Within 20 minutes her tankard of sprite was empty. I had the sickening feeling that bladders were filling up all around me. I pictured Niagra falls spilling heavily down into the river and imagined it looked quite similar to what was happening in my children’s bladder.
Read More“Child”, I muttered in frustration as I looked down at the little hands holding tight to my shirt, and the tear stained face that was upturned.
I picked him up, and carried him to our worn beige couch. He nestled against my front, his little hand reaching up to wrap tight around my neck. His mother isn’t escaping him this time, no sirree bob.
Momentarily distracted to hear a movie playing in the background, he carefully squirms around on my lap until he is able to face the tv, while still retaining his real estate on my lap.
I feel a particular niggle in my brain. That funny little feeling one gets when one realizes ones baby is managing oneself.
“Ok, ok, listen kint, you are going to be happy while Mama goes outside to mow the grass”.
He stared balefully back at me and said firmly “no”.
I picked him up, settled him down beside me on the couch, and got up all in one sweet, ninja Mom move.
Less ninja like, I got a piece of my precious hoarded Lily’s chocolate for him. All of a sudden a whole swarm of children are around me holding out their hands. Way more children than I have. I don’t even know what is going on.
Who are all these people?
What is happening?
I hand out chocolate until most of the bar is gone. I don’t even bother being sad about it. The Lord giveth chocolate and he taketh it away, blessed be the name of the Lord.
I am fascinated by this small son of mine who is much too busy eating his stevia sweetened chocolate to notice his life giver going out the door. “This child needs teaching” I grumped in peasant German.
My mower is waiting for me. It does not gleam, nor does it look happy. It looks petty and angry. I pay it no attention as I crank it to life, drive out to our acreage and commence doing what I always do. Think.
Think and talk to God.
You see, God can hear over the roar of the mower, and oddly so can I. We have excellent chats together, do God and I, as I make hay and bat grasshoppers off my legs.
“God, I get it, ok, I get that everything matters, but I don’t get where to put commas”. My mind goes back to a comment I left on Facebook, and have since spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to decide if my commas were placed at the correct places.
The discussion was on friendship, which is a completely redundant point. You only need to hear the comment I made, to judge my comma use. This is the kind of post that I’ve written several long comments to, only to delete and start over.
“And just so you know, I expounded at length on science, spirituality, enneagrams, and even briefly, on my own feelings.”
Would it be correct to say a comma should also be between even and briefly? Or no? Which is right?
I do not know.
Perhaps later I will consult my children’s Language Arts books,
But surreptitiously. It would not do to let them smell weakness.
Especially my little toddler that is in the CIA. He has little CIA journals he stores under the floor, that he only gets out at night with a small ham radio to update and keep track of my every move. He is also a little ninja. He can run down the lane after me on my power walk doing a good 15 mph, but walking into church is a no-go. His legs just fold. Something about the parking lot being like a waterless desert.
Back to the comma though, “I think I overuse commas, God, don’t ya think.”
“Wow the sun is hot. I wonder if I am getting a nice tan today.”
The man I am talking to is big and strong. He is kind and loving, but he is also cares about justice. “Vengance is mine, I will repay” he tells me kindly. “Fine” I mutter.
“I am not sure I can trust or serve a God that allows babies and children to suffer.”
“How can God call himself love, when he allows so much suffering in the world?”
If God did not allow pain and suffering, we would be automatons. What kind of a God would that be?
I know. A dictator.
I don’t want to serve a dictator. Man made religion and rules serves no purpose. It merely weakens and trips those following in its wake. It frustrates and looses. It’s not enough. If you want to turn your vitriol against something, turn it against the pharisaical vipers. Don’t eat their words, and expect to go unscathed. Their hands may be clean, but their hearts are nasty, steaming piles of filth. They voraciously eat the innocence of their youth, spitting them out as bitter adults who give as good as they were given.
The God I serve is not a God with a stick, demanding you perform perfectly. He is a God of peace and rest. In him I find my entire identity. He is ok with my prayers spilling out like water dumped a few feet short of the sink, abruptly, and with no finesse. He hears me anyway, not so much my words as my heart cry.
He hears you anyway.
Even when you don’t have the feelings to match.
“Come to me”, he says. “I will give you rest”
“My yoke is easy, and my burden is light” he promises.
I came and I found it so. No more guilt filled days. No more having to carry anger, bitterness and unforgivness. I exchanged it for love, peace and a sound mind.
Peace
Love
And a sound mind.
You can’t find those at Costcos during snack hour, er, tasting hour.
You also won’t find it by accidentally opening random doors in a hallway.
You gotta go after that granola with a purpose.
Do it.
You won’t regret it just like my friend didn’t regret taking my pregnant self to Costco during snack hour. “Can she have two since she is eating for two?” my friend asked the little old ladies standing sentry over the snacks, as she took a third piece off the plate. The old women shook their heads furiously as she popped it in her mouth, the wrong mouth. Not the mouth eating for two. I probably had the baby a week earlier because of all the belly laughing I did that weekend.
I slid my leg across the expanse of bed, crossing the vast dry desert in search of human contact. Finally my leg finds his, and luxuriously I sprawl it across him.
Surreptitiously I slide my leg around, first just a little.
Then a little more urgently.
He looked away from his book and gives me a questioning look.
“What are you doing”?
“I am scratching and sharing my Chiggers, ok?”
A girlish scream erupts from my normally brave husband. “HEY HEY” he shouts, “You can’t do that”.
“See, here is Grandpa chigger of the whole bunch”. I show him a huge red bump under the elastic band of my underwear. “and here, this one is almost surely poison ivy”. I show him a set of raised bumps among the hills and mountains of my chigger family that apparently moved in.
I wasn’t even in grass. I didn’t even walk through the grass. But I know how they found my soft, plump flesh. Oh yes, for sure I know.
We shall call the chigger family the Croods just for ease of story telling, not that I mean any disrespect to the actual Crood family born three hundred and sixty million years ago who spent their days chasing things and nights in a cave. The Croods on our little farm are much tougher than the Croods from the movie.
So a few nights ago, my husband and I sat outside on our new front porch steps and watched our two youngest sheep pelt across the grass where they spied their Grandpa sitting in his yard fixing a hole in the ground. Apparently the Croods were watching from the side lines, their beady little eyes lit up with excitement. “Now children listen” said the Granddad of them all, “the goal is to bite into the soft flesh and burrow deep. You will die in there, but you will be happy as you die”. One little Crood raised his hand. “Do we bite into the baby or ride him?” “Good question” Granddad huffed, “the baby is too small to comfortably go deep, and the other one on the steps looks too bony, lets go for the plump one with her legs exposed”. There was a cheer from the grass as the Croods stared at me laughing and talking on the steps, my innocence to their plan just adding to their excitement.
As my baby toddled past they leaped up his legs and hung on. A few of them fell off when he took a tumble under the apple tree, but Granddad encouraged all within earshot to be patient as he climbed the steps and finally came close enough to their prey. With glorious shouts of victories they transferred from him to me and started happily burrowing. Perhaps I absentmindedly scratched my ankle once, and perhaps I uncomfortably shifted when Grandad discovered my elastic, I cannot remember. I only remember waking up the next morning covered in tiny mountainous terrain all over my legs.
I am currently doing nothing at all for the chiggers. Although I briefly considered doing something. Growing up on a farm having vast acreages of poison ivy covering my skin more often than not, prepared me for the chiggers I would encounter in my adulthood. As a teenager, I eventually made myself immune to poison ivy. It was entirely accidental. As we normally did in the summer time, my youth girl friends and I would often go camping at least once a year. This particular year, I did not realize when I spread my sleeping bag that it was in a bed of poison ivy. I woke up the next morning, out of my bag, in the poison ivy. Literally sleeping on top of a carpet of it. Of course I got poison ivy, and badly too. I had to stay in my room for days because I couldn’t get dressed. From that day on and for about 10 years I was immune. I even tested it by pulling poison ivy from flower beds with my bare hands, and nothing. I get poison ivy again, but never much at a time. Tiny spots here and there that hardly bother me.
But Chiggers, I am not immune to. No sirree bob.
Chiggers love me.
The soundtrack from Into the Woods comes to mind. The part of wolf and Little Red Riding Hood, If you have never seen that part, I would suggest you watch it. The sheep and I almost memorized that song. It starts off with.. look at that flesh, pink and plump……
I must leave you now, with my chigger story churning around in your mind. You came for a bit of encouragement, or perhaps you knew me once, years ago, and you are here merely to see what kind of a person I am now. Instead you are left with a Chigger story.
