What to do when you recognize you've stopped smiling - depression is so sad

There have been recent days where I just start shaking from joy on the inside and can't stop smiling.  I mean, I make a bonafide fool of myself talking to every lady picking over mangos and shallots at the grocery store, and the boy bagging my groceries looks at me side-ways when I go on and on about those hazel eyes. I ask the older man in the electric shopping chair, who can't quite stand up tall enough to reach the bag of salted movie popcorn, if I can help.  He says yes, so we continue together up and down the aisles, both of us smiling.  And it feels good, for the man who is shorter than he once was, and for this woman who is taller than she was a year ago.  

Last year I was just coming out of Depression's grip. The hold had been firm because her fingers were many - Imbalanced hormones, adrenal fatigue, prolonged postpartum, parenting and marriage challenges I wasn't prepared to handle... all of it wrapped around my weary wrists like a vine with too many tendrils.  I'd rip at one, but another was always growing up  to take its place.

Today there are smiles. Smiles spilling out and collecting like puddles at my feet, where tears used to pool.

I don't believe in formulas or cure-alls, but I do believe in the power of healthy conversation, in testimonies, and in a kind, redeeming God who reaches down into the muddiest, muckiest messes, smack-dab in our soul sadness, and pulls us up and out.  Yeah, I believe in that stuff.  And Kleenex, plenty of Kleenex.  And gooey brownies too.

How nice it would be to sit criss-cross applesauce with you, pillows all around, a box of kleenex to wipe away the tears when ugly-cries shake us something fierce, and brownies.  Always brownies. But we can't do that, can we?  Not really. So we gather here together, because a blog titled drew you in, and your heart said, "Yeah, I get sad, really sad sometimes."

And so, at the risk of sounding like I have any answers at all, let's simply try to make sense of it, and reach out of our individual dark struggles and into the light together.  Or better yet, let us CALL OUT of the darkness; out of the darkness and into the Light.

For Crying Out Loud!

If I were into formulas, equations that stated methodically that a+b=c, always, every time, than I'd start here. Depression is confusing. It's so stinkin' confusing that we whimper soft and alone, rather than CRYING OUT LOUD. But, For Crying Out Loud, Soul-Sisters, crying out is just what He wants to hear from us. Loud and bold and believing, "God, save me from this mess, I'm drowning in these tears."

I waited patiently for the LORD; And He inclined to me and heard my cry. He brought me up out of the pit of destruction, out of the miry clay, And He set my feet upon a rock making my footsteps firm. He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God; Many will see and fear And will trust in the LORD.… (Psalm 40:1-3)

This is the story of our Salvation.  We were separated and desperate for saving, then in a moment we cried out, "God, I cannot do this alone."  And that confession of faith in God's power was the key to unleashing His rescue plan for our lives.  But here's the glorious truth we need in the darkest days this side of Heaven's hold... We still need saving.  Here in this sin-drenched world we remain actively in need of His powerful, rescuing arm.

Jesus said, "I have come that they might have life, and have it abundantly!"  Those are two lives He came for; the life eternal and the life we're living-breathing now, full of abundant potential.  So here's the confession:  God, if you were strong enough to save me from sin's separation and give me eternal life... You are most definitely able to save me from the pit of despair and redeem the abundance I can't seem to find.

God's lifting hand often looks like the hands of real people all around us.  

The sign above my therapist's door stated, "This is going to hurt before it gets better."  And it did.  It hurt to delve into the dark places and learn coping skills that had eluded me so long.  It hurt something awful, but not as awful, I told myself, as continuing on in despair.  So I reached over the plaid couch, and over the silk flowers, and grabbed hands with the counselor; and I reached over phone lines and grasped hold of friends who never gave up on me when all I did was cry out loud, and I reached for my husband in the dark and clung to him.

If you are deep in the mire, and in desperate need of lifting, then tilt your head toward heaven and raise your hands for help.  He brought me up out of the pit of destruction, out of the miry clay... He is strong enough to save, able to lift, and often does it through the flesh and blood people in our midst.

When a mess becomes our message.

He set my feet upon a rock making my footsteps firm. He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God; Many will see and fear And will trust in the LORD.…

I spent the first three sessions with the counselor just crying.  I was embarrassed most of all that I couldn't stop myself.  But she waited and nodded and kept extending her hand across the great divide.  And when I was finally able to gulp down enough air to fill my broken lungs and exhale in a way that formed words, this is what I asked her: "I know where I'm going to end up on the other side of this, I just don't know how to get there.  Won't you tell me what the next step is?"

She smiled hope and squeezed my hand, "No, I can't.  All I know is that right now you're having a good cry. But you're right,you will get to the other side."

