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….

Limp--a poem, by J

I've been working up the courage to try out a poem on my readers. So, here we go!

Limp

When you are in my kitchen,
Love,

Use the black and white dishrag;

The thin one, the one that’s

Greying to threadbare places

That I have squeezed and rung and twisted

‘Til it wept gushings of warm suds

And all my panic ran down

The grating scruff of your cheeks.

Use it because I have rung pieces of myself

Into the very fabric.

Use it because the grime

Runs quick through those bare places

And with it the guilt

And the fear.

It must run quick because

I am eager to please, and

You are in a hurry, and

Efficiency is essential.

I am glad my favorite dishcloth

Has not outlived its usefulness.

Please don't hide anymore

Ever since I heard about Allison Goldstein’s death, I have felt the urgent need to draw further attention to the conversation around Postpartum depression and suicide prevention. Allison’s life can still impact other lives. I look at her life and death and see unbelievable beauty, an iron will, and a pain so heavy and terrible as to crush the mettle of even such a strong woman.

The thing that shook me most about Allison’s story is that NO ONE KNEW there was even a problem. She managed to hide the kind of pain that could kill a person from even her closest family and friends. I have no idea how she did that. It must have taken incredible strength. I’m not sure what would motivate someone to bear that kind of pressure alone. She must have felt oh, so alone.

I imagine her decision to hide had something to do with shame. Shame is usually the motivation for hiding. Which leads me to wonder, what have we done as a society to pile up so much shame on a person in pain? Have we no pity?

I believe it is not pity our society lacks but understanding. I also do not assume that society is the only source of shame a person with mental illness feels. Much of the pressure is internal, much of the guilt inherent in the illness itself. The illness causes contortions of the brain that make the individual believe lies of shame: “No one else could be as bad as me.” And so the person keeps it all hidden, gives no one the chance to disprove the lies she believes, and thereby perpetuates those very lies. Since no one talks about it, the shame and stigma remain.

In this way depression is like a social virus, infecting individuals instead of cells. The afflicted person is of course unable to bring the lies into the light--she cannot recognize them as lies, since she believes them. Silence breeds shame, which feeds the lies, and they pass silent and undetected through our culture. The silent cells spread the very virus of shame that destroys them.

When I first heard Allison’s story, I soon noticed this shame creeping into my mind. Here was this incredible, beautiful, intelligent, successful woman who had been destroyed by this illness and had never even complained. And then there I was, blurting out all about my pain--online no less! I never was good at hiding my feelings. And I was so debilitated by the illness that those around me could not help but see how much I had changed. But notice how my mind twisted that truth: I let myself become debilitated. I allowed the illness to change me. I am bad at hiding my feelings. I asked for help.

Horror of horrors, I showed my feelings and asked for help. And I believe that is why I--and my child--are alive today.

Think about it. Since when was hiding a good thing? Since when did hiding require an admirable type of strength?

I am NOT saying that Allison was not strong, or admirable. Quite the contrary. I am saying that even someone as strong as she was could not stand under the pressure of postpartum depression.

Depression can break anyone. Anyone, no matter how strong, how well-adjusted, how apparently secure--having all the appearance qualities we admire and desire in our society--may be vulnerable to mental illness.

Can’t you see? Dear one, I pray that somehow the light will penetrate your darkness and you will see that there is no shame in mental illness. There is no shame in depression, and there is certainly no shame in reaching out for help. Your brain may be sick, but your mind and your soul still have great strength. If you have been bearing it all alone, it’s time to break the silence.  

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.

Watch Your Mouth!

Recently I was telling my hubby about a new friend who’d confided in me that her mother is bipolar. Well, I said it that way, “her mother is bipolar,” but then suddenly remembered that this is not at all what she said. She said: “My mom has bipolar disorder.” Now I’ve always been big on choosing words carefully, especially as it relates to the issue of mental illness, but it never occurred to me until that day that my grammar could be contributing to the stigma surrounding mental illness.

For example, I often catch myself saying “O, I’m so OCD.” I confess, “I used to be anorexic.” I’ve heard others say, “My son is ADD” or “My daughter is bipolar.”

