Pathology

The pathology report comes back.

Benign.

Community

This one’s for you, Passion Play family! And companions from small group. And friends from Women Together. I know it’s a bit long. Stick around (or skip around) for a poem at the end!

Our small family is gearing up for another Passion Play summer. Two years ago, I convinced a somewhat reluctant gem to help me pack up a 2-year-old lily with all her paraphernalia, and all of ours, into a ramshackle old tent trailer so we could spend 9 weekends camping and volunteering as actors in the annual Canadian Badlands Passion Play. It was the fulfilling of a childhood dream of mine. I am excited to say that now two years later, gem, lily and I are embarking on our second summer of Passion Play.

I know that the first time we re-unite with Passion Play family members, there will be hugs and good-natured teasing about the things time does, and maybe some happy tears. And when we part there will be hugs and pain and sorrow tears. And in between will be prayer and learning and exchanging stories. We’ll have potlucks and campfires and late-night philosophical conversations over bread and wine. I won’t have time to maintain regrets or obsess over whether I made dinner safely or what invisible dangers went into my pocket along with my keys. Hugs and words and the love and acceptance of a human community will go a little further in convincing me of the steadfastness of divine love.

The first few weekends are often bitterly cold. The last few can be unbearably hot. There is always a rain- and thunderstorm or two or three somewhere in between, that threaten to wash away friends’ homes from tent city, swirl up black bentonite mud to cling to sandaled toes and heavy linen hems of our costume robes. In all probability, the threat of one of these summer storms will cancel a performance at the last minute. There will be mosquitoes and ticks and sunburn and sunstroke and heat rash. There will be dirt and animals and mud for lily to sit in and cover herself with and I’ll pick her up and then I’ll have to re-adjust the headpiece of my costume with those same hands, and the folds of the veil will blow over my mouth, and I might be obsessed with the thought that I mustn’t lick my lips and I might feel compelled to run to the bathroom at first break in rehearsal and wash my lips and chin until they crack from the water and friction and dry air. And I’ll get a front row seat to watch this most breathtaking story take its first breaths, and I’ll get to be part of the rhythm of that breath.

I’ve already decided that I’ll take the optional audition. It will be nerve-wracking. I’ll probably be awkward. I’ll hate that I wonder too much what the directors think of me and my emotive choices. My stomach will be in a pathetic ball when I check the casting list. I will feel jealousy. I’ll feel dissatisfaction and disappointment, because I’m not the actor I wish I could be, because I can’t do everything perfectly or even “good enough”. Rehearsals will be long and tedious and technical. Lily will get cranky and defiant and uncooperative, and make a fuss in the middle of rehearsal, and I might have to run off stage, face burning, to try to calm her outburst. I might have lines like the ones I choked on last year: “Crucify! Crucify him!” and worry that I said it a little too convincingly or maybe too entirely became the character that meant those words and maybe would be damned. But I won’t have time to be consumed by the worry, because I’ll be consumed instead by the driving force of my intention: to serve this story, and this Story-Giver.

Francis Chan talks about the goal of Christian marriage being to drive each other to the kind of life that leaves no time for arguing. There is no energy left for anger or bitterness; it is all spent toward the single goal: the kingdom of God on earth; pouring out our lives and hearts to hear the words, for our spouse to hear the words: well done, good and faithful servant.

Marriage is of course just a part of what life in Christian community is all about. Christian siblings are all called to love each other with the kind of sacred love that drives action. And when we all join together with a single goal--the glory of God--the results could be awesome. And in between, the love shared, the care and concern shown for one another, the communion and the soul-out-pouring prayer could very well be part of the miracle God will use to heal all our diseases.

With deep gratitude to fellow passion-players, here is a poem I wrote for my Passion Play family 2 summers ago:

Jesus is at the Passion Play

Jesus is at the Passion Play

You mean the man in blue.

Who is the man in blue? you ask

As we wait in the wings for our cue

To search for him, and find Someone Else-

The Painter, the Poet, the Reason, the Pulse.

The man is just a picture.

Who is this guy with loud morning hugs?

This man wakened to early prayer?

These starlets who forget themselves

This one, who wipes feet with her hair?

They’re pictures of Jesus, fair.