Nothing but a chigger story.
For that my pink and plump flesh apologizes.
You have been let down, and not like Paul in the basket outside the city. No, you were rudely dropped all the way to the ground without the gradual stopping that you thought must surely happen.
Even this is good for you. You see, when you put someone on a pedestal, you will find quickly that your faith wavers the minute they are no longer perfect. I can assure you, my imperfections stand out over my life like my little Crood village on my legs. You do a grave disservice to your very human friends when you insist on perfection.
Jesus does not demand perfection, his yoke is easy, and his burden is light. He walks with us down the path. When we step off the path for a smoke break, he is there with you. When you see someone in a gas station putting $10 of fuel in their car, and you secretly pay for a whole tank for them, he is there. When you drive down the road or change your baby’s diaper, he is there. He is even there when you are mowing the yard. Basically, you may as well talk to him and enjoy the relationship because he says he will never leave us nor forsake us.
Have you ever wondered why some people seem to have such an unshakable faith? Or why they don’t seem to ever question God? The only difference in them and you is they have a real relationship with their God who is with them always.
We talk to him.
We ask him questions.
We read the book he wrote for us.
We know he is good because he IS good, and his goodness does not rest on the actions of a wicked and degenerate generation that is reaping the natural consequences of their actions.
The more you know him, the more you love him. The more you love him, the more effortless serving him becomes.
We know these things the same way we know that you are 5’2” and plump, or that you are 6 feet tall and don’t like brussel sprouts. I know this the same way that I know that my legs are covered in the Croods.
BTW. I gave my husband a raging case of chiggers and poison ivy.
“This is not possible” google says, “the chiggers don’t burrow inside your plump, pink flesh to die”.
“Well” sez I, "then someone please tell me whats happening that our “chiggers” leap from person to person, sharing the discomfort liberally among all?”
My husband wasn’t pleased with me, but he didn’t get to air many of his grievances thanks to my dissolving in helpless, braying laughter anytime he pulled his pant legs up to miserably scratch and complain.
I laughed until I cried.
I laughed until I my children started to laugh.
I laughed until he laughed.
Together we laughed until our bellies hurt.
I recommend it.
I have a friend who lives a few light years away from me in Minnesota. I met and became friends with her husband the summer of 2002. By the summer of 2009 he was married, however, before he got married, we met to eat dinner together and meet his soon to be wife. She and I quickly became fast friends. The kind of friendship that glows like a little warm fire in the background, making sure you know you are never completely alone.
We became pregnant around the same time with her oldest, and my third child, Lollipop. She became deathly ill with HG. A condition that affects some pregnant women, making them violently sick, unable to keep down even water. Eventually they become so dehydrated, they have no choice but to go to the hospital for medical intervention, and a nice wet IV.
(I know there are more of you out there.)
A few years later, again we were both expecting our boys who we still call Bom and Boy. And a few years after that, she welcomed her beautiful little girl, and I waited a few more months before I had my little Ana-bana.
I asked her to share a little bit of her story of ashes that God turned into beauty.
Catie: My road to having real joy has not been an easy one. I'm not talking about happiness, which I feel when I paint another piece of furniture white or walk through the pearly ga-, ahem, doors, of Hobby Lobby. Happiness is fleeting and dissipates like mist in the morning sun when faced with adverse circumstances. I'm talking about joy, the kind that lives deep in the soul and only comes from the Creator.
My journey started in 2016 when I lost my daughter Avianna. A strange way to start, I know. I was 18 weeks pregnant when Avianna came into the world, tiny and still and perfect and already in Jesus' arms. The birth was horrific and I nearly died from a massive hemorrhage. I had vivid nightmares for well over a year afterward; I'd jolt awake, shaking, chilled, convinced I was bleeding out again. The first month after her death I was a hormonal mess, angry, deeply depressed, even briefly contemplating suicide once. I couldn't do it though; I had a husband and three other children to think about. I couldn't fall asleep for the longest time; hanging in that shrouded area between being awake and asleep was horrifying to me. It felt too much like losing consciousness when I hemorrhaged. I'd take Benadryl every night, depending on that to knock me out quickly.
Avianna’s, perfect little hands.
Time eventually brought about some healing emotionally. I did have good support, from my in laws and best friends and church, not to mention my husband. My mental state had improved, but my body was a wreck. I was severely anemic, and in constant pain. Some days the pain gripped me so intensely I'd end up back in bed, trying to manage my household from there. Being a good wife and mother felt impossible when I was laid up so much. I did my best, but those were some difficult years for us.
At last, after ER visits, ultrasounds and an initial misdiagnosis, I was diagnosed with pelvic congestion. I had only two options: live with the pain or have a hysterectomy. I took the cowardly way out and opted not to have surgery right away. I was flat-out scared of all the things that could go wrong.
Over the winter the pain grew more grueling and I grew weaker physically. I could finally bear it no longer, so in April 2018 I met with my doctor to discuss the inevitable. The day of the meeting I arrived at the clinic early. I sat in my car, frozen there, staring at the building, unable to go in. It dawned on me that after years of battling on my own strength, I had reached the end of myself. I had no more strength. Tentatively I began to pray, surrendering the entire situation to the Lord. I told God I trusted Him and placed myself into His hands. Without warning, as I prayed, all the walls I'd carefully, almost lovingly, constructed around my heart crumbled, and grace came rushing in like the sweetest water. I left the car and walked through the clinic doors with no hesitation. Things were now in more capable hands than mine.
I was nervous in the month before surgery. But when fear insidiously slithered in, I prayed or read the Bible, and God always left me reassured. One particularly hard day, when I couldn't stop thinking of all the potential complications I could face, I decided to go to the book of Luke, where I'd been reading the day before. My Bible, though, fell open to Thessalonians 5. My eyes alighted on verses 16-18:
"Rejoice evermore.
Pray without ceasing.
In every thing give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you."
Verse 18 changed my perspective. In every thing give thanks. Every. Thing. I was facing major surgery, and yet I was supposed to give thanks!
Over the next two weeks I read that verse daily. God was working in my heart like never before. There was a lot of healing during that time, especially over the deaths of my Dad and Avianna, who died just over a year apart. God gave me so much peace, and not only that, but a very real joy had begun growing.
Surgery went well. God showed me that He has perfect timing; during the operation the doctor discovered that my uterus had prolapsed significantly. Had I waited much longer it would have turned into an emergency. God truly had it under control!
It took me a while, but I learned that joy can't be manufactured. Joy comes from being in Christ and seeking His will for your life. No matter what you're facing, know that God is truly good! Storms of life will come but we are not called to live in fear. I used to think of these storms as a punishment, but now with a new perspective, I wonder what God is teaching me or working in my life. Through the loss of my sweet baby girl I learned to be still, to trust, to surrender my will to the one who always works for good. God always knows what he's doing, even when it's not clear to us, and His grace is deeper than we could ever imagine.
"In every thing give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you."
In every thing.
Not some.
All.
Trust. Listen. Surrender.
Give thanks.
You can see more of Catie on her Instagram, LinenandLefse
She is an incredibly talented interior designer, transforming their old, junky, 1976 mobile home into a glorious, airy farmhouse. She does all of it on a dime. And I do mean on a dime. Some of the furniture in their house cost less than $5.
After the loss of her daughter Avianna, she and her husband got into photography as healing therapy, and it shows in the mouth watering pictures of their home. All pictures on this post are hers.
I was with Catie through this entire time, but over a thousand miles apart. The only support I could give was prayer and constantly checking up on her. Even though I was so far away, I knew when she gave in to the Lord and was filled with joy. It was apparent right away as I watched her take pleasure in the little things of life again. Pain and suffering no longer consumed her. God did. She knew where to go for comfort and to be filled and she was no longer in despair, but thankful.
““In every thing give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.”
In every thing.
Not some.
All.
Trust. Listen. Surrender.
Give thanks.”
When you cease to be thankful, you will open yourself up to all manner of temptations. For a believer, being thankful is key.
When you repent from the sin of being unthankful and discover real thankfulness, you will discover contentment and freedom from all manner of sin that is dragging you down.
You are the clay. Your creator is the potter. When the time comes for you to be broken and smashed so that he can use the clay to make a more beautiful you, how will you respond? Will you lift your hands to him in supplication and rejoice in thankfulness at the breaking? Or will you fight it every step of the way, simply thinking life is not fair and “why me?”
Don’t let the breaking be wasted. Press back into your Lord with thanksgiving and rejoicing!
Catie’s three little ones “hiding” from her.
Part Two
“Why aren’t you happy?”