Could you imagine if we talked about other illnesses in this way? Imagine saying, “He is hepatitis,” or “I have a friend who is epilepsy” or even “My daughter is a cough”! I’m sure most people would say I’ve descended to the level of the ridiculous here.

We do use descriptors like “diabetic” or “myopic” with this structure; i.e. “She is diabetic”. Even then however we wouldn’t dream of saying that someone is diabetes. There is no such constraint against using “OCD” as a noun in an equative sentence like “She is OCD.” “Bipolar” is a little bit ambiguous from a linguistic perspective (sorry for getting linguistic-y on you. Well, not too sorry): in a sentence like “She is bipolar,” the word “bipolar” could be either an adjective (descriptor) or a noun, but I’m guessing from the way I’ve heard other mental disorders named in equative sentences, that most people are using it as a noun, like “diabetes” or “influenza”.

Even as an adjective though, using disease words to describe people is only done in very specific circumstances, and very rarely. The idea of saying about a person that “she is cancerous” makes my stomach turn! How do we get away with it with mental illnesses that are just as horrific and terminal?

No matter how we may try to justify ourselves, the way we talk does influence the way we think. No, language does not control or define our worldview. But it has its effect. Let’s not equate persons with diseases.

I’m just sayin’. Watch your mouth. I’ll be watching mine.

(If you want to read more about identity and fighting the person and disease equation, read my first post, here.)

Why oh why

Writing last week’s post on resolutions got me thinking, “Why would anyone need/ want to read my resolutions?”

Well, for the same reason you would want to read any of my blog posts: because they're brilliant, of course! No actually, this blog is about fostering mental health, and one of the skills that contributes to mental health is being able to set and work towards goals (resolutions), and celebrate achievements. If you read my last post, you know I’m not talking stereotypical New Year’s resolutions that begin with great intentions, no way of measuring success, and a sense of failure before you’ve turned the January page on your calendar. I’m talking SMART goals, with a huge measure of grace for yourself when (not if) you fall off the bandwagon periodically. Those kinds of goals will give you purpose and a sense of accomplishment as you take each measurable step. Several of the resolutions I chose for myself also had to do with practices that will strengthen my mental health--and could do the same for yours too.

But setting and working towards goals is just one of a set of skills that I’ve learned are critical to recovery and maintaining mental health. In some of my posts this year, I’ll be talking about those skills, and the “workouts” I’ve used to strengthen myself in these areas. The process of recovery is so complex, and different for everyone, but I do think it can be helpful to hear what it was like for someone else--I know I so appreciated hearing from a friend of mine who struggled with OCD in her first pregnancy, and survived--fully recovered!

I thought this would be a good time to review the purpose of this blog and my plans for this year's entries. I know I have not been a regular blogger, but one of my resolutions is to write more, and I intend for this blog to be a large part of that writing.

First I'll just review the purpose of this blog. Please note that while I have consulted Christie on this post, I do not claim to speak for her. You can read about Christie's original intent for the blog in this post, and you'll find we are on a very similar page. I'm sure both of our intents have changed a little over time though, which is why I thought I'd post about the whys again. Since Christie now has TWO lovely girls--see her post here!--you will likely be hearing from me a little more often than from her.

Here are my reasons for writing this blog:

-Finding my voice. I love writing, and I want to learn to write better.

-Helping myself. Writing helps me process and retain what I learn. I’ve learned so much through the process of recovery, and I sure don’t want to forget it--it came at quite a cost!

-Helping you. I want you to know that if you or a loved one are going through a struggle with mental illness, you are not alone. I hope you can learn the easy way a little of what I’ve learned the hard way. And I want you to know that if you have any questions, or just want to talk, I'm here.

By the way, a little note about the comment section. It is available, but we have chosen to screen comments before they get published. This gives us a chance to go over them and delete ones that we deem unhelpful. We decided to do this while we were both still in very fragile emotional states, so that Christie could read the comments on my posts before I did and vice-versa, in case there was anything that could be really upsetting. We'll keep it that way now because it gives you the chance to ask questions or comment privately. Just let us know in the comment that you want to keep it private, and we can respond without publishing your comment. You may need to give us an e-mail address or some way to respond to you if you don't want us to answer in a public comment or blog post!