This man in his dark disguise-

Dark-white saint, serving the Story

He faces my fear, so I can see

There is more grace, even to me

A Jesus picture--drawing me free.

Who are these people, earthy and drab

Their veils shot through with glory

Who run into the house of mourning

And weep to tell the story?

Who give their life to seek for Life

Who care so much as to hold us dear

Brothers, sister, strangers, pictures

Of Jesus, in body, here.

Come and see, Behold the Man

Picture Life, and what Jesus could do.

The one in blue pictures Jesus the Man;

But all the others, in black and brown

Are pictures of Jesus too.

We’re painting a picture of Jesus

You with the brown, him with the blue;

All of us image-laden pieces,

And I so desperately need you

To paint that picture anew….

Fighting The Machine

Hello, friends! Thanks a million for stopping by again. I found these musings I wrote not quite a year ago. Reading over them, I see again how far I've come in the last few months, and I am grateful:

On a visit with my parents recently, it hit me with a mixture of astonishment and disappointment how much this disorder has changed me. I have become inflexible, easily thrown off by the unfamiliar; whereas change and newness used to thrill me. I miss my old self--my parents’ daughter. They say my lily reminds them of me: her exuberance for adventure, her joy in the out-of-doors, the way she loves to play in the mud! None of those parts of myself have survived the illness.

I’ve become stiff and proper, even stern--a perfect old matron. I, who Pan-like swore never to grow up. I, who feel underneath it all not a day over 16, but trapped, not so much in an older body but an old old mind--a mind knowing too much of fear, and not enough, snagged on its gears and circuits of anxiety and responsibility: circuits that never end or slow down.

Learning new pathways, ways to get off or short-circuit the typical thought patterns, is a slow and awkward re-wiring. The fear-gears on the other hand snapped so easily into place, as if pre-fitted to my brain. Or was it my brain that was pre-fitted to them? What tripped the wire for the waiting blazes of terror? What were the triggers, where are the buttons, and how can I prevent them from being pressed?

Circuits, gears, levers, buttons; machinery--it’s a cold, ugly metaphor for the human brain. But sometimes I do feel so cold. Frozen, paralyzed by the overwhelm of decision-making.

It doesn’t seem fair. Of course it isn’t, to be so prone to these vicious cycles of worry, this clogged-gear paralysis, but “it is what it is” as my psychologist says. The reality I must learn to live within. I pray for the grace to learn well. Yes, grace. God’s grace--more than sufficient to compensate for any “unfairness”. Ah! The grace of God’s unfairness! My only hope after all: that God would not treat this sinner fairly.

The Power of Story

Whatever I may think of my own talents as a writer, I am a storyteller and so are you. And the stories we tell have incredible power over us. I’m thinking specifically of the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves, inside our heads. The importance we ascribe to the various parts of these stories can change the direction of the rest of our life stories.

Selective Story-Telling:

As an example, consider the story I told about the day I drank the orange juice and made a terrible vow (link here). I did not include (and I neglected to include every time I told it to myself, which I did hundreds of times) that earlier that day I’d dined at a restaurant and avoided the pretty little complimentary appies with deli meats, because I was pregnant. At this high-class restaurant in a tourist resort, I had insisted on bottled water, for the sake of the baby. That morning, I had washed my fruit in a bleach solution, then thoroughly rinsed it, because that was ‘best practice’ for this part of the world. I had gone for a run on the beach with my best friend, and stifled my competitive spirit to let her go on without me at the 5-K mark, because I didn’t want to overdo it for the sake of the baby. Every night that visit, my friend and I had sung “Jesus Loves Me” to my baby, at my request, because I had read that she had recently developed tiny ear buds. I left out those parts of the story, every single time.

Over and over I told myself stories of my own incompetence, stupidity and negligence. I told myself stories in which I could never be forgiven. I told myself dark stories with terrible endings that ought to serve as lessons to much better mothers.

I told myself such stories until I no longer trusted myself. What reputation could possibly survive such a harshly selective story-teller? I stopped believing my memory and even my spatial perception.

A New Narrator

It took a while, but I have changed the way I tell myself stories. My new stories are about the same person and the same events, but I have fired my old narrator! My new inner-narrator is much kinder; she tells me stories about a “good enough” mom who is competent in most situations, and knows how and when to ask for help. Her memory, intellect and intuition are reliable, and have never yet led her too far wrong. She makes mistakes, and falls, and is strong enough to get back up again. She lives by grace and serves as an example for others who fall and fear the endings of their own dark stories.