“Why don’t you feel fulfilled in your role as wife and mother”.
“You need to pray more”.
“What is wrong with you?”
“Is your life really so bad that you are so depressed?”
They meant well. They truly did. They simply had no frame of reference for the level of brokenness they saw in me.
None of it offended me because I knew their hearts. It hurt. But it didn’t hurt because my feelings were hurt. It hurt because I was locked behind a wall, and I could not find the words to convey the chaos that had taken over my world. I wanted to scream the words I was feeling, but I was too well trained. I knew better than to make to much of a fuss, to be too ugly. Not only was I trapped with my physical brokenness, I was also trapped inside my head.
Fear.
Shame.
I could not bear the pity.
I did it to myself.
I locked myself away and then I was shocked to find myself trapped in that state.
I don’t know why this thing happens. Women are so strong, so courageous when they have babies. Their body does a miraculous thing. I do not know why, sometimes after a birth, her mind cracks.
But it does.
It’s time we start listening and watching for it so of all times to suffer, she does not suffer alone.
A friend sent me this picture one especially hard day a few months ago. This picture made me laugh and laugh. Her caption was “Checking in on you to see how you are”.
Recognizing a few common symptoms
One of the first things to happen was how loud noises ‘felt’. You remember what I said about a spoon falling to the floor sounding like a gunshot. That is sadly not an exaggeration. The lid of a kettle falling would leave me shaking, my heart pounding, stuck in fight/flight mode. At the time I simply thought my nerves were a little raw. Had I addressed it immediately, and known how to address it, I would never have come to the state of utter despair like I did. Husbands and friends, watch out for the people in your realm of influence. If they overreact to noise, don’t explain it away to hormones.
Another big indication that something was wrong was feeling completely overwhelmed. I had only four children at the time, but they were all small. The oldest was seven, four, two, and newborn. On the outside nothing changed, I still stayed caught up with my work, I still fed my family. But how I felt on the inside was different. Everything overwhelmed me. The thought of going anywhere felt impossible just because of having to strap three children into car seats. I found myself constantly changing plans, turning down outings, subconsciously doing whatever I had to, to keep from feeling that awful clawing, out of control feeling.
I became weepy. I cried over everything. If my husband reproved me for something I completely fell apart. I didn’t mean to, it just happened. It felt out of control to me, and I didn’t like it. I grew up a tough little farm girl, and I hated being a weepy mess. Especially over something so simple as a little direction from my husband, where was my logical self? I had somehow lost her in the woods. All I had left was PMS El who I didn’t have much respect for and did whatever I must to never allow out.
By the end of the day, my skin crawled if a child climbed up on my lap or my husband wanted to cuddle me. My heart would start beating faster and faster, the trapped feeling growing exponentially, until in a wild flurry I would jump away and release myself under the guise of going to take my nightly bath.
“Yes, yes El, we know what you went through, but what can we do?” you ask.
What you can do to heal yourself.
Ok, I will try to tell you, but remember, I speak only from my experience. Not everyone is the same so use a grain of salt as you read my words. You may need to do differently for your situation.
I want to point out what you can do for yourself if you are in this situation without a support system. Many women don’t have a support system, so this is a very real thing.
#1. First of all, start praying for logic and truth to present themselves clearly enough that you can catch a glimpse. Don’t allow yourself to luxuriate in self pity and bitterness.
Self pity and bitterness breeds a toxic brew of sticky poison that will slowly eat at your brain, until physical healing is redundant. Physical healing will no longer deliver you.
I was greatly interested in hearing a self defense guru teaching how one can prepare ones brain for a potential surprise attack. Imagine the attack, and then follow the steps you have been given to subdue the threat. Go through every step and detail, minute by minute. Each time you do this, you create a path in your brain, and should that scenario ever happen, your body will react instinctively.
A friend of mine who was molested as a child, and dealt with tremendous depression in her adult life brought this to my attention again just recently, but with another scenario. A more everyday one. When we allow ourselves to think poisonous thoughts again and again and again, we are making poisonous tracks in our brain. God himself tells us what we are to think about.
“Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report, if there be any virtue and if there be any praise, think on these things.”
#2. Immerse yourself in your bible. Read it as if it were the last book on earth. Don’t pressure yourself while reading. If your mind wanders while you are reading, bring it back, but don’t go back and obsessively reread what you just read. Listen to Bible on audio, and again, don’t force yourself to listen to every word. Play it during daily life, as you cook, clean, and care for your children. Let the cool water of the word wash you from the inside out.
One of my favorite ways to listen to scripture lullabies. You can also find the playlist on Spotify. This music is so gentle, so beautiful that you can easily play it while your children are working on school work. It is not distracting.
#3. Stop telling yourself your depression is because of sin in your life. Treat it the way you would a broken leg. Seek physical healing. Start working out for an immediate lift in your spirits. Order Olive Leaf from True Hope , along with the other products they have created that feeds your brain so it can function normally.
#4. Recognize that the opposite of addiction is connection. Reach out to a few close friends and tell them about your depression. Let them truly see the extent of your pain so that they can become your powerful prayer warriors.
Depression may begin as a deficiency in the brain, but Satan does not have a code of ethics and he will be there waiting to maximize on your weakness. He will use it to breed shame and secrecy. Shame and secrecy breeds addictive behaviors that you saw exhibited in my previous post Though I Walk Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. I did not tell you all the addictive behaviors I became trapped in. I will not give sin that much glory. And let me assure you, it was sin. All of it was sin. I never kept any secrets from my husband, he was my prayer warrior, but with everyone else I was desperately ashamed and kept my secrets carefully hidden. The day I stopped hiding, was the day I started healing. The first two people I told were my sister Lin, and Sarah. I will never forget the feeling of lightness after I told them. Your friends want to fight alongside you. They love you, but to tap into their strength, you must be vulnerable and tell them what is going on. Don’t take them for granted.
#5. Take steps to calm the chaos. Make a daily morning list that you can blindly follow the mornings you can not function. Read your list, do the next thing. Make it very simple.
Vitamins
Hair/face
Make the bed
Take a shower
Bible
Drink water
Smile at my children
And yes, that is one of my lists. I followed that list for a year.
If you are currently depressed, you may already be wrapped up in addictive behaviors whether its drugs, alcohol, sex, or food. Be assured, you can be free. You do not have to be bound to sin.
I will include a quote from our Pastor Steve. By the time I read this quote, I was already free of the addictions, but it resonated in me, and I immediately took it to heart and started practicing it.
““This is the great adventure of the Christian life-that everything matters. There are no insignificant details in life. The Christian life is the most disciplined life of all, not constrained by the law but aware of the implications of every little thing in life. Every little thing matters. When I counsel people who’ve come to me because their Christian testimony doesn’t seem to have worked and their life is chaos, we don’t reach out and grab that big ball of chaos and try to make sense of it. We sit down and talk about the little things in their life that are contributing to the chaos that they can’t see the connection between. So, if you struggle with a lack of self-control and you’ve got addiction problems you would ask ‘how do we fix addiction?’. We’d start to talk about the little areas of self-control. What does your desk look like? What does your bedroom look like? What does your sock drawer look like? What does your car look like? You’re out of control everywhere. You’re not just out of control in one area. Instead of trying to stop alcoholism, why don’t you try to start folding your socks. Well, that just sounds silly to people, but it shouldn’t sound silly to Christians because we understand that nothing is insignificant. We begin with self-control in the areas where can exercise self-control and learn the benefits of it…..and suddenly you’re learning to gain control over these chaotic issues in your life”.”
Perhaps it sounds simplistic, but the first thing I did was organize and fold my underwear drawer. Instead of stuffing each item in, one on top of the other, I took great pleasure in folding each piece together with its mate, and placing them neatly in the drawer. I organized my bathroom drawers, my kitchen cupboards, and my closets. The more chaos I weed out, the more restful and in control I become. My children reflect this. The stronger I become, the stronger they are. Their closets and bedrooms changed as mine did.
Before I read that quote, I had gone through my entire wardrobe and got rid of everything that I didn’t really like. I discovered I can ward off a spiral of depression by studiously following my lists. Cleaning my bathroom, picking up the dirty wash immediately, Taking time to get properly dressed and do my hair every morning. etc etc. What I didn’t realize is how as I was practicing self control, I was gaining control of my thought life.
You may find like I did, after an extended bout of depression, you will find yourself veering back into the darkness of depression too easily for comfort. Rather than being triggered by poor health, you may be triggered by circumstances which is entirely preventable. Expect it. Plan for it. Be prepared.