Now on to what I plan to write about this year. As I said, I’ll be talking about my recovery process, and skills I’ve learned that should be useful for anyone. But I’m also planning to touch on a wide variety of subjects pertaining to mental health. I’ve read a few books on the subject along the way, so I’ll do some book reviews for you. I have a post started on the language we use to talk about mental illnesses, and what that says about our attitude towards them. And I have a germ of an idea (whoops, no pun intended that time) for a series on what OCD has taught me--not what I’ve learned by recovering, but what OCD itself has taught me.

One of the issues surrounding mental illness that fascinates me most is a bit theological, but I hope some of you might appreciate reading about my musings on the relation between sin and sickness. A lot of mental illnesses lead to actions and attitudes that many Christians would label as “sinful.” But is it sin if you have a mental illness? Does a person need to repent for having a mental illness? (Sneak peak and reassurance: I think the answer is no, but...) Stay tuned!

Although not directly related to perinatal mental health, I’ll probably find a way to slip in some posts about passions I’ve recently discovered that are putting purpose back into my life post-depression: fair trade, minimalism, fostering community, and cloth diapering! Who would have thought someone with OCD would end up cloth diapering her toddler? ;-) Let me say right away however, I will not be arguing for these passions to be everyone’s passions--or way of life. I know they aren’t for everyone. But I do want to remove false barriers to them, like ones that used to be up in my own life.

Through it all, there will be stories and pictures from my daily life, quotations from other authors I’ve been reading, songs, and maybe a few poems. I’ve found grace to be a major theme in my life, and I expect it will be a dominant theme in these posts.

If any of this sounds interesting to you, please stop by again soon; I’ll be posting. And if you have any questions at all, or topics you would like me to address, please leave a comment here on the blog or on my Facebook page. Thanks so much for reading, friends!

"Let me tell you a secret..."

walk with me (final installment)

Here are a few last stories I wanted to tell about the amazing people who helped me survive the worst of my illness. These stories tell me I am loved and that there is beauty that makes this world worth living in. I wish for the same kind of beauty in your life, dear reader, and also that you could be that beauty for someone who can see only ugly just now.

* * *

-Daddy, I just don't know how to live anymore.
I'm sobbing to him over Skype.
-It's going to be OK Sweetheart. That's why I'm coming.
-You're coming?
-Yup. I've booked a flight. I'll be there for the two weeks before Christmas, and then we'll travel back together. You won't be alone.

I don't argue, I'm so grateful. Daddy is coming! I get the same feeling I had when I was ten or eleven; I had hurt myself badly at school, skinned my left shin so I could see my white bone (I still have a scar). Somebody got hold of my dad and he came to get me, riding up on his shiny red motorcycle.

He's talking to me again, his voice calm and sure:
-Now just lie back, and I'll read some more of our book.

He reads from the Narnia chronicles until I start to relax again. I fall asleep dreaming of Aslan's Country.

Over the next few days I tell myself over and over again that soon Daddy will be here and it will all be OK.
He comes, and it is. Oh, I still have anxiety attacks and tears and panic, sometimes several times a day, but he's on his shiny red motorbike and I'm clinging on from the back. He is starting to make sense of the pain for me, show me something beautiful. There's a reason for it all and so, there is hope.

He walks with me, in the rain and the wind. He convinces me that my umbrella is safe. He cooks stir-fries and grilled cheese sandwiches. He scrubs the floor. He puts his hand on my stomach and marvels at the movement from inside. He and baby play poke-back. Every night, he reads to me until the fear finally lets go and I sleep.

The stories help a lot. They give me something of truth and beauty to hold in my mind against all the ugliness of fear. They distract me a little. They are important, and I can attend to them.

* * *

I'm in my usual one "safe" spot on the couch, talking to my brother over Skype. Or rather, listening to him as he walks me afresh through a familiar Bible story. Jem is at work, my mom and dad and Jem's parents are all away and all my friends are busy. But my family has arranged for me never to be alone, and they take shifts being "with me" over Skype, even just to watch me while I nap.

My brother finishes his story. I smile, exhausted through tears. The Word is taking on a whole new dimension for me. A mysterious, confusing dimension, but full of beauty and hope.

-I have to go now, J. Are you going to be OK? Is Christie going to call you?
-Yes, she'll be by in a few minutes.
-OK, let me pray for you.