My new narrator compares motherhood to astrophysics or rocket science, and has me saying it with pride: “I’m a mom! It’s no big deal. I’m really good at it.”

This new narrator tells and re-tells the moments of joy and peace and victory, the times when lily and I enjoy each other, the snuggles and kisses and “I love you’s” and games on the floor and laughing runs in the fields. This narrator remembers best the times lily’s accomplishments blow my mind and I allow myself to admit that I had a part in that. And the times lily's defiance and disobedience blow my mind but I keep my temper and deal with the situation in a constructive, thoughtful way.

My narrator insists that, despite all kinds of failings and moments of seemingly total disaster, I am a good enough mom, and that is great.

So what stories are you telling yourself? What are you leaving out? Is it time to start learning to be a kinder narrator?

Just Mediocre

First off, I wanted to thank you, dear readers. I was so encouraged by the response to my previous post. Thank you so much to those of you who read, commented and shared it with others. I am pumped!

I’ve been planning a blog series on recovery for a while now, so I plan to revisit some of the tips I shared in that post. It would help me a ton if you would leave comments here on what you would like to read about, questions, or which tips interest or challenge you the most. Remember, Christie and I screen every comment before publishing it, so you can ask to remain anonymous.

I also wanted to clarify that not all of these tips will be right for you. Everyone needs their own mental health “regimen” to fit their lifestyle, just as physical exercise needs to be tailored to every individual. And just as someone who has never exercised before needs to start slow, the same goes for these tips. I would suggest picking just one or two to work on at a time. And again, always remember to BE KIND to yourself. If you are hard on yourself, keeping track of how you ‘measure up’ with habits like exercise and getting enough sunlight, you are defeating the purpose. So please, please be kind to yourself.

OCD and anxiety disorders often go along with a perfectionist personality (not that all perfectionists have OCD, or that if you are not a perfectionist you will not develop OCD, but there is a trend), and people with OCD can become obsessed with doing their therapy “perfectly.” It is a tricky paradox to navigate, but I think the key is to emphasize showing yourself grace and kindness.

You’ll notice a theme here and throughout this blog: grace. If you don’t show grace to others, you won’t have deep, satisfying relationships. And if you don’t show yourself grace, you won’t be able to maintain any level of mental health.

One of the most important things I learned during recovery I learned from a fellow patient in a group therapy setting. She was a first-time mom like me, and like me she struggled with perfectionist tendencies. She spoke up in group about how she was learning that being a “good enough” mom is actually being a great mom. Why? Because shooting for great or “perfect” is inaccessible and unsustainable. You become hard on yourself and miserable. Your children will see your standard for yourself, assume it is your standard for them as well, and be hard on themselves and miserable. Just as we need to model healthy eating and exercise habits for our children, we need to model healthy mental habits as well. Not to mention if you as a mother are unhappy and stressed, you will not be able to be present and available to your children. It’s the whole “put your mask on first” basic principle of self-care. Trying to do a perfect job in one area of life ends up costing too much in other, often more important, areas. It’s better to aim for and be happy with “good enough.”

So come on, Moms! It’s time to celebrate mediocrity! Time to be just “good enough,” and realize that that is just great.

Transition's in the Air--J

It’s been awhile since I’ve had time to work on a post. I’ve been writing, but in spurts. Life has moved from one thing to another at mom-on-caffeine speed since we moved in November. Travels, holidays, family get-togethers, not to mention Christmas and a fourth birthday for one very special lily-child!

I will see my psychiatrist soon, and was just beginning to concoct an answer to her predictable question, how are you doing. Then I realized: no concoction necessary; the straight-up truth:  I am doing fantastic. I am generally happy and relaxed. I am less irritable. I have motivation and energy--feelings so new to me that I wouldn’t have recognized them if they hadn’t reintroduced themselves so gradually. Why, I do believe I am better than ever before in my entire adolescent through to adult life. I’ve even seen changes in my thinking happen without a ton of ERP: a thrilling realization, because up until now, I have had to fight with teeth gritted for every ounce of brain-shift. I am doing fantastic.