#6. Don’t believe the lie that because the depression isn’t your fault, that its not your responsibility. You must take responsibility. No one but you can consistently do what it takes to heal your brain and change your habits. You may need to wait for a ‘good’ day to make your plan and lists. But you can do it. If you cannot do research, ask your spouse or your friend to do research for you.
#7. Develop good habits. This one goes alongside, hand in hand with all the other points.
Learn to drink lots of pure water, every day.
Learn to take vitamins.
Learn to choose nourishing foods.
Learn to make your bed.
Learn to set your timer on your phone to SMILE at your children if you can’t remember.
Learn to read your bible daily.
Even if progress is turtle slow, take one new habit a week, or even a month. As you succeed, you will be filled with euphoria at your own success.
One of my oldest and dearest friends. I got to spend 2 days with her, and we tied so many heart strings. Connection is a powerful enemy of depression and addiction. Make MANY connections.
What can you do as a friend to someone with depression.
Remember, the opposite of addiction is connection. While a depressed person may not be addicted to anything, it will however, open them up to the lure of addiction. You can stand in the gap for them. Reach out to them weekly. Check on them, ask them how they are doing. Visit them, bring a meal, babysit her children so she can go on a date with her husband. Show that you care with shoes on. Outright ask them if they feel overwhelmed and depressed. Make it safe for them to answer, and don’t assume it’s their circumstances.
Never ever tell a person who just confessed their depression to you that they should call a suicide hotline. This is one piece of advice that I see perpetuated again and again online. This is FALSE. All that means to a depressed person is that you are not interested in fighting the battle beside them. It’s shedding responsibility, and it stinks.
Don’t try to problem solve and fix their life so they are no longer depressed. Don’t ask if her husband is emotionally abusive. Women who have suffered abuse and become stuck in their pain tend to filter every response through their own broken sieve. Just don’t “suggest” anything. Leave it be. I have received many messages from women who felt harmed by the advice of other women who had become toxic from their experiences, it causes them to go underground with their pain only breeding even more secrecy and shame. If you have not healed from your own experiences, you may not be the right person to help. Perhaps you should first find healing. The blind cannot lead the blind.
Send her scriptures containing the glorious promises from God, assurances that he is right beside you.
Send words of affirmation. Recognize that depression is lonely and Satan loves to accuse during those times. Don’t bother telling your friend she is beautiful. Give her real words of life. Tell her how strong God is, how good he is and how his mercies are new every morning. Be honest with her when she asks you a question. Be on her side in this battle, knowing she will sometimes tell you things that aren’t true, but they seem that way to her. Don’t invalidate that, just listen, and then tell her the truth. Be her Aaron and Hur. Speak wisdom and logic. My friend Sarah regularly sent me articles by John Piper. She sent me scripture regularly. Little sound bites that were always perfectly timed to my need. Don’t kid yourself, although depression is (most times) a physical problem, washing your brain with the water of the word does help in bringing about healing.
Never talk about her and her depression to others. Refrain from gossip. If someone brings it up and asks you about it, tell them what a wonderful person your friend is, and how happy you are they asked about them and that your friend needs prayer. Thats it. Give no details. People are like piranhas, when they smell blood, they will come running to devour any flesh that is exposed. Have no hand in that.
Pray for your friend. Intercede on her behalf. Bring her to Gods attention over and over and over. Bring her family to his attention over and over! Pray for strength and wisdom for her husband, he needs it as much as she does. Ask God to protect him during this time when he has no choice but to be the strong one, but alone. Send him messages of love. Pray for their children who are also being attacked by the father of lies.
Demand nothing in return. Just reach out and love. Being the support system to someone struggling with depression can feel hopeless and lonely.
As I write this, I find myself realizing again and again just how different everyone is. How I respond, is not how your friend may respond. Ask God for wisdom when dealing with these sensitive issues. Ask God to specifically help you speak from his heart, not your own narrow perspective. Especially if you have been raised to believe that depression starts because of sin in your life. Yes, that can happen. But that is not your call to make. You have no right to place a burden like that on someone already broken. God sees the way you kick those who are down, and do not delude yourself that he is pleased with you. God is not mocked. You cannot gorge yourself on your carnal perspective, wipe your mouth and say “I have done no wrong”.
Be very careful in offering health products to a depressed friend. Especially if you are going to experience monetary gain because of their suffering. If you are not a close friend, don’t offer what you are selling. If you are absolutely positive that you possess the miracle cure, talk to someone close but not directly involved so as to not add to the burden. Let them do research, offer it for free, be gracious when they turn it down. Don’t pretend that you care if you have never bothered in any other way before.
If you are married to a person struggling with depression.
Love them.
Love them the 1 Corinthians 13 kind of way.
Keep yourself strong in Christ. Keep proclaiming Gods goodness. Rest in his mercy and grace and wait upon the Lord with joy.
You can wait with joy even with tears streaming down your face, and your heart feeling like a boat anchor. Your ‘waiting’ with thanksgiving is a worthy sacrifice to your creator, and he will bless you for it. As you weep, broken, on your knees, you can be assured that God loves you dearly and has never left you or forsaken you. Joy will come in the morning. He makes beauty out of ashes. As you fight alongside your wife, he is with you, and he is well pleased.
“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”
My room is bright, the sun thrusting through the white eyelet without caring whether I wish it to be so assertive. My bed is unmade, the worn down blanket a white tangle around my feet. I lift my hand, gazing between my fingers towards the light that now blurs. My eyes water and I press into the discomfort, holding my eyes open, allowing them to loose focus and drift. A tear slips down my face and finally I blink. Like sandpaper they fold down and back up. I roll my lip between my teeth and gather up a handful of the sheets.
Outwardly all is well. Calmness envelops my house, my children well fed, their hands busy with paper and pencils. My husband is hundreds of miles away from me, and he too is well.
Everyone is well.
I am not well.
I am floundering.
My mind is chaos.
Confusion swirls through my brain like a thick mist. My ocean is boiling. No where is safe. Another tear slides down my cheek, this one has nothing to do with the light. I close my eyes tight, looking inwardly, now staring hard at the battle happening right before me.
I see a cliff, a girl at the edge, flirting with the sharp corner that drops into a dizzying height. I am standing there. I am hovering, waiting, but on what? I strain my eyes, “don’t fall” I gasp as I watch my foot slipping, my hands by my side. No fear on my face. I scream for myself to get back.
My eyes chill me, they are clear, my face free and happy. I see myself lean forward, the knife scraping softly up the inside of my wrist. My cliff is tall, my knife is sharp. This can be the end, and I am brave enough.
The bed shakes as a very small person clambers up beside me. I grab her and bury my face in her neck as my heart races with the missed opportunity. I am no longer brave enough.
I am outside, sitting on the ground clutching a flower pot. I take handfuls of dirt and rub it deep into the skin of my arms, my legs and even my face. I massage it in, rubbing hard. I can’t feel pain, so I rub harder. My husband shakes my shoulder, but I can’t hear him over the screaming in my head. “God, let me die, please”.
My life rose and fell, my ocean waves reassuring with regularity and occasional brushes of happiness. The hair on my husband’s arm, his strong brown hand on my knee, pressing from each side, squeezing my heart back to his. “Come back to me” he murmurs.
I drift back, slowly, the darkness empty and deep and so, so soft. I could fall into the darkness. My knees must give, and I must fold. My brokenness is less broken in the darkness. It seeps into the cracks of my needs, falling down over the shards like warm wax.
A tiny hand grasps at my shirt.
I look down.
His little face searches mine, his eyes piercing through the thick slough of my inertia. I pull his body to mine, molding him across my chest. He relaxes and sleeps. He is safe, his mother has him.
But his mother is not ok.
No one knows how not ok.
She is on the verge of death. Her spirit is gasping on the land, her ocean receding further away every minute.
For six years I fought the demon of depression.
My mind somehow broken with the hormonal ebb and flow of 4 pregnancies, 8 miscarriages, and overwhelming personal stress, cracked under the pressure.
The simple sound of a spoon falling to the floor sounded like a gunshot in my head. My reality was miserable, and pain filled. I held my ears during the singing at church so my brain wouldn’t seep out my ears. I was too weak spiritually to do anything but accuse God of leaving me. In the fog of my misery, I shouted to him “where are you, why won’t you heal me?”
“Where are my crumbs from the table?”
I don’t know whether God spoke during this time or not. I wasn’t listening.
Alcoholism slid to its feet, sauntered to my table and presented me with a convincing argument. “I can help you feel again”, his breath was oily, his tongue slithering over his lips. Through my pain filled gaze he was beautiful. I could not smell the stench of death that he could not hide in his wake.
