her child. We thank you for the ways that you intercede for us daily. We thank you for the rainbows amidst the rain, the joy that comes in the midst of pain. When the nights are so long that we fear there’s no way out, we know that we can look to you for comfort.

Grant that we may find the courage to look for you in the midst of rain clouds. Help us to find you in the storms of our lives.

We ask all of this in the precious name of your Son, our Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

The Things I Can’t Say, A Poem

TW – abuse and trauma. This poem describes child abuse and trauma in some detail. Read at your own risk.

Tired. Tired. Tired.
On that dreaded weekend night.
First, I hear the yelling,
And know something isn’t right.

Frightened. Frightened. Frightened.
There’s something I forgot.
And now I will be punished.
I’d run, but I cannot.

Angry. Angry. Angry.
He towers over me.
“I’m going to break this habit,
So now, my wraith, you’ll see.”

Sorry. Sorry. Sorry!
I didn’t mean to make you mad.
I’m sick, and scared, and hurting.
But you just call me bad.

Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!
Please just let me go!
I feel your hand on my bare neck.
And pain is all know.

Not real. Not real. Not real.
I’m not inside my body.
I watch your rage from far away.
And don’t feel what is inside me.

Over. Over. Over.
I lay broken in my bed
With scattered thoughts within me
And your voice there in my head.

Later. Later. Later.
I grew up in fear and pain.
I’m scared it’s never ending
And I won’t be whole again.

---

I know it’s been some time since I uploaded things to this blog. I’m hoping to change that. In the next few weeks I may try to update this blog with some more of my poetry and stories from life in and outside of divinity school, especially during a pandemic.

Thanks to all of you who are seeing this blog for the first time! I appreciate all of the support and love that this blog and Facebook page have gotten. I hope to continue that momentum, that this blog may be a blessing to those who need solidarity. I cannot promise that every post will be joyful and sunny, perhaps this post is a case in point, but the word done here will be the work of healing.

Still Yours, even when it hurts

Some days I feel like recovery is in my grasp, as if the meds are actually working, and I can get things done and be successful. Other days, days like today, I feel like I’m trapped under my symptoms. I feel awkward, ignored, and all I want to do is hide and be away from people. I have to fight the urge to stay home and disregard my classes.

From my current hiding spot on campus, everyone seems far away. I sit in one of the basement rooms, listening to life happen all around me in the divinity school. It’s hard not to feel isolated, hard not to feel as if I don’t belong here. My brain encourages the lies, sending me waves of intrusive thoughts. “You are worthless.” “No one wants to talk to you.” “You shouldn’t be here.” “You don’t belong.”

            It’s days like to today that come out and remind me that I have a mental illness.

On the other days, I feel next to normal, as if nothing is wrong, like all of my symptomatic days were just a bad dream that I’ve woken up from. Days like today remind me that I am broken, lonely, bipolar, and horrifically human.

            It’s all I can do to remind myself that God can still use me.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t say that I don’t feel it. I really don’t, not today. Right now, I can’t understand what God’s promises are. I can’t remember who I am or why I came to Divinity School in the first place. The first signs of God’s call seem distant and long ago. Maybe I’ve run too far to receive them.

Today I thank God that His perfect will and plan don’t depend on me being perfect, or even on me having perfect mental health. My bipolar isn’t a road block to God. It’s a truth that I know, somewhere in my rational mind; a truth that my brain is having trouble accessing. But even as the deep blues of a depressive episode crash over my brain, I know it to be truth.

I can’t depend on my emotions. I can’t depend on how I feel. Some days are just going to be bad mental health days. And that’s okay. Some days I have to cling to my faith and my friends a little harder, and that is also okay.

I thank God for today, and every other day, even when it hurts, and I don’t feel like fighting my symptoms.

 

Loving Father,

I’m struggling today. I’m struggling to remember my worth, and that I’m loved. Sometimes, I wonder why I came to seminary, if this is even the right place for me. Today I am struggling to remember that I am yours.

I thank you that you brought me to this place, and this moment, even though I hurt right now. I thank you that you’ve brought me through moments just like this one, and that you will hold me close and remind me how much you love me.