I am in the process of editing some old posts I never published. It has been enlightening and encouraging. I found one post I wrote about this time last year, reflecting on relapse, and it reminded me of how I felt after our recent move in November. Come to think again, the move was a more significant transition than the ones I’ve described below, and my ‘relapse’ around the move was shorter and not nearly as serious as the one I experienced at the time of this post. I hope it might be helpful just to know that relapses do happen, and they do get easier and less world-shaking.

* * * * * * * * *

I’ve been struggling. I thought it might help for me to write down the reasons I’ve identified for this relapse. Could any of these explain something for you? Whatever your struggle and whatever the factors that brought it on, be assured, be validated: your body and your brain have their reasons!

The first reason, probably the most obvious, is that my meds have decreased. I’ve been on the highest dose of Prozac recommended since partway through my pregnancy, about three and a half years ago now. My psychiatrist thought it would be a good idea to get back to my pre-pregnancy dose. I’m there now! But weaning down this medication comes with a nasty side-effect: brain shivers. They’re hard to describe. Like being dizzy, but different again. You move your head, and even though your vision stays clear, you feel like you left your head behind you. It’s similar to the stomach sensation when you ride one of those dropping fair rides--like you left your stomach (in this case your brain) up in the air. Maybe somebody else would find that fun? But I’ve always been a wimp when it comes to fair rides. Anyway, I had a few days of that, and extra fatigue, and I was a bit teary, but I think the worst of it is over. Still, I’m sure the medication decrease on its own could account for this bit of a relapse I’m experiencing now. It is weird to discover how dependent I am on these meds. I feel so normal when I’m on them that they begin to seem redundant. It would be easy, if I didn’t understand a bit about how the meds work, to think, Well, I’m better now, I don’t need these pills anymore. But if I don’t take them, then I know.

In addition to the change in meds, there have been a lot of changes in our lives. All relatively insignificant changes on their own, but put them together and couple them with a brain suffering from OCD, and they make for an uphill slog. First, I started the new job I wrote about here. The time came to toilet train Lily. Our fish died.  A change of seasons is upon us, which always means more illness. Jem has been ill almost continuously for the last two months, and I always feel like I am fighting off something. Lily-girl has had three or four bouts of illness (all blurred together) that involved fever and sleepless nights.

I noticed something else dreaded about season changes: I start worrying about new ways to contact germs. With the arrival of winter, I worry about “smearing” germs through the sleeves of my coat when I put it on. I worry about touching my hair when I put on my hat. But just as soon as I get a handle on the challenges winter presents to my OCD brain, spring comes along and now I have new ways to worry: about not having those gloves that provided a convenient barrier between my hands and the germy world. That I can’t just take all the out-of-the-house germs off with my coat when I get home. I worry that the germs are no longer frozen, and that cats are back outside pooping in gardens. Does anyone else worry about these things? No. Should I worry? NO. Can I help it? Not really. Not for a while anyway, until I have practiced going out without my coat and not washing my arms when I come back inside.

Then there’s toilet training. Don’t even get me started--never mind, I’m started. I have honestly been dreading this stage ever since she was born. It takes all my courage to take my pristine lily-baby into those filthy public restrooms. Plus, her skinny legs don’t fit on most toilet seats--they slip in between the gap and she ends up sitting on the rim of the toilet instead of the seat. AaUAurRgh! The first time that happened, I obsessed about it for days, not sure whether it would be safer to let the germs stay dry on her legs, or to risk reactivating them in the bathtub. I sound insane even to myself right now. I think I’ll just keep her in diapers until she’s fourteen.

And then my new little fish buddy died. I’d sort of been expecting it, and didn’t think I would find it so traumatic. But when I saw him nose-down in the gravel, my stomach sank to my toes, and when I jiggled the bowl and saw his body’s involuntary sway, I felt dizzy, disoriented, like I was the one upside-down. I screamed like a girl. (I am a girl. I mean, I screamed like a little girl.)

Aside from grief and guilt (I figured I probably hadn’t changed his water often enough--so, another exercise in giving myself grace), I was very anxious about what he might have died from, and whether those germs could affect us. When Jem dumped him down the toilet, I was worried about splashing, and about what Jem touched before he washed his hands… It was really hard to get my mind off of ”fish germs” that night.