Once we hang up I barely have time to run to the bathroom before Christie calls me.
-Hey J, how are you doing?
-Oh, you know, bad.
-Aw. You wanna tell me about it?

I tell her my latest crisis. Maybe it's the time I tried to boil all my tea towels and dish cloths. One of them was a cotton cloth I had crocheted out of bright purple and blue yarn. It bled dye all over the other cloths, and the water boiled over purple on the stove and into my cast-iron pan.

-Cast iron is porous, right? And Jem used the pan before I could tell him not to, so I think I've ingested some dye!
-And what do you think that's going to do?
-I don't know, but dye can't be good for the baby!

But I'm already smiling helplessly because I know what she's going to say...
-Oh dear, your baby is going to come out with a purple finger!

I giggle in spite of myself.
-Or a purple nose!
That's the kind of humor my darling sister used to keep me alive. Christie, you are amazing.

* * *

Finally, just one of the many stories about how my husband cared for me, with a strength and a wisdom I can only imagine must have come directly from God:

I'm standing in the middle of our living room, turning around and around, crying, shaking, screaming. I don't know what to do. I've done nothing all day but to wash my hands. Ever since I got out of bed, I've been at the sink, in a constant crisis of indecision and fear. I finally call Jem at work.

-I can't get the soap off. I didn't use that much at a time, but I can't get it off!
-J, calm down. What do you mean?
-There's this white film that won't come off my hands.
-It's OK, it's just soap. That isn't going to hurt you.
-But it could! It might have chemicals!

He has to go, and I'm still in tears. I spin in circles for another fifteen minutes. Then suddenly, Jem is there. He's scooping me up in his arms, carrying me, seven or eight months pregnant, to the bed. He carefully changes my socks, then washes his hands before coming back to the bed and he just holds me until I stop shaking.

When I can listen again, he speaks deliberately,
-J, all this is about getting sick and harming the baby, right?
-Yes.
-Hon, I want you to know that I take full responsibility for you getting sick. From now on, it is no longer your responsibility. I am the father, and I am the one responsible before God to protect this baby. Your job is to be the mother, the nurturer. Let me be the protector.

* * *

Allow me to end with a too brief and inadequate tribute to Jem. He is beyond doubt the one person who supported me the most, with the most endurance and grace. He suffered exhaustion, anxiety for my safety and our baby's, frustration, disappointment, unbelievable stress. But he walked with me through it all. Through the long nights when I would wake crying or screaming every couple of hours, he would take on the difficult task of calming me and waiting with me until sleep reluctantly returned. Through months of such nights, he stayed. He walked with me through panic attacks, held my hand, helped to ground me in the present moment. When it seemed impossible to find a good therapist or counselor, he kept at it. He reminded me to take my meds when I forgot, resisted, made excuses not to. He kept doing the cleaning projects I was constantly 'discovering' and couldn't even begin to do myself. He kept making soup and grilled cheese for me night after night, after a long day of work for him, and after coming home to an inevitably panic-stricken wife who had done nothing all day but lie on the couch and worry and come up with cleaning jobs for him to do, that MUST be done before supper.... He suffered for me and with me. But he did it with so much love and so much strength, that I admit I almost didn't notice. I was so wrapped up in my own suffering. That is what it is like to support someone through a mental illness: thankless, exhausting, lonely. Just ask my dear husband.

There were many others who gave of themselves and without whom I don't know whether my baby or I would have survived. These amazing people truly walked with me. I don't know how they did it. I know they suffered too.I received generously of their comfort, companionship, help, food. They each gave up time, freedom, energy, and spent of themselves without any expectation of payback. I had nothing to pay back to anyone.

I admit that part of the reason I have written these stories down is a small attempt to pay a little something back--something in the way of thanks at least, and maybe inspiration to someone like you to walk close to someone like me.

Walk with me, Part 3

A third installment in my series of stories of the incredible support I received. It gets more personal here--the people in these stories walked very closely with me through my deep dark valleys, so close that the mud of my suffering stuck to them too.

* * *

-Sweetie, I've gotten time off from work next week, and I'm coming to see you.

My mom is on the phone with me again, I keep calling her for cleaning advice.