What she didn't say is that there on the other side is something more amazing than I ever imagined... Not only is it the complete, restored me standing there, it's my story, my testimony, my smile.  It's the new song in my mouth.  It's the hymn of praise to my God.  And many are seeing me here, and have put their trust in the Lord.

Amazing!

I've heard it, how God takes our mess and makes it our message - how God takes our test and turns it on its ear, making it our testimony.  But it's true.  It's absolutely true! Press on, it's true!

I don't know what step you're on; Calling Out Loud, Grabbing Hold of Hands, Knee Deep in Tears, in the Process of Being Lifted, or Here on the Other Side, Testifying to the One who Saves... But the only part of the equation that is true for everyone of us who believes is what's at the end of the journey =  A New Song.

Depression isn't always a Spiritual Condition - But the Answer is Pure Spirit.

For those of you still in the mud, the muck and the mire of depression, I want to tell you the hardest part of all for me. There was this tendency to feel like I was failing spiritually. "If only I was pressing into God, abiding, leaning in and praying more... then I wouldn't be so downcast. Then I would bear the fruit of JOY!" But sometimes there are medical, hormonal, neurological reasons so complex that our abiding selves still don't bear the fruit of God's Spirit this side of glory.

Why?

I could say, "I don't know," and that'd be the truth, but I think I might.  I think the reason God let's His Holy people experience great soul depression, is so that they learn the passionate saving love that raises us to life again, the redeeming love that sets us on a firm foundation, that puts a new song in our mouths that becomes the anthem inspiring faith from those who have not yet heard.

I believe that The Spirit of God is mighty at work in the midst of a Christian's Depression.

I used to think that the happy life was the life blessed by God. But here I am, after taking all the steps I didn't know how to take there in the therapists office, and I see that the blessed life is the life that had to CRY OUT, the blessed life is the life that had to GRAB HOLD HARD, the best life was cultivated in the persevering faith of a hurting heart, the blessed life experienced the LIFTING, and the blessed life now TESTIFIES TO THE SAVING.

Ask me why I smile.  I dare you to ask this broken woman, built back up and made whole again, why she smiles in the grocery store, in the pick-up line at her children's school, coming out of Sunday morning worship... Ask her why she smiles, ask her why she sings.

Teach us how to pray...

The Spit-Up Covered Glory of Each Day

Hormones swinging out, then chasing right back in; Each baby brings with him this offering. Emotions climb up high, then calm back down, Our newborn cries, we nurse, but dare not drown.

But sometimes we do, and then wipe our eyes Blow our nose, and go turn off the house lights Succumb to sleep, two hours at a time Waking to sing one. more. time. "baby mine."

A new day starts, then twelve more pass at once Did I shower or ever stop for lunch? How can I be so elated and sad? Those hormones, sleep, and food would make me glad.

But sometimes they don't, 'cause sometimes they can't. Today blends with tomorrow in a rant About the ugly and the true. But O! O, O, O! Let us breath and know, know, know,

The spit up covered glory of each day. Sweet pea scented, baby powder dusted, glorious reflection of swaddled grace Turned up to receive our love, face to face.

And sometimes we do stop, to smell the truth. The roses, posies, sweet pea scented truth Of love, tucked deep in the baby wrinkles Where tears of joy and exhaustion mingle.

How many times did I fall asleep nursing my newborn in the gliding chair there in the nursery?  Waking with a kink in my neck and a baby covered in milk.  It was all so messy and delicious.  And in the night, when I'd awake and nurse my child again, I often asked the Lord "How should I pray?"

"One day Jesus was praying in a certain place. When he finished, one of his disciples said to him, “Lord, teach us how to pray..." - Luke 11:1

The Lord's prayer spilled like water into wine from his lips, and found it's way into The Word.  We read it there, memorizing lines and praying them in rote.  But only when we slow down to savor each word, do we get the simple beauty of prayer. Mothers, wives, grandma's with a laundry list of requests for your laundry list of loved ones... “When you pray, say: “‘Father..."

Nursing in the middle of the night, packing lunches before the dawning of a new day, spending hours on the floor with puzzles and legos and crayons, "Father, Your Name is Holy."

The music plays loud from my third born's room, "Build your kingdom here" and I whisper the words heavenward, "Your kingdom come."

Beside the rocker, during those early days, was my bible, my daily bread, and beside that bread lay my  journal.  I recorded prayers and scriptures and the last time I fed my son and which side I nursed him on.  I chronicled it all, including confessions.  "Forgive me my sins."  I prayed through every line, in different ways, every day, without ceasing.