So there you have it. Changes in meds really do affect me big time. And so do little life changes that probably shouldn’t be a big deal. Now that I’ve thought through all the factors, I’m not worried about his little set-back. I know that it might take me a little longer to get settled after change, but I will, and I will have gained some resilience by pushing through.

Owning My Voice

Note: I am far too late in posting this. It doesn’t leave you with much time to do anything about it, and I apologize. But I do hope you will read and consider what part you might want to have in this important cause.

Holiday Hustle

J here. It's been a while since I’ve posted. Last month we made the move from our inner city apartment to a basement suite closer to work and church. Two weeks later we flew to California to visit relatives. We just got back from that, and suddenly Christmas was upon us. So I am grabbing a few moments for writing, between unpacking and decorating and list pondering.

What I want to write about today is a bit off topic for this blog. I won’t be dealing with a mental health issue per se, but I will draw a link for you, and I don’t think anyone will be upset with me for wandering a bit from the central point of this blog. (Right?) ;-)

But... it's still ERP

This month I have taken on an unusual ERP challenge. For those of you who don’t know, Exposure Response Prevention or ERP is basically the treatment for OCD, and it sucks. I have written a little about it in the past, and plan to write a more in-depth post as part of a recovery series in the future. Since this post isn’t really meant to be about my own mental health issues, I’ll just say very briefly that ERP is basically facing your fears.

My ERP this month involves restricting my wardrobe to just two dresses. OK, you say, that sounds a bit difficult, especially in the dead of winter in Canada, but scary? What’s so scary about that? Well, I have this admittedly weird compulsion to only re-wear a piece between washings after it’s been hanging in my closet for at least two days. I figure that gives the germs a good chance to die! It keeps my anxiety manageable, and cuts down on the laundry I do. But it’s ridiculous, and I know it. So this month, I am challenging that fear. I’ve even worn the same dress two days in a row, pulling it over my head and breathing slowly to calm my pounding heart, reminding myself that the germs probably aren’t dangerous, I have an immune system, it’s dry and they probably won’t transfer to my hair, my face, my lips.... And it is for a good cause.

The Dressember Campaign

The cause?

I am excited to announce that this year I am participating in the global Dressember campaign: an advocacy movement seeking to draw attention to the issue of modern human trafficking. It may be shocking to consider that slavery is just as rampant today as it was a hundred years ago, probably even more so. There are a lot of different estimates, but at least 20 million people live in slavery worldwide. Nor is it something that happens only overseas. Thousands of people are sold in Canada and the United States each year, mostly in the sex trade, but also for farm or factory work, or in smuggling rings.. It is truly a global issue. While it is not a gender issue--both male and female slaves are sold at about the same rate--some of the most horrific human rights abuses occur against women, since they are sold in overwhelming numbers in the sex trade.

The symbol:

Dressember uses a symbol of femininity--a dress--to draw attention to those whose femininity has been ravaged and exploited.

The industry:

In addition, the fashion industry is strongly implicated in human exploitation. Many textile and fashion companies rely on cheap overseas labor, and exploit their workers’ desperation by subjecting them to dangerous working conditions and impossible situations of job insecurity.

I have long been passionate about the issue of modern-day slavery, especially as it relates to the fashion industry. For several years I lived with the knowledge that many of my “affordable” (read: cheap) fashion choices were contributing to exploitation and potentially even outright slavery. I started looking for alternatives, and discovered an exciting online community of people committed to ethical consumerism. I found that the best alternatives were also the cheapest: second-hand. Buying second-hand not only keeps garments out of landfills, but most thrift stores are not-for-profit and exist to support local and global charities. When it comes to items not available second-hand, or things I would be uncomfortable purchasing from a thrift shop (like underwear), it does get expensive. But I believe that if I don’t pay the cost for my fashion choices, someone else will have to, and the cost they pay just might be their freedom.

The choice:

So this year, for every day of December, I have been limiting myself to a choice between just two dresses, sacrificing  a tiny bit of my freedom to restore real freedom to others. The goal is to raise money for IJM (International Justice Mission) and A21, both wonderful non-profit organizations that work with local justice systems and police to target slave traders and release slaves.

The dresses!