“Its ok” he whispered at lunch time, “have a little drink to tide you over until your husband comes home”.
My husband had become my god, my crutch. He heard me, he was with me, he was helpless in the face of the storm. All he could do was hold us tightly together and not let go. He was there, and I could not see God. I replaced God with a human man. The burden was too heavy for him to bear.
My attachment to him was unhealthy.
I added Opiods to the mix, washing them down with alcohol. As the drugs hit my brain, I could finally feel again. I spent hours crying over my sin, begging God to kill me, begging God to release me to kill myself. The idea of death was like a cold drink of water. Finally there would be relief. My family could move on, my husband could find a woman that would do him good and not be the shattered mess I was. She would cook him nourishing meals, raise his children with joy, and be a trustworthy wife to him. It was selfish of me to not do what must be done to give my family the best.
I was the only thing standing between them and happiness.
My mind was completely broken.
Joy no longer existed. Only numb, unending darkness and pain. Brief moments of happiness like a sunbeam through a boarded up window. I feasted on those stray sunbeams. I held them so tightly, they shattered and ran out of my fingers like water, slipping down through the cracks in the floor to soak into the parched earth and be gone.
Around two years in, I no longer slept at night. I lay beside my sleeping husband and waited, but it didn’t come for me. Sleep had forgotten about me, and only by stacking heavier and heavier sleeping pills was I finally able to fall asleep for a few hours, only to wake up miserably hung over, feeling worse than before. I became a chemist with my mixtures. I stacked this Ambian crumb with this pill, and this pill, washing it down with alcohol. Ambien to put me to sleep, this pill to keep me under, and this pill to extend my under for at least 4 hours. It got to the point that all I could think about was sleeping pills. Ambien was my saviour. I went nowhere without it. Where was my last crumb of Ambien? I panicked. Had I run out? I knew my doctor wouldn’t give me more. He recognized a crutch.
I tried antidepressants. My doctor wouldn’t give me any. I had to go to a nurse practitioner for those. I felt ashamed of myself and sneaky. Why bother going to the doctor if I don’t follow his advice? I knew he wanted healing for me, not a bandaid or a crutch.
They helped though, like a little bulldozer pushing out the negativity and chaos in my mind. I was able to take a nap during the day, and I could feel my children again. My precious children who I adored more than anything on this earth. I lay on the couch in a stupor letting them climb over me, and lay on me. I felt peace and love once again. Except for the side affects. They weren’t my answer because of the side affects. After a month the side affects were too hard to bear, and I knew why my doctor would not give them to me. Painfully I stepped away again.
That little break in the chaos allowed me to think clearly enough that I realized how I was misappropriating my husband, and how out of control my crutches had become. “I want to be healed” I told God, “show me the way, and I will wait on you”.
The darkness rushed back quickly. Within a month it was worse than ever. I no longer self medicated with anything but sleeping pills. I gritted my teeth and bore it, slowly, tentatively pressing back into my creator. Bursting into tears when a loud noise happened, falling into bed the minute my husband got home every night. I mothered my children, hiding my storm as well as I could.
But they knew.
Their hands on my shoulders let me know that they knew.
The wordless hugs from my oldest let me know that he knew.
My toddlers would come up to me, look deep into my eyes and then squeeze me with all the strength in them.
They knew, and that made me so sad.
“I want to be a vibrant mother to my children, please give me wisdom, lead me, Father PLEASE, I want healing and I will do anything for it.” This prayer always ended on a violent note. I was no longer knocking on the door. I was pounding on it with my fists and screaming.
My oldest and dearest friend came to visit me during this time. Her visit was a spot of pure joy in the darkness. We talked about depressed christians, and how God feels about them. Her words were like balm, and looking back, I see that as a turning point. Before she left, she pressed $60 into my hand for my birthday. “Buy that bike” she told me. My parents gave me $40 for my birthday. My husband paid the rest on a little travel size incumbent bike.
Every single day except Sunday, in obedience, I got on that bike. For the first week only 5 minutes a day. For the second week 10 minutes a day, until I was spending 75 minutes a day working myself out as hard as possible. I bought a membership to Planet Fitness in Danville Virginia and started to go at night after my husband and children were in bed. It was the only possible chance for me to go. I worked out for two hours, three days a week. I fought anxiety that was so vicious, it sometimes took me 10 minutes to peel myself off a machine and go to the locker room. I carried a gun concealed in my waistband, and a knife in my pocket. I was willing to do anything for healing. I always arrived back to the camper around midnight, my arms and legs shaking, and dripping sweat.
Life was so much better! Every minute I worked out, the next two days would be that much brighter. I valiantly fought the darkness back.
Until I got pregnant.
I could no longer work out. It became a full time job laying on the couch just trying not to puke. The darkness washed back into the void, but it was too late. I had a taste of how things could be, and I didn’t care how long it took, I now knew the difference between how I felt and reality.
I was going to find healing. Total healing.
And finally God opened the door.
I barely recognized it.
Someone I had never met before, but was friends with online messaged me about a supplement that her husband had used to heal from depression. It wasn’t MLM. It was just a straight up website. It was expensive, and we were poor. That night I showed it to my husband. “Order it” he said, “I will do whatever I have to so we can afford it”.
It came quickly, that innocuous little bottle of Olive Leaf from True Hope.
I immediately started taking it.
I became violently ill.
For a week I lay in bed chilling, sweating, nauseous, my entire body hurt. I took detox baths and drank copious amounts of water. “Even my hair hurts” I told my husband who was in Florida working.
Nothing else existed.
My children brought me cups of bone broth, kept the little ones fed, the laundry caught up, and checked me almost around the clock to make sure I had not died.
After a week I started to feel better. Not just a little better. A LOT better!
After two weeks I was a new person.
I got into my car to run a little errand. Perhaps to pick up milk for the baby, or drop a check off at the bank, who can know? I remember turning onto our little road in my car, and the full force of the spring colors hit me right in the face.
“Have trees always been this green?”
I started to cry.
“Where did those flowers come from?”
“The rain washed road is the most amazing granite color”
My skin was covered in goosebumps. Pleasure washed over me. Pure, unadulterated pleasure. Even my skin felt the pleasure.
I told a friend,“I can see in color again, my world is no longer grey”.
I pulled away from my husband during this time, and turned to God again. He became my all. My husband was free to be “just” my husband again. Our relationship strengthened and became strong and healthy. I fell deeply into love with him once again. I started waking up early to read copious amounts of scripture, washing my brain from the inside out with the healing water of his words. During the day I listened to scripture on audio. Every step away from the darkness was painful. It clung to my arms and legs like threads tangled all around me.
I was like Peter on the water when he saw Jesus. “Let me come to you” I cried out. “Come” he said. I looked at him, and I took one faltering step at a time, not daring to look at the water. Sometimes I looked at the water. Those days I sank down so deep, it sometimes took weeks to get my footing again. Even in the water I found Jesus. He was there all along. I shouted at him for abandoning me, but he had not. He was right beside me the whole time, with his hand out. I was too busy looking at the water to see his hand. I refused to hear his words over the storm. I learned to see his hand, and hear his words.
A few of my friends knew what I really went through. Not all of them, only a few.
I marveled over my children’s hair, like honey dripping down over the winter dark strands. My baby was so soft and squishy. I reveled in feeling everything. I gorged myself on colors and the pleasure of living again. I thanked God every day for opening the door.
When I meet others in that dark place, I thank God for having allowed me to have experienced that. I simply would have no frame of reference, had I not walked it.
To be continued …….
My children have their vibrant mother back.
“Mama” the little voice came panting up to the camper door.
“MOM” I heard shouted from behind her. The kids come flying in the camper, tripping on each other, trying to tell me the news first.
“Ok, ok” I say calmly, “Dom, you go first”.
“MOM, a bird built a nest in the neck of the camper, and it’s full of baby birds”. He gasped out breathlessly.
“Yes, Mom. Lots of baby birds, we took them out and looked at them”. Sumyr stops abruptly, her lips rolling under her teeth as she realizes what she just said.
“Children, you took the birds out of the nest?” I say sternly.
They looked crestfallen.
“Yes Mom”
“Honey, you know the Mama bird won’t claim them if you touch them”.
Another child comes in and hears the conversation.
“Oh no Mom, we didn’t touch the babies, we took out the whole nest to look at it.”
I snickered involuntarily.
I am horrible like that. These are my children, what can I say? Their logic is strangely accurate.