Even the first verses I committed to memory as a new mom were listed there:

“Which of you fathers, if your son asks for a fish, will give him a snake instead? Or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion?  If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”

He taught us to pray, and we do, but sometimes we forget how much like a conversation it can flow throughout our days, throughout our sleep-deprived nights.  And sometimes we forget to ask, for our loved ones and for ourselves, and His Word reminds us how.  But life is busy chasing children and cleaning house, until we stop and read it further down the page:

“So I say to you: Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened."

There is so much to a woman's prayer life.  From the simple act of recognizing that He is God, to the bold entrance we can make through the front door of His Grace, making requests and clapping our hands in faith.  It's all too much for me to understand. Which is why I'm blown over with gratitude when other women record their scripture prayers for the rest of us to lift as our own.  Have you done that?  Read through a book, like Stormie O'Martian's "The Power of a Praying Parent", or the new, heart-reviving prayers in Erika Dawson's collection, "Pray Truth: Praying God's Word for My Husband's Heart"? At the end of the book I sometimes start immediately over, because they've led me to the footstool and shown me how to pray again.

It is easy to forget to pray, but O there are women who remind us how...

Let's pray.

"Dear Lord, You are Holy over our sleepless nights and poured-out, spit-up crusted days and taxed marriages and  full hearts.  Build Your kingdom here in our home and in our family relationships, as you've purposed them in Heaven.  Forgive us when we are selfish in our exhaustion, and in your forgiveness remind us to forgive others. Lead us into right choices, even when we feel the pull of temptation strong.  Hem us in, Lord.  Hem us in.  And then be sure, Father, to take all the glory for your own self.  For it is yours entirely.  And I am tired and ready now for bed.  Go before me into the next day, and teach me again, fresh in the morning, how to pray. Amen."

The Courage to Live This Authentic Life

She leaned over and patted my knee like we were sister-friends affirming and enjoying one another, talking about the things that matter to us as women. Last Friday I met up with Nicole Johnson, author of Fresh Brewed Life, and the Dramatist behind some of the most powerful moments on the Women of Faith tour.  We talked about creativity in the midst of motherhood, we talked about marriage, and we talked about being still.  At one point I told her that I've always wanted to use my acting as a means to display Christ's redemptive work in my life, and again she leaned over and patted my knee, smiling, her eyes narrowing like she was thinking through each of my words as well as her own.

On my drive home that afternoon I was so full of feeling that it just sort of spilled over in the form of tears.  Driving and crying I thought to ask myself, "Why are you crying?"  And a deep-down core part of me whispered back, "I just feel so known."

I hope you have the chance to sit with someone today, or in the days ahead, who listens with their whole self, the way Nicole listened to me.  And I hope this person speaks from their heart and with their wisdom, the way my friend spoke into my life.

 

 "If I can't do social media authentically,

I can't do social media." - Nicole Johnson

We were talking about social media, but I listened with broader ears and a heart wide-open to application.

These past few days I've been asking myself, "Is there anything I am doing unauthentically?  Because if there is, I can't keep doing it."

Searching my heart for pretense, falsehood and impure motives, I thought through my commitments and my friendships, my goals and my priorities.  I recounted words that I have recently spoken and those I have written down, weighing each syllable.  And a few things, a few words, a few conversations stirred uncomfortably in my heart.

No, that email didn't need to be sent, those words didn't need to be said, that post didn't need to be... posted. It wasn't so much that I needed to repent, just learn... and to recommit to purity, which is, in a way, authenticity.  It takes courage to do this thing, this life, content to be just as we are.  Purely as we are. Not chasing likes; not on the cul de sac, not online, not at church, not at the kids' school. It takes courage to be okay with where we are and who we are today.  It takes courage to live authentically - comfortable in our own skin - comfortable with where the boundary lines lie.

I remember my mom's words when she met Amy.  My friend had brought me a vanilla steamer and a pumpkin scone from Starbucks a few days after I birthed my third baby.  Refusing to come deep into our home, not wanting to interrupt the sanctity of our family time, Amy stood at the open door. With blond hair backlit by the sun, there was a sort of shekinah radiance to her presence.

I brought the baby close and Amy laughed, mouth full open, because Amy does that.  Then she was gone.

Closing the door I saw my mom smiling from the kitchen.  "She may have one of the most authentic laughs I've ever heard.  It's just so real it bubbles up and out of her."

I want to laugh like that.  No, more than that, I want to live like that.

Social media, sure why not, but I'm talking about like.  Life wide open like a conduit of real. Wide open like Amy's laughter and the gifts she brings.