The dresses I chose are simple and un-fussy. Neither is representative of fast-fashion: one was a gift from a dear friend that I’ve had for about 7 years; the other, my LBD, I scored at a thrift store about 5 years ago.

   

Neither is very warm, so I'll really be layering up!

Understanding and Owning

We need to advocate for slaves because they have no voice of their own. If you presently or ever have struggled with mental illness, you know what it is like to have no voice. Depression can sap all your energy, so everything is focused on survival and speaking out is an extra that you just can’t afford. There is always the possibility of rejection, of misunderstanding, of more pain on top of the pain that is already unbearable. When the energy is there, there is the nagging, often well-substantiated suspicion that no-one will listen to you anyway. Because of your diagnosis, they’ll dismiss what you have to say. Of course he has complaints--he’s depressed, and always negative. Or: She doesn’t know what she’s talking about--she’s paranoid!

Now that I’ve recovered somewhat, I am rediscovering my voice. I have energy back, and people are actually listening to me again (I'm not saying they should not have listened to me before. I am pointing out that human nature and social perceptions of mental illness make loss of voice a reality for many who suffer with mental illness). I am also discovering a passion for using the voice I have to speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves. That is why I write this blog. And for the same reason, I am wearing these two dresses throughout the month of December, and speaking up for those who don't have the freedom even to speak.

I'm getting close to my fundraising goal, but I do still have a way to go and only a few days to get there! As a fun little incentive and personal touch, I am offering a set of beautiful handmade greeting cards to the donor who contributes the largest amount this week. I will mail them to the winner in the new year! To help me reach my campaign goal, click here:

support.dressemberfoundation.org/sokiruth 

To find out more about the campaign, go to the official Dressember website here:

http://www.dressember.org/

You can also read more about IJM and A21:

https://www.ijm.org/

https://www.a21.org/

I don't care

Here I am writing a blog post reflecting on a previous blog post. Sigh. What kind of a navel gazer does this make me?

The post I am referring to is here (Why I am a Complementarian...), in which I tell of an oath I took before God, and how I broke it. As soon as I published that post I almost chickened out and took it down. Now people know I’m a horrible person. They must think I’m not fit to be a mother.

Or they’ll say I’m being too hard on myself, and ridiculous: chill out girl! It was a different country, a different situation from the one you grew up in. You did what other expats said you should do. Sentiments which I know are mercy and kindness and sweet intentions, but have no power to expunge the guilt I have felt, and only invalidate the experience.

I have to confess, I procrastinated on that post for as long as I possibly could. I kept trying to write other posts, and kept finding that I couldn’t until I’d written That One. And That One was just too scary to write. So I ignored the nagging feeling that essential things were being left unsaid, until there really was nothing more I could say without saying That.

You see, the story I told about a simple orange juice stand and a solemn vow involved the confession of the very darkest point in my memory. Nothing else has the power to fill me with more shame. I drank that roadside orange juice despite my better judgment. I should have known better. I did know better. I had lived in Africa all my childhood; I remember my parents teaching us to refuse any un-bottled drinks whenever we went visiting in the village, or even to a restaurant. I recall a time they wouldn’t let us buy sealed freezies on the road because they might have been made with questionable water in a questionable facility. But hard on the heels of the thought, “That might be unsanitary,” came the thoughts, “It’s probably fine since all the other westerners here talk about having it,” “I am SO thirsty, I NEED that o.j.!” and “The poor roadside-orange-juice-boy will be offended if I back out now.”

So I drank it. And what do you know, 48 hours later I’m sweating and shivering and crying because I could have killed my baby with one drink of that delicious orange juice.

I don’t write this to defend myself to you. To tell the truth, I don’t care what anyone thinks anymore. Don’t get me wrong dear reader, I do care what you think--and that’s the reason I write. But at another level, actually I don’t.

I know the One who knows me best, and He has told me it’s all okay. God is gracious. He gave me my lily-girl, whole and perfect, a grace-gift and every day a reminder of how He sees me. And you need to know that no matter what you’ve done or how much shame or guilt you feel, He can see you the same way. He can, and He will.

So despite my fear, I published the story, both because I love you, dear reader, and because I don’t care what you think.

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day, and I have just one thing to say:

Your life is beautiful. It's an on-purpose work of art. And it is not finished yet.