A few days later we loaded up happily to head to Atlanta Georgia to hike, swim, and go to conference. This is a conference we have been wanting to go to for years, but it was never possible before. Usually because of the semantics of taking off work in the middle of summer. However, this year, all the stars aligned and we were able to go listen to our beloved Zac Poonen preaching the gospel as only he can. With practical wisdom, he brings it all the way down to the most simple, practical application. His messages have done us much good over the years.
None of us remembered the hapless birds in the neck of the camper. We just hitched up our buggy horse and hopped on down the road.
As happens inevitably, someones bladder became a pressing need quickly into the trip. I won’t reveal who that someone was, but I can assure you it was certainly not me. (And by that I mean, it was me)
Being on the very edges of Atlanta by then, our only recourse was to pull in a shopping mall parking lot. My husband parked longwise, while I parked directly behind him, told the children to stay strapped in, and told my teenager to lock the door. As I got out of the car, I saw my husband standing at the front of the camper looking grieved. “You aren’t going to believe this” he said.
“What has happened” I asked in alarm, my mind springing immediately to the tailgate of his truck bed that he had left open. He modified the bed to be able to hold both his welder, and install the Anderson hitch behind the welder, making that the tailgate had to be open while pulling the camper. “Did something fall out?”
“Come listen”.
A loud cheep cheep cheep came insistently from above the hitch.
My heart sank. “How could we forget?”
“Are you going to pull them out?” He asked.
“Umm, no, you are going to pull them out” I snapped back quickly.
“I don’t want to put my hand in there, it’s dark, and what if they peck me”, he says with the logic that my children clearly inherited.
“I already put my hand in there one time, its your turn” I babbled back, my voice rising.
He winced, reached into the elbow deep cavity and pulled out a loudly cheeping nest with two baby birds in it. One cowered quietly at the bottom of the nest, meekly waiting for death to find it. (I related to the feeling. Its the same feeling I get when I go to the dentist. Meek acceptance of my inevitable fate). The other baby fluttered to the ground and madly ran around, cheeping with all the rage its little bird chest could muster. I held the nest while my husband caught the bird, nestled it carefully back beside its twin, and looked for a tree.
It’s a parking lot, where are the trees?
“Hey, over here babe, look at this little tree”.
It was an anemic little tree meant only to look pretty, probably a city mandate to keep Atlanta green. We placed that nest in the only spot that could have held a nest, and forced ourselves to walk away, the loud ,accusing, cheeping following us.
Ten minutes later we checked on them just before we drove away. The fiesty one was out on a branch beating his chest with his fists and screaming for his mother. The coward was still cowering miserably, shaking and I am sure hungry.
I am not ashamed to say I prayed for them before we left, but I prayed through a feeling of derision for their foolish little mother. She must have built the nest as soon as we arrived at the campground. What made her think we would stay?
As we pulled out of that parking lot, I thought of all the foolish things we do as Mothers. Sometimes willfully.
In the daily grind of motherhood, we forget how important our job is. How our children depend on us to raise them well. Their babyhood is so sweet. For 49 days, all we do is lift our tshirts so the baby can eat, and then change the 20,678 diapers that ensue from the incessant feedings. They start to smile at us, and we eat it up like it’s the last candy on earth. They start making little cave man noises, and walking. It’s all so very exciting and fun.
But then…..
…..then that baby turns two. Now his cave man grunts have fleshed out into words. Demanding words.
“Food”
“Out'“
“Gum'“
“MINE”
“MOM, MOMMY, MOM, MOMMY, MOOOOM”.
All of a sudden, this ain’t cute no more. (Don’t pretend that you don’t think in peasant when you are upset)
You ignore them when they say “MOM MOM MOMMOMMOM” for the first fifty four times, but on number fifty five you loose your cool and you shout in their face “STOP SAYING MOM, WHAT DO YOU NEED?”
Oh boy, sister, oh boy oh boy oh boy. You needa pull up your underwear take a breath and teach your child.
So far you have done nothing except coddle and cuddle your baby. You haven’t actually spent any time actively teaching them how to live. You may even have a dog that you spent more time training than your child.
I see you, that person recoiling in horror at the idea of training a child. Especially you that call yourself Christians, you guys are the worse!
Go ahead and gasp. I am ok with you hating me for this particular advice.
“How can you sleep at night knowing how many people hate your advice”, you ask. I sleep with the fan on, thats how. (this one isn’t my original thought, but its so clever I intend to use it every way possible)
Ninety five percent *ish of Christians have become the most soft, ineffective, insecure, unproductive, fruitless, ineffectual, futile, cottonpicken…….
“Now now El, now you are just swearing in christian”.
……child trainers ever. You just yell at your children and spank them if they make you angry enough. You then feel horrible guilt for the spanking, and you should. You spanked a child because you lost your temper. Thats not their fault. That is all your fault.
Your child has never been trained, they don’t actually know how to do the right thing, at the right time.
They have to be taught everything.
They even have to be taught that you don’t throw food around in the kitchen. Believe it or not, all those mature teenagers that you think their parents are so lucky to have, they used to sit in a high chair with food smeared from stem to stern, throwing food at their siblings, the dog, the floor, everywhere really.
They don’t just inherently know anything. Not ANYTHING. Yes, that is a note of hysteria in my voice.
They don’t know that when you are told you may have one cookie, that you do not stack three cookies together and say “Mom, I am eating my one cookie”. And yes that happened.
I had to show him how one cookie is ONE cookie.
Although to be honest, I have often wished I could put 3 pieces of pie one on top of the other and call it one piece. Sadly, my waistline would indicate the lie that I would be so willing to believe.
A child has to be taught that his Mom’s brand new eyeshadow is not actually meant to be sidewalk chalk for his fat little belly. I know, who knew?
Did you know a child has to be taught that you don’t go outside, select a big stick, and then run after their older siblings and try to hit them with it?
I know you didn’t know that.
Except for you Moms that have raised humans that know how to aim into the middle of the toilet, and that don’t hit other humans with big, carefully selected, sticks. You knew this and could have told us, but we weren’t listening. We were too busy attending an online Tupperware party so our strawberries won’t go bad so quickly.
Our children are going bad, but please not our strawberries.
When I was a young teenager, my parents let me pick out a little chow puppy from our friends who’s dog had a whole litter. I picked out a fluffy little black puppy that became my very best friend. We lived very close to the road, and had lost dogs to the road before, so I set out to indoctrinate my puppy to not go on the road ever. My methods were extremely effective, if perhaps a big unorthodox. I would roll up a newspaper loosely so that it was quite noisy when I whacked it against my hand. I would then carry my hapless puppy down to the road, look deep in its eyes as I told it in German, and in peasant why it may not go on the road. I would set it down and shout “NO NO” and other German, peasant words as I chased it back up to the house, my newspaper making loud scary noises behind it. That dog grew up and never ever went on the road. I would periodically test her by going across the road and calling to her. She would sit under the tree and quiver with longing, but she would not come anywhere close to the road.
She grew up to be a very good little mother that would have massive litters of puppies, after which all her hair would fall out. Yes, exactly like me.
This wasn’t something I expected when I became a mother. The sheer mind-boggling amount of direction I would have to give, and how often I would have to repeat it per week.
My husband told me in frustration one day, “I told him how to do it, why isn’t he doing it like that”.
I nodded sagely, “How often have you told him this?” I asked, rubbing my beard.
“I explained it to him about 6 months ago”.
I placed a pitying hand on his shoulder, “Darling, that was just once, you need to repeat it every morning for the next 365 days before you can expect him to remember your direction”.
I am joking of course. You don’t need to repeat it 365 times. 364 times will do nicely. This is why big families thrive on lists and chore charts. You can say it once, and the child can read the chart 363 times.
I must leave my blog to give Sunday morning direction to my 250 sheep that will soon be milling around my feet, but first I will leave you with a nugget of wisdom that I found yesterday in the home of some friends who have 10 children, 6 of them boys. The wisdom was written on a piece of paper behind the toilet.
“If you are caught leaving the seat up, you will be cleaning the bathroom for a month. Mom”
On the way home I told my husband, the grasshopper will learn from “Mom”.
The grasshopper is listening.
Bet she doesn’t have to harangue anyone to put the seat down.
Respect sister, respect.
Yesterday a lady posted anonymously on a Mama page I help mod, her concern over Mama shaming. She posted anonymously because the shaming can be and already has been so intense.
I read over that thread this morning and felt heartsick. Ladies, we are failing our young mothers.
They already know that there are chemicals in windex and concerns surrounding vaccines. If they don’t, they will soon.
They know that circumcision carries a risk, and that breastfeeding is a very high quality way of feeding your baby. They even know about GMOs.