This week I've been real - really busy - and really unable to write.  Sure, I could have pushed some words out and made them stick together... but it would not have been authentic because my time and affections called me in other directions.  Likewise, there were friends I wanted to call, but the call of motherhood rang clearer and nearer, and so I leaned in close to my child with the leg cramps and rubbed him from his knee to his toes late into the night.  I didn't call my friends and I didn't write a blog post. And my husband waited up for me, because meeting up with him authentically is also the life I lead.

That is where I've been.  Trying to live fully present right where I am.

It's not always laughing, with mouth open and head thrown back, but it is open and real and courageous, this moment by moment life.  Embracing life, embracing kids, embracing emotions, embracing each moment authentically.

There was a song I sang as a child.  I sing it to myself now like a conversation with the Lord:

"All I ever have to be is what you've made me.

Any more of less would be a step out of Your plan.

As you daily recreate me, help me always keep in mind,

that I only have to do what I can find.

All I ever have to be is what You've made me." - Amy Grant

Today is a new day, a new day for more of this courage and more of this commitment to live, humbly and happily, doing just what I can find.  Join me in the journey?

Time to Pray:

Dear Lord, 

Help us each to abide in You, exactly where you have us.  

Your boundary lines fall for us in pleasant places, 

help us to believe that is true.

We want to cease from striving, 

ever-striving for life outside of your will,

for the clamor of more, the allure of better,

the seduction of lies...

We want to live right where you have us today,

because living in your plans and purposes, 

is living authentically. - Amen to that!

Lent: The People of the Cross

It was a holy kind of cold that enveloped me this early morning, with shivers and sweats.  I dropped my kids off at school and came home all aching on the inside; anxious and out of sorts, though I didn't know exactly why.  I knew I'd been off my routine both practically and spiritually these past few weeks. Actually, if I'm going to be honest here, I haven't been consistent in my time with The Lord since 2014.  And then there's been so much in the news to shake a grounded woman loose.  And to top it off... we've been busy. In the busyness of life, I'd lost track of the cross.

Today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent.  A time to give up in order to give in... into the cross.  And so I gave in, full heart and full attention to the Lord.  And as I prayed and read and meditated upon the cross, I thought of these men.

In the days before Lent, 21 Christian Egyptians were martyred for their confession of faith.  21 People of the Cross.

There have been news reports, editorials, blog posts, pictures, heated debates, and prayers circling social media - ones I've read, names I've prayed over, and conversations I've had.  But today, on this first day of Lent, it all came together for me.

We must commit to being People of the Cross this Lenten season.

In the face of persecution, People of the Cross.

In the midst of uncertainty, People of the Cross.

In the busy places of our lives,

in the frightening places in the world,

in the aching places of our souls...

People of the Cross.

But what does that mean to you and to me in our everyday,

waking up,

getting kids dressed,

working,

doing laundry,

loving our spouses,

getting dinner on the table,

teaching the kids to clear their plates

and brush their own teeth lives?

What does it mean to be People of the Cross in this distracting, unpredictable, terror-tempted life?

That's what I want to know, because that's who I want to be in the midst of it all.

And so this Lent, I will fast from those extra minutes of sleep, to find my rest in the One who died upon the cross.  I will pull back warm covers when the morning sky is not yet light, to gaze upon the Light of His Countenance.  Here in these Lenten days, before each one bombards me with her headlines, I will dive headlong into the hope we have, secure, because of the Cross.

Come with me this Lent.  Come with me to the cross, through the rich love letter of God's "Radical Word." For they might threaten us with radical Islam, but we choose to set our minds and our hope upon radical love as displayed upon the cross.

"For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing,

but to us who are being saved it is the power of God."

(1 Corinthians 1:18)

Let us commit to being People of the Cross!

sponsor a child

The boys are down for the night and I just wrapped up the last crusty pots and pans and swept away the crumbs of our day.  One full rotation of the sun has ended it's journey, and already I am looking towards tomorrow.  Early alarms are set on clocks and spelling test review sheets lay beside the boys' breakfast bowls.  Only a handful of hours separate now from then.  I turn to the three empty lunch boxes that clutter the counter top and decide to get a head-start.  

But that's just back-story... The real lesson came as I slathered thick layers of peanut butter and jelly on fluffy potato bread.

I make PB&Js like a rich person.