-Oh, Mama, you don't have to...
-Well it's done—I've already gotten a nurse to replace me. My flight arrives on Tuesday....
After our conversation, I'm hanging onto the first shred of hope I've found in weeks: my mama will be here soon!

When she arrives, she walks me straight to the doctor. I'm well into my second trimester and haven't gained an ounce. The doctor seems to think the situation is getting serious. He refers me to a psychiatrist, but is hesitant to prescribe an antidepressant himself.

My mom knows it will be a month or more before I get in to see the psychiatrist.
-If you will take my word for it as a nurse and as her mother, I really think she needs to be on the antidepressant sooner.

We leave with a prescription, and by the time we get to the pharmacy near our house, she's convinced me to fill it.

For three weeks after she fills me with home-cooked meals, ice cream, cookies,... love. We go for walks. She wipes my tears when I'm too afraid to touch my own face, smooths my hair with the warmest, most perfect hands I've ever known, takes me shopping for maternity clothes and baby clothes, and comforts me as only my mother can. She keeps calling work to get another replacement so she can stay longer. Eventually she has to go back, but she's taken me in to see the psychiatrist by now, and arranged to have friends help me as much as possible.

* * *

-J, are you OK?

I've just dialed Christie on Skype. I'm in tears and exhausted and SO thirsty.

-No, I don't know what to do. I'm so thirsty, but there aren't any clean cups in the house.
-Oh Hon, you need to drink! Listen, this is what you've got to do. Go and get a cup, get some dish soap, turn on the tap--
-But the sink is dirty too!
-That doesn't matter, you're just going to wash the cup under running water.
-But won't dirty water splash up from the dirty sink?
-No, absolutely not. Have you got a cup? I'll walk you through this....

* * *

-Look at those leaves! I can't believe how huge they are! Here, let me get a picture of one, with your feet to show scale.
Jem's mom has her iPod out, and is exclaiming over the British Columbia fall beauty. She's managed to drag me away from the sink and take me for a walk. We've been using our iPods to communicate for months, sending pictures back and forth of my growing belly, of food and art and Bible verses. Now she's here and now I'm in the pictures she sends out. There I am, proudly holding a yam I managed to clean under her direction. And here I am cuddling a fuzzy pink giraffe sleeper she bought for our Pipsqueak. For some reason, I can always look at that little sleeper and see a healthy baby. There we both are, Jem and I, setting up Pip's bed.

She and Dad drove up from Alberta to bring us the car we just bought. Dad goes back soon, but she'll be staying with us for a couple of weeks.

These days, I stop just surviving moment to moment, and live. I wake up every morning with something to do. She keeps me going. We walk a lot, go shopping, do crafts, sketch together, set up the tiny 'nursery'--normal things I hadn't been able to wrap my mind around on my own.

Mum, I don't know how you did it, but your visit brought fresh air into my fear-stifled existence.

* * *

I wake up and breathe relief. Wednesday. B is coming. Most days I wake with dread, unable to believe I'll make it through the day, almost wishing I won't. The days B comes are different. There's something to hope for, some direction to the day, somewhere to go and someone to look to. We go for walks together. We do crafts, look at pictures, go shopping. Then she makes me lunch and tucks me in for a nap. When I wake, she has tea and goodies ready, and she stays with me until Jem comes home
.
When she appears at the door this morning, she has a package for me. Surprised, I open Angel of Hope. The simple wooden figure holds up a candle toward me, sheltering the flame with a cupped hand.

-I thought today we could look up verses about hope. We can write them on index cards so you can have them to remind you every day.

I have tears of delight. We walk together to her house and gather Bibles, concordance, index cards and colored markers. There is nothing for me to worry about, only index cards to fill. When the afternoon is over,  she walks with me back to our house.

That night, I tape hope words to doors, windows, cupboards, even shower walls.

B is a mother to me. She makes sure I eat, sleep, go for walks, get enough to drink. She takes me to appointments. Even through her own misery of a month-long migraine, she comes to see me, sends me meals, calls to see if I'm OK. Closer to my due date, she helps me pack for the hospital, dreams with me about that day.

There is no way to express my gratitude to my surprise mother.

* * *
More to come! Tune in next time to read about the one who helped me see Aslan and beauty in the darkness, a Skype rescue relay team, and the very best and strongest support a girl could have: my Jem.