And here is the thing, they are a Mama now, with the entire weight of another human beings health and well being resting on them. They cannot afford to make your decision, their decision. That would be the very essence of foolishness. Their child depends on them to follow their gut instincts which many many times is Holy Spirit guiding them.
It is time we start respecting that and leave them alone.
If you want to be a help to them, draw near to them in very practical ways. Bring them a meal, invite them for coffee, open your heart to them and be vulnerable about your struggles as a Mama. YOUR struggles, I said. Many of us want to be a help to others, but what we forget we must lead our in, walk first in vulnerability.
It can be hard to be vulnerable, when we have been hurt again and again through gossip or rumors. First you must lay down your fear. What has happened to you when someone close to you disagreed with your choice to not vaccinate? We’re they mad? Sure! Did they physically beat you with a stick? No. Did they tell other people so that you look foolish? Maybe, yes. Did that make you look foolish? Nope and nope.
Put disapproval and gossip in its place. Not up on the throne, ruling your life. Put it down into the gutter where it can snivel and grovel where it belongs. Take away its power.
Do not nitpick new mothers even if you think you see them making mistakes. Leave them completely alone unless you are truly loving them with shoes on and they ask.
These young Moms are just starting out. They cannot afford Young Living Oils in their health cupboard, Norwex kitchen towels, Plexus vitamins, Melaleuca cleaners, 31 Gifts bags, CBD oil, Lemongrass Spa bath products, grass fed beef, eggs from free range chickens, organic feminine products, handmade slow fashion and hand knitted sweaters. (That last one was for me)
Those of us more settled in our married journey tend to forget how it felt to make just enough money to reach around to the bare basics. We forget how blessed we were to find kitchen towels at Goodwill, and having some old venison burger that a local butcher gifted you, that you cried over with relief as you put it into your freezer.
We forget how it felt to be under a constant barrage of advice from well meaning people. Of course they are all well meaning. They want you to be empowered like they were. But we forget that when we all do it, it becomes a cacophony of noise.
One of my best friends would tell you to always co-sleep, breastfeed until your baby is at least two, and feed them all local, organic, grass fed, high quality food. On the other hand, I would tell you to give yourself a break and allow your children to eat cereal for breakfast sometimes, I adamantly do not co-sleep, and I would for sure not breastfeed for two years. I’m delighted if I manage to get 9 months under my belt. Not that I look down on those who do, I just…..don’t.
Every single mother, does it differently. And that is ok. You do not have to kiss your baby with lemongrass spa lip balm to be a good mother. You can swipe your dollar store chapstick on your lips and blow into your babies neck with all the joy and love you feel.
Did you know that fed is actually best? Breast feeding is amazing, but sometimes you can’t do the amazing thing, and being fed is BEST. Please don’t argue with me on this. The shaming has to stop. In another post a mother said she was attacked for bottle feeding by a stranger. That is straight up sin, ladies. You cannot afford to judge anyone’s choices. You don’t even have the right to judge your close friends choices. Did you know that?
You may think they breastfeed because they are lazy, but you think that only because that’s why you wouldn’t breastfeed.
You think they circumcise because they are just doing what they have always heard, but you cannot know, perhaps this Mamas husband had to be circumcised as an adult and has vowed to save his little boys the pain. Plus, their child’s penis is none of your business.
Older women are commanded by God to teach the younger. This was a major part of the discussion in the previous post. Let me tell you something dear ladies. That wise older woman God is talking about does not go around spouting her viewpoints. Her wisdom will be shared in little nuggets of truth. She will not flail you for vaccinating, she will tell you why she and her husband made their choice, and encourage you to seek the Holy Spirits guidance as you make your decision. She will encourage you to love your husband and your children.
The very mandate God has given to older women has become yet another area that women bully other women with. “If you don’t listen to my advice, you are unbiblical, unteachable, and wrong”.
Shame on us! May God have mercy on us with our self righteous, holier than thou attitudes.
You see, he sees his daughter sobbing into her babies blanket, after your visit, as her postpartum brain tries to process all the mistakes she made having a medicated birth. He sees that. And he is not pleased. He sees the intentions of your heart, even if you yourself can not be honest about your intentions.
He sees his daughter waking up, setting cereal on the table for her children. If you walked into her home, you would see GMOs on the table and 5 children still in pajamas with dirty faces. But what you don’t see, he sees. And he knows that she spent most of the night awake, rocking a teething baby, after being unselfish enough to bring great pleasure to her husband, even though she was almost too exhausted to enjoy it. She simply does the next right thing, and God loves her faithful obedience.
A few months ago, I asked on this page for help for my baby’s teething diarrhea. One mother gave me gentle advice what worked for her child. And then, do you know what she did? She kept checking up on me and my son via pm. She wasn’t checking up to see whether I had followed her advice, she just stepped up under my arm and helped carry my load with her love and concern. I was able to thank her in person later, but what I did not tell her, and wish I had, was that she truly showed me the spirit of a wise “older woman”. She loved me with shoes on, even though she did not live within visiting distance.
This Mommy 101 page is wonderful. We have some of the kindest, sweetest Mamas here. However each of us Mamas have our own perspective and we sometimes forget that our way is not the universal perfect way. Let’s purpose in our hearts from here on out to love with shoes on, and truly be safe.
I and all my friends are proof that you can be the very best of friends whether you eat GMO free, vaccinate your children or are a rabid unvaccer, use windex or Norwex , have hospital or home births, breastfeed or bottle feed, use goats milk or formula, wear granny panties or chic internet bought lacy skivvies. Well....you get the point.
Those 6 beautiful squinting human beings are all mine. I made them! I fed them bottles and breast fed them, got induced with most of them, had some medicated births, am silent about circumcision because quite frankly it’s none of your business, have fed them cereal, grass fed beef, and even...gasp..,Ramen noodles.
I hear all the lemongrass lip balms dropping to the floor...
They survived.
They adore me, because I am their mother who loves them enough to not get everything right. I don’t need perfection. Just heaps and pounds of love!
“You are probably thankful that you lost this baby, since your other children are still so small”.
The words dropped from her thoughtless lips as if they were nothing.
She laughed, as my heart froze and my breath caught in my throat.
Instinctively I put my hands down over my empty stomach. “NO” I burst out.
It took me years to get past those words and the pain that accompanied them. She didn’t mean to hurt me, she just didn’t bother thinking through her statement. My pain was too heavy for her, so she convinced herself why it need not be so heavy, so that she would not have to bear it with me.
Since that day, I have become aware of the things people say during times of grief. Almost always, they tell you, what excuses them from carrying the burden with you.
Her husband had died, and it was the first Thanksgiving she faced without him. Her eyes were full of tears as she handed me a pie she had made. I took the pie from her and pulled her into a wordless hug. From behind me I heard “How are you doing Auntie Sarah?”
Before she could answer, the voice went on. “You will be fine, you are strong, the strongest woman I know, you will be fine”. Horror filled me as I looked into her lined face. She looked frozen, slapped. The words invalidating her pain, and effectively closing the door to her being able to say she wasn’t fine.
You see, this person could not bear the pain of our mutual friends deep loss. It was too heavy and uncomfortable. Instinctively she found herself pushing away the pain and replacing it with a pleasant feeling of having ‘done her part’. She helped buoy up the sister, she can wash her hands of the whole deal.
Your part is not to help the grief go away.
Your part is not to convince your friends they have reasons to feel better.
Your part as a friend is not to change anything.
Your part is to sit there and listen, let your warmth permeate her broken heart. Open your mouth only to speak applicable scripture over them, letting it soak down into the desert of their heart to wash away the dust, and allow the tears to flow without restraint, as long as they need. Until the potter heals.
Speak only when you have words that come along beside and bear the load. Words that align you with them, beside them, but never over them in superiority.
If you feel superior, go mow their lawn, or clean their toilets.
It can be very tempting to internalize those unhealthy and hurtful remarks. Satan has no script he must follow in how or what he uses to trip you up. He will reach out and grab an opportunity, and what better opportunity than a broken heart combined with thoughtless, cutting words?
It can even feel good to the broken hearted to let their hearts turn with vitriol towards those people. Like scratching a spot of poison ivy with a hairbrush. They roll it over and over in their minds, sharing it with other friends, eating it for breakfast, snacking on it, packing it like a picnic, rolling around in it like a horse freshly let out to pasture.
Now you are as in the wrong as they are.
“For if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.”
Now there are no redeemable qualities.
Now it’s just a heaping manure pile that draws flies and all manner of filth.
