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i use my words
Every year, my heart struggles to find somewhere to land in this sea of remembrance.
I always eventually drop anchor in deep gratitude for those who ran into harm's way when tragedy and terror struck. Even in the face of horror, fear, pain, and uncertainty, love runs toward, not away.
And despite everything else I'm feeling today, this anchor holds.
// In memory of Michael Vernon Kiefer //
I.
I began and abandoned this post a month ago. I couldn't find the words—or the courage—to finish it. For so many reasons.
Then came the heartbreaking news of Robin Williams.
Which was quickly followed by a tsunami wave of God-awful responses from Christians, flooding the internet with harmful, ignorant, and abusive bullshit in the name of Christ.
So, it's time to find my words and use them.
II.
I think I was in seventh grade when he took his life. I didn't even know the much-older boy in my school, but I remember being deeply shaken. I remember everything growing eerily silent when we were told the news.
I had questions I didn't even know how to ask—or who to take them to even if I did.
"Join hands. Let's pray."
My Christian school didn't know how to handle all the questions. The fears. The grief. The heartache.
Understandably.
How could they? How could anyone?
But for the first time, I heard the cruel whisperings that would echo the halls of my Christian culture-bubble for years.
And they echo even still.
III.
The ones who say "suicide is selfish" and "if only he'd turned to Jesus" and "depression is a choice"... They simply don't get it. They just don't.
I know, because I used to be one of those ignorant people.
I grew up with a pull-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps-of-faith kind of theology. We hid our realities behind platitudes and trite clichés and Scripture-quoting smiles.
We lived in denial, and called it faith.
We named it and claimed it, clinging to a Prosperity Gospel that of course covered even our mental and emotional health. Doctors, counselors, and antidepressants were for those who didn't believe enough...
IV.
But we were never promised health, wealth, or emotional well-being in this fallen world.
All He promised was that He'd be with us.
V.
What I know now is this:
Depression is real. Mental illness is real.
They don't signify weak faith. Or distance from God. Or unresolved sin.
They can't be willed away by words of faith, hours in prayer, deliverance, repentance, prayer lines, or praise songs.
In no way am I saying God never uses those things to bring healing. But the conclusion that He only uses those things is so unbelievably damaging.
God also uses doctors, and skilled therapists, and treatment centers, and supportive community, and medication to bring balance to instability and hopeful illumination into darkness.
VI.
I know what it's like to want out...
I've been there.
I understand those feelings of hopelessness that suck all the air right out of the room.
The darkness that presses in close.
The nights that are so bleak it seems as though the sun will never rise.
The depression that sits so heavily on your chest, your lungs imagine they'll never expand again.
VII.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the empty bottle, tears staining my cheeks.
It was only my second year on the mission field, and life had suddenly grown impossibly hard. Inescapably dark. Everything caved in, and I saw no way out. No way through.
So handful after handful, I'd swallowed, wondering to myself exactly what a full bottle of ibuprofen would do.
I spent several days vomiting relentlessly.
Everyone thought I had the flu.
I didn't correct them.
VIII.
A decade later, I found myself in an even darker night of the soul. One that mercilessly persisted for years.
Clinical depression, the doctor said. Post-traumatic stress disorder.
Weighty words.
I wanted to resist them—I could hear the echoes of righteous disapproval, reminding me that I should be able to praise my way out of my funk. But I didn't have enough fight left in me to resist.
So I learned to swallow my pride each morning along with my Prozac.
And my eyes slowly began to see the abusiveness of some of the tenets I'd held onto for so long.
IX.
It is devastating to me when I realize again how many still see a conflict between faith and therapy/treatment. They are not at odds with one another, but when we imagine them to be, it doesn't eradicate depression or mental illness. It only shames us into hiding behind a mask.
When we imagine them to be at odds, it keeps us from seeking help when we need it.
And it keeps those around us from seeking the help they need too.
The Church should be an arms-wide-open safe place for the broken (and by "the broken", I mean all of us). Instead, all too often, the Church holds stones in her hands, ready and eager to cast them at those already wounded.
X.
Reaching out, getting help, taking medication, seeing a therapist... Those are not signs of weakness.
They are enormous steps of bravery. Of strength. Of courage. Of—dare I say it—faith.
Yes. Faith.
Faith that acknowledges God can work through anything.