It was a solid, clear inner voice, said without conviction or pride, just a realization.  I make PB&Js like a rich mom.  I remembered then the woman at Legoland, with her children gathered round her in line for a ride, how she brought out two small Tupperware, half a loaf of white bread, two apples, and a plastic knife.  Squatting there, right in front of us, she used her backpack as a work station.  Four children waited patiently as the small knife spread a teaspoon of peanut butter across a slice of "day old" bread, then a smaller quantity of jelly followed.  Another piece of bread was placed on top, and the same plastic knife cut the sandwich diagonally.  Halves were passed to two of her children, then she repeated the ritual for the next two, followed by a third sandwich - the one she shared with her husband.  And the apples... the two apples were passed from one family member to the next.

I'm estimating I use two tablespoons of peanut butter per sandwich, with an equally liberal spread of grape jelly, and my children eat a whole one.  A bag of grapes and a clementine, followed by a cheese stick and a bottle of water complete my child's school lunch.  I place the boxes in our refrigerator to stay cool till morning.  It takes some maneuvering, because the fridge is so full of good healthy food.  I have cilantro and green onions to top our pork roast for tomorrow night's dinner, and cookie dough is all ready to pop in the oven after school gets out tomorrow.  And I sigh, both thankful and confused...

Is it too much?

I know it's only peanut butter and fruit, cookie dough, and potato bread and green onions... but is it too much?

And do I slather my children this same way with gifts and costly activities and always entertainment we have to pay for?  Do I slather with too much liberality?  And is there a cost to so much spending, a cost we have not factored into the budget of our souls?  Their souls.  Is it possible, in our spending and generous living, that we've lost sight of the simpler feasts and the more modest of joys as a family?  Passing the apple and breaking the bread in two.  And is there more for us to question, as we pack our children's lunches today?

This is a conversation without formula, maybe without even application, but I hope you'll join me in the dialogue just the same.

Is it too much?  The walls with their new pictures hung, and the boys with their endless flow of legos, and the man I love with his man-cave, and me with my shiny new countertops.  When is it enough? And how do we teach our children generosity, when we are so good at feeding our own appetites? And is it possible that our loving desire to give our children "the best," is actually making them into a generation of discontent consumers?

My children reached up and into my backpack as I watched that mother making lunch for her family.  Little hands tugged and pulled, then whined and complained, "but I want another fruit snack."

We slather it thick, the spending and the going and the gift-giving, but is it making them into men and women who slather the world with generous love in turn?  Or might our love, poured out at stores and restaurants and summer camps, one right after the costly other, indwell in them a self-love that only grows hungrier and hungrier?

Dear Lord, Give us an insatiable appetite for You,

Let it overflow into a hunger to fill the world with your love,

not keep it all for our own bellies...

that our children, as well, will taste and see the most satisfying way to live is to give.

And stir in us a love for those who are hungry throughout the world, 

that we might learn to give generously.  - Amen

The boys and I have begun reading "Little King Davie," a Lamplighter publication, written by Nellie Hellis in 1892.  It is the sweet and heart-wrenching story of a young English boy.  Though impoverished, he learns the abiding richness of a life in Christ.

Earlier this evening, as we wrapped up another chapter, we talked about the poor in more depth.  I reminded them of the children we support through World Vision and Holt International; Xing in China, Napaworn in Thailand, and Kender in Haiti.  We talked about education and medicine and food, those basic needs our support helps provide them and their families.  My eyes pricked with tears as I read Xing's most recent letter to us:

Dear Sponsor: Thank you  for your help.  You give me hope when I am in trouble.  I will study hard to repay society.  I must study from you for your kindness.  Thank the people who supported and helped me.  I wish you a good health and successful job and all the best.  -Xing

"You give me hope when I am in trouble."

And it hit me as I read it again to the boys, that our abundance is intended for those in trouble, but when we horde it here instead, it causes trouble.  Selfishness, pride, strife, gluttony, ulcers...

For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. (1 Timothy 6:10) ...but the worries of the world, and the deceitfulness of riches, and the desires for other things enter in and choke the word, and it becomes unfruitful. (Mark 4:19 )

But God has a plan for us to avoid the trap of simply feeding our own appetite, and it's bound up in the way we love Him.  "Feed my sheep."

Feeding sheep costs us greatly.  It costs our love, it costs us our time, and it costs our pretty pennies.  But it is love; demonstrative, sacrificial, agape love.  Love to the One who has first given to us, and Love to those whom He loves.

I want to be rich in love.  Slather it thick on Xing and Napaworn and Kender, the way I spread it out on the potato bread.  Like thick layers of peanut butter and jelly, not counting the cost.  Rich and thick, the way Christ slathered His love upon me.

Sponsor a child for approximately $35 a month.  It's a wonderful way to include your family in caring for those beyond your home.  See affiliate links in this post to start "feeding His sheep."

And blessings upon you as you bless those in need.