Remind all of us who struggle with mental illness, and self doubt that we are made your image and so greatly loved. Remind us that you’ve brought us through so many of our worst moments. Remind us of our purpose.

In Your Son’s most precious name I pray,

Amen

For the believer who struggles with mental illness and suicidality.

            Trigger Warning – Discussion of suicide

 

            If you’re a believer who struggles with depression and suicidal ideation, this post is for you. ❤

 

Today is World Suicide Prevention day. While I was sitting in my Church History class, learning about theology and the early church, I started thinking about how my knowledge of Christianity and my faith have influenced my depression and suicidal tendencies, so I decided to blog about it, because I know that I am not alone in these thoughts.

To start, I must say that I would be lying if I said that my depression hasn’t made me question my faith.

As Christians, we are supposed to be people who have hope. But it’s not so easy to feel hopeful when we are trapped under the bondage of depression and suicidality. At that point, everything seems hopeless. Life doesn’t seem worth living. When I’ve tried to confide in my Christian friends about my depression, it seems that I am met with well-meaning clichés about finding joy in Jesus.

I want you to know that that’s not what I’m here to do. I am not here to judge you or tell you of the joy you ought to feel, because I know how hurtful that is. I want you, whoever you are to know that you are not less of a Christian because of your depression or suicidality. I’ve found that the joy that we feel we should have becomes our bondage when we weep over how we’ve not met that standard.

Often when we’re depressed, we feel that it must because we’ve done something horribly wrong. We tell ourselves, “if I just read more scripture, or prayed more often, I wouldn’t feel like this. If I were a better Christian, this wouldn’t be happening to me.” Sadly, it seems that our Christian culture is sometimes the thing that breeds those thoughts. “The joy of the Lord is our strength,” scripture says. But what do we do if we can’t find joy in life anymore? How are we supposed to react when someone quotes scripture at us, telling us how good we should feel, and it hurts?

Know that if you feel this way, it doesn’t mean that you’re defective. It’s okay to not be okay. Someone who has never struggled with depression can’t possibly know how it feels to have those things tossed at them. Still, the words hurt, even when they’re meant as encouragement.

 

The fact is that no one chooses to have depression. No one chooses to feel like they don’t belong. No one chooses to hurt, and no one chooses to feel suicidal.

 

At the lowest point in my depression, someone said to me, “God doesn’t want this for you.” The context was that this man believed in prayer healing. While my healthy, rational mind today can recognize that he sincerely believed this, and that his words were meant to encourage me; in the depths of my depression, I took it to mean that I, by being depressed, was doing something wrong. I thought that I wasn’t believing hard enough, that somehow my bipolar disorder would be wiped out if my faith were stronger. And that belief tore me apart. I regularly blamed myself for my depression.

 

Depression, any mental illness in fact, hurts. It takes away our ability to loves ourselves and see ourselves as children of God. But friends, God loves you exactly as you are. Indeed, Christ died for you exactly as you are. God loves you exactly as you are, even when you can’t love yourself.

Sometimes, the best comfort we can have is knowing that we are seen and noticed. As a faulty human, I can’t claim that I notice every one of you, but God does. In Genesis 16:13, Hagar calls God, the one who sees. Scripture says “she gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: “You are the God who sees me,” for she said, “I have now seen[a] the One who sees me.”

 

Friends, even when it doesn’t feel like it, even when life feels hopeless, and you think you are beyond help, God sees you. God loves you just as you are, mental illness and all.

 

Father of all,

I thank you that you are the God who sees us even in our darkest moments, that you love us even when we can’t love ourselves as we are. I thank you that you died to save us in our most broken moments. That you see all that we struggle with and love us still.

When we feel broken and hurt, help us remember who we are in You, beneath our hurt and suicidality. Help us to find a reason to keep going, to come back tomorrow and the day after that.

In your Son’s most holy and loving name we pray,

Amen.

Suicide Prevention: Not just an event

Trigger Warning – Suicidality, discussion of suicide. If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts, my heart is with you. I pray for you, I long that you see your importance, and the necessity of your existence. You are a beautiful and wonderful person, and you belong here. But this blog post may not be for you. With what I’ll say later in this blog, I feel hypocritical saying this, but you absolutely may reach out to me. God Bless you, friend.