And please please please, let's talk. Let's all talk. Let's talk about mental illness until there is no more stigma. Let's talk about our struggles until no one thinks they are alone anymore. Let's talk about our darkness and let some air and light in! Let's talk about grace until the sound of it drowns out the voices that tell so many that their life is not worth living.

OK, so that was sort of more than just one thing.

I feel I can do no better on this Suicide Prevention Day than to link to a couple of posts by others. The first is the recent story of a new mom who lost her life to postpartum depression. Let's stop devaluing and ignoring the pain of so many precious mothers by calling it "the baby blues." This needs serious attention, serious thought, and tremendous effort to prevent more tragic deaths.

The second is a phenomenal poster I saw on Facebook a while ago that apparently hangs in a therapist's office. It should be posted everywhere. Please, anyone who has though.t about ending their own life, you are NO coward. Your thoughts are far from selfish. You are anything but weak. Go and ask for that stick.

With all of my heart,
J

Why I am a Complementarian (And Other Thinly Veiled Attempts to Start Fights in the Comments Section)

Photo credit Stacy Brumley

(I do hope you read that tongue in my cheek).

Deep into the Woods

This post should be at least two different posts, and most of it is really a rabbit trail, but for some reason I cannot pull it apart in my mind. Maybe because my brain is like spaghetti (I’ve actually never read this book, but it looks kind of connected, and do I ever relate to the title!) This post started its life in my head as a tribute to my husband and the way he pulled me through the worst of my illness. Then I realized I’d have to explain my beliefs in more depth, and then, with a pang, that I had not yet been specific about those beliefs. What a sad omission. I intend to remedy that now: to explain my faith and a bit about how it has been vital to my recovery. I hope to do it in a way that leaves you in no doubt whatever that no matter your beliefs, I sincerely welcome and desire your readership, your input and your discussion.

I am a Christian--a Christ-follower, Jesus-lover, baptized believer. Christie and I grew up with parents in full-time Christian ministry. We both chose early, and re-committed later more fully, to follow Jesus. I’m sure I can say for both of us that we could not have recovered without integrating our faith into the process. Because my faith in God is such an essential part of who I am and how I make sense of my illness and recovery, it will feature often in this blog. For me, wellness and faith had to coalesce, but not in the same way some of my Christian friends insisted they should.

I do plan to explicitly address some blog posts to the Christian community because I believe that we are lagging sadly behind the secular western world in understanding mental health. As I see it, the Church has had uniquely terrible responses to mental illness. While secular society is working hard to conquer the stigma surrounding mental illness, correcting popular vocabulary that mocks the mentally ill, and beginning to accept that mental illness is in most respects no different from physical illness, the Church is still condemning the mentally ill. Still telling people with depression to “buck up and rejoice in the Lord.” Still demanding that they repent of their worry and fear. Still frightening young girls struggling from eating disorders with talk of demon oppression, and in general over-spiritualizing mental illness. I’m dismayed to admit that the church is decades behind the rest of society in terms of accepting and reaching out to the mentally ill.

I’ve been hurt by the Church, but I still love it. I love it because my Savior loves it, and sees so much potential in it, as He sees potential in me (now there’s the real difficulty!). Mental illness is not a sin. I do not believe anxiety is necessarily a sin, nor is depression. Many disagree with me, and so throughout my writing on this blog I will attempt to explain my position and convince my Christian brothers and sisters. My hope is that some will reconsider their views on mental illness and the way they talk to their fellow Christians who struggle (or may be struggling--you never know!) with mental illness. For many of us, our healing needs to come within the Church. God wants to be our source of healing, but if His character and message are misrepresented or undermined by the Church, an individual’s faith can actually become a barrier to healing.

With that basic explanation of where I am coming from, let me now explain the complementarian bit, and why I am not actually trying to start a fight with this post.

Back onto the Bunny Trail...

There is a lot of discussion in the Christian community over the roles of women in the church. Traditionally, women have accepted a deferential role of service and giving, while men took on the leadership roles. This practical interpretation comes from an understanding of the Bible which states that since woman was created after man, woman is subservient to man.

Modern feminism has of course called into question this interpretation of Scripture, leading to much heated debate over which roles women can hold in church and family life.