When a little dog slips into your house and poops in the back room, behind the rocking chair, do you leave it there? Do you sing kumbayah around it? Do you hold it in your hands and weep as you show it to your friends? Are you willing to smell it for the next month as you process your trauma over that dog pooping in your house?
Please no! Put a doggy bag over your hand, scoop that crap up, and throw it out under a bush, to silently go back to the earth.
Are you thinking this is nothing like hurtful words? It really kind of is. As a child of God, your road could be so much higher. You could be throwing those things outside, into the dirt, without forcing your friends to see and smell it too.
Our Father in heaven has done most of the work for us. He forgave us first, when we did not deserve it.
“He has not dealt with us according to our sins, nor punished us according to our iniquities. For as the heavens are high above the earth, so great is His mercy toward those who fear Him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us.”
He gave his son for our sacrifice, and then sent us his spirit so that we might truly be victorious.
You do not have to flounder in bitterness after God takes your unborn baby home. You can rejoice with those who are rejoicing, and allow your heart to be glad for them. Let the knowledge of Gods goodness sink so deep into your heart, that when your friends announce their pregnancy, you are the first one to fill a thrill of happiness for them. When that baby is born, go to their house and hold that sweet little bundle. Allow the pain to sweep through you as you realize once again that your baby will not be in your arms until you reach heaven, but follow that quickly with a thank you to your Lord, because he is good, and his ways are so much higher than our ways. He knows what he is doing, and what he is doing is good!!
Some of you are gasping after that last paragraph. I am coming across harsh and unfeeling. How can you suggest that I am wrong for feeling hurt, angry, and unhappy when a friend announces their pregnancy, you ask.
Well, darling, I suggest that because many many of you are falling by the wayside because of this particular truth. Reach out, grab my hand, and let me bring you back to the path.
The last time I found out I was pregnant, I compared notes with a close cousin and friend, and we were both pregnant, due within 3 days of each other. It was too much fun for both of us as we messaged each other pictures, how much weight we had gained, talking about the thrill of expecting a baby in November. When my baby died, I faced the reality of watching her complete her pregnancy and welcome a child without me. I told God about it, and it hurt so hard. “God, you are so good, you will redeem these ashes for beauty, who am I to develop bitterness about this”. I prayed. Every single time I felt that sharp pain in my heart, I thanked God for the living baby that my friend was expecting. Each time I did this, the pain became less. Her baby is so special to me now. I feel no pain when I think of how far along she is, I just feel happiness.
Our enemy, the father of lies, takes advantage of your pain. That is where he can slip in and whisper lies into your ears. You are in a weakened state, and he is thrilled to see you flounder.
Rise up woman of God! Take dominion over your heart.
The lies will be the easy way. As you grieve, he will wait until someone is unthinkingly unkind. That is when he will slide into first base with his lies. You will listen, and it will be easy to cry a little harder over those words. That isn’t even wrong.
But he isn’t done. He will take you to second base when you start telling everyone what this wicked, unfeeling, selfish person told you.
He keeps going, third base comes up, and you are now bitter. Bitter that your baby is dead, bitter that your friends are pregnant, bitter that God did not make you happy.
The trip from third base to a homerun is very very short. Merely one step away when you draw into yourself, no longer talking to anyone, the bitterness has now rooted deeply, causing your heart to be a raw mass of untouchable pain. Anything, and anyone can trigger terrible hurt and trauma. You nourish that wound, keeping it raw and open. It has no chance to heal, because your friends keep having babies. You draw away, you react unhappily when they tell you their news, causing them to draw away from you, and soon, you are alone. Completely alone, trapped with nothing but the big bloody hole in your heart. Your eyes closed, your ears stopped up to the blessings you already do have.
For a child of God, this ought not to be.
Grief can be done better. You can weep hard, the tears falling as a worthy sacrifice.
But you do not need to listen to Satan. You can turn away even if you have no words, cry out to God for courage and direction. He is with you, right this minute, he is there. And he will help.
The morning mist is swirling, thick, opaque, like the hem of a woman’s gown. It swirls as I walk through it, the air becoming heavy and wet. I stop, taking a moment to feel what life is offering at the moment.
Life feels heavy, like the mist I am walking in.
Pain is everywhere.
I want to get away from it.
Or stay in the mist, and as the cloud lifts, so do I.
My human body wants to run until the pain drops away like unraveling threads flying out behind me, tangling onto trees and bushes, unraveling until it’s all shed in the dirt.
But that is not going to happen.
A friend’s days old baby will still be dead, leaving her parents and siblings crushed.
Another friend spilled out on the alter, broken, empty, waiting for healing.
Children in Haiti are coping with the sins of a man professing Christ. His family suffering terribly. No winners!
A sister in Christ is shattered, bleeding out on the ground.
The world is a place of brokenness. Like sharp shards of pottery spread all over the ground. The mess is ugly and raw.
Those sharp shards have been my pottery, thrown into the dirt, my edges crumbled, my contents spilled out in a vulnerable mass.
You can tiptoe and sweep aside if you do not wish to get cut. Or you can stay, and mourn with those who mourn.
I used to be strong, my strength was admirable in how I pulled together my seams, and only broke my pottery in small, secret places.
Until one day, I was running, my pottery held tightly in my hands, and I tripped, fell and everything broke.
My friends saw it, my family saw it, everyone heard it smash, everyone knew what happened, and for once I didn’t have the strength I needed to smile and assure everyone I was ok.
I was not ok. My husband was not ok. My children were not ok. We wanted the baby that we had lost, and we didn’t want to mark on our little chart, the number fourteen.
Fourteen perfect pottery jars smashed.
Fourteen babies given back to our God.
The pain was too great for some of my friends. My pain poured out onto them, and they desperately pulled away. Their words bit, and I ended up having to comfort them, saying anything to stop the torrent of words coming from their mouths.
I withdrew, being “ok” to everyone except a few trusted friends.
One friend told me to tune out all those words. Words that seemed wise, but brought no peace.
Another friend told me its ok to weep, pouring your tears out on the alter of sacrifice. For my Jesus those tears are worthy.
Those who have been the most broken,sent me daily messages of care and laughter.
One friend sent me a picture of all her sheep looking into the camera from the top down, with the words “just checking in to see how you are doing”. I threw my head back and belly laughed.
A few cards trickled in, a lovely necklace commemorating my babies taken home, too soon, but right on time.
My most prized possession brought to me in a little wrapped package. Holy Spirit sanctioned.
You see, she didn’t know that I shouted again and again “God you are GOOD”.
I shouted it angrily.
I whispered it brokenly.
I stated it firmly.
I repeated it over and over and over.
Even if you take this baby, you are good.
Even if your answer is “no”, you are good
She sat down to paint something for me, and Holy Spirit brought her words.
I cried when I unwrapped the paper and read the words. “You love me” I said in wonder to my Father. “You see me, and you care”.
“Thank you for breaking my pottery, because you are all the way good and what will come out of this loss, will be tremendous gain”.
I worship.
He also sees you, your broken pottery, the shattered pieces dropping from your helpless fingers as you desperately try to fit them together.
Just stop, let it be.
Rest.
Leave the pieces there on the ground. Rejoice, you are broken today, and you weep.
Tomorrow, soon,you will be restored to life, your weeping exchanged for joy.
You are not forgotten or abandoned. You are loved more furiously then your earthly mind can imagine.
Everything is for your good, and his grace is entirely sufficient. These are promises you can push back against like a brick wall.
His words, not mine.
If your pottery is broken, let me comfort you.
“I will extol you, O Lord, for you have drawn me up
and have not let my foes rejoice over me.
2 O Lord my God, I cried to you for help,
and you have healed me.
3 O Lord, you have brought up my soul from Sheol;
you restored me to life from among those who go down to the pit.[a]
4 Sing praises to the Lord, O you his saints,
and give thanks to his holy name.[b]
5 For his anger is but for a moment,
and his favor is for a lifetime.[c]
Weeping may tarry for the night,
but joy comes with the morning.
6 As for me, I said in my prosperity,
“I shall never be moved.”
7 By your favor, O Lord,
you made my mountain stand strong;
you hid your face;
I was dismayed.
8 To you, O Lord, I cry,
and to the Lord I plead for mercy:
9 “What profit is there in my death,[d]
if I go down to the pit?[e]
Will the dust praise you?
Will it tell of your faithfulness?
10 Hear, O Lord, and be merciful to me!
O Lord, be my helper!”
11 You have turned for me my mourning into dancing;
you have loosed my sackcloth
and clothed me with gladness,
12 that my glory may sing your praise and not be silent.
O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever!
”