 

As you may or may not know, September is suicide prevention week (although it may just be a week in September. Kind of depends on who you ask.)

I have an inherent problem with suicide prevention as a month month/week. It’s not a problem with the focus, which is suicide prevention. Rather, it’s a problem with the way we treat suicide prevention.

There are two specific times when we consider suicide prevention as a topic that needs to be discussed. The first is during a week/month/event like this. The second time that we focus specifically on suicide prevention is when someone famous commits suicide. During these times, we spend anywhere from the week to the month focusing on suicide prevention, and then walking away feeling that we accomplished something. We might share the Suicide Hotline number on facebook. We might change our profile pictures or cover pictures in solidarity.

If you’re one of those who does those things, know that I am not admonishing you. These are all good things to do to bring awareness to a cause. The problem is that oftentimes we stop there feeling that our work is done; that we’ve done our small part in contributing, and that we get to end our efforts there. But there is so much more work to be done.

My point is that suicide prevention should not be limited to one week where we focus on suicide prevention. Suicidal people don’t limit to their suicidality one month or week out of the year, so our efforts in preventing suicide can’t be limited to one week out of the year.

 

            The next question might be: what can I do? What should I do?

 

For that question, I have a story.

During my undergrad experience I suffered several stages of bitter depression and suicidality. During these times I often wouldn’t want to leave my room. I would forget to eat, spend all of my time sleeping, and get none of my schoolwork done. If I’d have my way, I wouldn’t have left my room at all during these times, but my friends had a different plan for that.

One evening, my friend Mikah had invited me to go to the cafeteria with him, and threatened to call another friend, Anna, if I didn’t. I knew that if Mikah did call Anna, Anna would call security. So, to avoid that awkward intervention, I begrudgingly went to the caf with Mikah, but I wasn’t hungry, so I told him that I probably wouldn’t eat anything.

We sat down at a table in the cafeteria, where a friend was enjoying a bowl of soup. I sat down next to her and put my head down.

“There’s soup!” My friend, Andie, told me, pointing to her bowl.

“Okay Andie.” I said, with a small smile, but with all of the determination that I wasn’t going to eat anything.

“There’s soup!” Andie said, a few minutes later, gesturing towards her empty bowl. I shrugged again, hoping she would just leave me alone.

The thing is, though, that Andie didn’t leave me alone, just like Mikah hadn’t left me alone in his determination to get me to leave my room. A few minutes later I looked up to find a small bowl of soup sitting in front me, and Andie said, again, “soup.” She slid a spoon next to the bowl and watched me take the first few sips.

I hadn’t planned on eating; I hadn’t planned on leaving my room. During that time of my life, I regularly considered taking my own life. But my friends wouldn’t leave me alone. They wouldn’t let me slip into the loneliness that I had created for myself. They weren’t content to sharing the suicide hotline on my facebook, and then leaving me alone to wallow in my depression. They reached out. And their acts of reaching out are a huge part of why I am still here.

 

My point is that while raising awareness during suicide prevention week/month is important and can be extremely helpful, your actions in suicide prevention should not be limited to sharing hotlines during the week.

If you’re worried about someone, it is not enough to trust that they will see your facebook post. Call them, message them. Inviting them to reach out to you is great, but it’s so important to also reach out to them. I would not have reached out to Mikah, Anna, or Andie, but they reached out to me. They let me know that I am loved, that I am important, and that I am needed. And all of those things meant the world to me.

By all means, continue to share resources. Share the suicide hotline, let your friends know that you are accessible, but also reach out. Reach out to the people around you. The lonely people, the hurting, your suicidal friends, they all need you to notice them. Don’t be so wrapped up in sharing suicide prevention pictures that you forget to be there for those who need you the most.

 

Loving Father,

We thank you that we are made in your image, and that you have a plan for each one of our lives. We long for your loving presence in our hearts and in our minds, casting out depression and thoughts that make us long for an end. We’re thankful for the ways that you have touched us with your compassion.