Egalitarianism counters the traditional understanding by pointing out passages which show that there is no favoritism in God’s view of men and women--the best example being Galatians 3:28 which says: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28; compare also Romans 3:22 and 1 Cor 12:13)--and that Christ’s own attitude towards women was revolutionary in the extreme patriarchal culture of his time. Egalitarians insist that women should have all the same privileges and responsibilities as men. Both men and women should be preachers and teachers, and in the marital relationship both must submit to each other and lead their family together.

Complementarians by contrast, insist on the clarity of verses of Scripture which state that man is the head over woman (1 Cor 11:3), and that men are therefore to take the leadership roles. It is not that women are of lesser importance or position than men, complementarians argue, but that they are different and therefore necessarily fill different roles. Men and women have complementary roles to play in both church and family: men as leaders, women as helpers.

Most of you will see this as a rather extreme oversimplification of the situation, but that is as far as I am able or willing to go in this blog post.

To be honest, I do not consider the role of women to be a central issue of dogma. I don’t think God cares all that much which side we land on in the debate--He cares much more that we recognize Him as the ultimate Head, and that we all equally submit to Him.

In this blog post, I present the weakest argument I know to support my complementarian stance, because I consider a weak argument sufficient.

So with that caveat, I will now present my argument. It is, as I said, one of the weakest forms of argument according to philosophy--an argument from personal experience. As such, it need not sway your thinking much. The experience was nonetheless significant to my healing.

Once Upon a Time

It began with an oath I took before God. I had just been scratched by a strange cat in Africa. I knew nothing about the cat, and next to nothing about diseases from cats that might be harmful in pregnancy, but I had heard of such a disease, and I was terrified. I believed I could have prevented the scratch, so I made a promise to God to be more vigilant about protecting my unborn child.

I later received a comforting email from my midwife assuring me that I could not get the dreaded illness from a cat scratch. However, the promise I had made still stood. A few days later, when I was offered a drink of the famed roadside-stand-fresh-pressed orange juice of the area, I took it even though I was unsure how sanitary the stand could be. Later I lay in a fevered fit, full of guilt and shame for having taken that drink. My still-fresh oath compounded my shame. I vowed then that I would never again do anything if I was uncertain it would be good for my child.

This oath hung like a giant’s gavel over my head. In the following weeks, I discovered I was unsure about most things. On second thought, I was unsure about everything. How could I be sure that the water the airplane stewardesses handed out was clean? How could I know I had not brought back a deadly germ in my suitcase? That I would not pass a harmful toxin to my unborn child if I used that shampoo, touched that doorknob, ate at that restaurant, got out of bed in the morning?

In response to a question from my mom one day, I told her and Jem about the vow I’d taken. Jem’s immediate response was, “That was a really stupid vow to make.”

My mom kindly tried to temper his remark. No, it wasn’t stupid. No Judy you aren’t stupid. But in spite of an initial sting, his gruff words were actually what I needed to hear. There was an ancient solidity, an authority, about his response.

I don’t remember if it occurred to me right away or if it took a few days, but I recalled an obscure passage in Numbers chapter 30:

If a woman vows a vow to the Lord and binds herself by a pledge, and her husband hears of it and says nothing to her on the day that he hears, then her vows shall stand, and her pledges by which she has bound herself shall stand. 8 But if, on the day that her husband comes to hear of it, he opposes her, then he makes void her vow that was on her, and the thoughtless utterance of her lips by which she bound herself. And the Lord will forgive her.

I needed my husband to repudiate the oath from the beginning. I leaned into his authority. I asked him later if he had been thinking of that passage. No, he said, his reaction had been entirely out of his gut. I knew then that I’d been set free.

I didn’t live free right away. The fears had already carved deep striations through my brain that would take many months and much practice to heal. But there was never again a question in my mind that my vow held no power over me.

There were other similar moments throughout those months, when Jem stepped up in a rather knightly way to slay my dragons. One day he told me that God never expected mothers to protect--that was a father’s job. He declared himself responsible for my health. On another occasion, he came home early from work to carry me bodily into bed when I could do nothing but stand shaking and crying. His presence and wisdom through that dark time is unparalleled in any of the fairy tales. It wasn’t exciting or beautiful or romantic in the fairy tale sense, but it was a real-life, albeit earthy, rather dreary, fairy tale.