Help us to notice the people in our lives that yearn for our help and healing touch. Help us to be extensions of you, sharing your life and your love for those around us. Touch our hearts, Lord, soften them and make them to resemble yours. Give us eyes that we may see the hurting, ears that we may hear their cries.

It is your Son’s most Holy name that we pray.

Amen.

 

Blessings, friends.

Summer Wrap-Up

A week ago yesterday my journey in Pre-Enrollment field education ended with youth Sunday at my placement.

There are so many emotions that I’m feeling, and I’m not sure how to articulate everything. But I’m going to try to sum up some of what I’ve learned.

 

1. I learned that I need to be more connected to God.

My summer internship opened my eyes to the cracks in my spiritual connection. When I first discovered my call to ministry during my last years of high school, I launched in reading my Bible and spending daily time in devotion.

I felt so connected to God 100% of the time. On a real level, I know that I can’t gauge my spiritual health by whatever emotions I’m currently feeling. Still, I miss that feeling of being connected constantly to my creator.

I need to get back into the habit of reading scripture and staying connected. I know that I will not last long in ministry without leaning on God. Because it shouldn’t come from me. It should come from him.

 

2. I learned to be more honest about my emotions and needs.

I’m one of those people that has the horrible habit of keeping everything that I feel to myself. I don’t want to bother people when I’m in pain, because I don’t want to inconvenience them. On that same note, I have trouble saying so when someone has hurt me.

During my last semester of undergrad I experience horrible gaslighting at the hands of someone who took advantage of my mental state, my natural rapid cycling. She made me feel as though my needs were irrelevant, that I couldn’t express how I was feeling to anyone without thinking that I was doing something wrong.

Even since I started the journey of Pre-Enrollment Field Education, my support system has grown. I know I have people around me that want to be there for me. I know that I need to make an intentional choice to restart therapy.

 

3. I’ve learned to step out and be honest.

Telling my story has always been something of a challenge. I fear judgement from those around me, I feel that my struggles are irrelevant, and that no one wants to hear about it. I forgot all of the good that comes from sharing stories, acknowledging my humanity.

During my last reflection group meeting with fellow Duke Divinity students, we talked about things we wanted to do before leaving our Field Ed placements. My goal before leaving was to be honest. Preaching the sermon that I shared on this blog was such a freeing experience.

 

4. I’ve learned that presence and validation are sometimes better than advice.

I’ve spent lots of this summer being a witness times of great pain and stress. I’ve sat in a hospital waiting room while a woman talked about the pain she’s felt with her husband being in the ICU. I’ve heard the stories and struggles, as well as the triumphs, of some of the poorest people in the church community, especially from those that benefit from the food pantry at my field placement. I’ve helped to serve communion to a woman struggling with psychosis, and trying to stay connected to God.

During all of those times, my initial reaction was to speak. I wanted to comfort with my words offer advice, do something to stop the pain. But I am one person. I can’t end a person’s hurt, and solve their problems in one day. What I can do is listen. I can be an outlet where someone can express what they’re feeling. I can be there in the suffering, be a shoulder to cry on.

***

Over all, summer Field Education offered me the opportunity to experience ministry as it really is. The moments of joy, and the suffering. Over the past eleven weeks I’ve felt both extreme joy and contentment, as well as utter loneliness and despair. With experience I hope to learn more about ministry and navigating my bipolar disorder.

 

Gracious Lord,

Thank you for offering me the opportunity to serve your people, and discern my call in the context of rural ministry. Thank you for being by my side, even during those times that I feel alone, unlovable, and ineffective. Thank you for my summer internship.

Lord, help me to build my confidence, to be present in suffering, and to lean more on you, in good times and bad. Be with me as the semester starts in two weeks. Help me to navigate my new schedule, do well in my classes, and continue to grow in you, even in the classroom.

It s in the awesome, precious name of my savior, Jesus Christ, that I pray.

Amen

***

On that note, I still have two more weeks until classes start. I do not know if or when I will post during this time. I have a more than terrifying conversation to have with my Pastor about coming into my sexuality, the future of the church, and my place in ministry.

If I do update in the next two weeks, I will be back to updates during the semester.

As always, stay safe my friends.