Let's start being known for championing these brave, faith-filled steps. We need to shake off the stigma by speaking of them more often, more boldly.
Let's begin being more honest about our own experiences and struggles and journeys. Let's be people and communities who are safe for masks to be dropped and brokenness to be revealed.
Let's be those who generously lend faith and courage to our fellow comrades who might need to borrow some. In our empathy, humility, and love, let's shine the light on the next brave step someone can take.
“I feel so betrayed.”
Ironic and painful words to hear from the mouth of the one who left his family for a new chosen “other.”
His refusal to engage in even one honest conversation about the massive elephant sucking the air out of the room was met by my refusal to simply engage in surface-level banter — our relationship warranted more than that. While processing through my own feelings of betrayal, I couldn’t even wrap my brain around him uttering that word.
What he couldn’t see — what he still refuses to acknowledge — is that what he calls “betrayal” is me being the woman he raised me to be.
He raised me to be brave and independent and loyal and even quite a bit stubborn.
I desire truth, openness, authenticity, and trustworthiness because he taught me to value those qualities.
Following his lead, I stand my ground, I use my voice for what I believe, I fight for justice and mercy, and I love fiercely—through the hurt and the hard.
I’m tenacious, loyal, persistent, and strong-willed because he modeled what it means to stand up after falling—bruises, scraped knees, bankruptcies, lost homes, failed ministries, and all.
He taught me to dream big; to start something from nothing, and believe it can become something amazing; to try again and again and again and again.
He raised me to be generous with second chances, liberal with apologies and forgiveness, abundant in humility, and rich in grace (even for myself).
He raised me to cry and laugh and, yes, even scream—to not be afraid of my emotions.
He raised me to be unashamedly me.
And now the me that I am is what he calls a betrayal.
Too much need for truth. Too many questions. I’m simply too much for him right now.
So the one man who has always been in this only-daughter’s corner effortlessly walked away. I’ve reminded him that regardless of my age or my season of life, I still need my dad, but it hasn’t made a difference. I’m more work than he feels it’s worth right now. More work than he feels I’m worth right now…
I’m too much and not enough all at the same time.
So, for the first time in my life, Father’s Day came and went without a gift, or a card, or a phone call. And I felt like I was simultaneously being true to myself and betraying myself, in equal measure—which is an awful feeling actually.
I sit here, fighting to wake up as I relive my nightmare. I sit here, fighting to not lose hope in the entire male population—or in all humanity for that matter. I sit here, fighting to keep my heart open, to be brave with trust, to risk and risk again.
All the while hearing his voice saying that he’s the one who’s been betrayed.
Originally posted on A Deeper Story.
Read the comments there »
How different would things be if I approached each situation, each person, with bravery?
That's the question that scratched away at my heart and made me choose brave as my OneWord365. I really wrestled with committing to a word like that, for—well—lots of reasons.
At least for me, brave is a big, scary, monstrous word. I have never felt brave. Ever. It's not a word I would ever use to describe myself. I've done brave things at times, sure. I've taken some risks. I've made some choices others have deemed courageous. But deep down, I would never categorize myself as a brave person.
But I want to.
I want to be someone who's life is marked by bravery.
Don't hear me wrong... I don't want to be known for living an adventurous life. I'm not trying to be edgy, or reckless, or thrill-seeking.
I don't want to do brave things. I want to be brave.
And, I'm discovering, there's a big difference.
It's more about the posture of my heart than about my actions. It's about changing my internal dialogue—the words I say to myself, about myself. It's a willingness to lean into who I really am... and live it out wholeheartedly.
Six full months into the year, I paused to take stock. And I have to admit—I'm a little surprised by all the ways I've seen bravery come to bear in my life so far this year. It's probably not been in ways that others might expect (or that they'd even call brave), but it's usually the smallest steps of bravery which are the most difficult. For me, anyway.
I've opened my heart to possibilities. I've let myself enjoy the present without knowing what the future holds. I've let my guard down. I've let others in. I've leaned into relationships. I've used my words more. I've embraced hard truths. I've taken steps towards healthier boundaries. I've put myself first in areas I'd always put myself last. I've started going to church again. I've stuck my neck out work-wise. I've resumed regular writing commitments. I've made big financial decisions. I've intentionally dug into enjoying my now-life. I've faced a huge loss and didn't fall apart like I once thought I would.
I don't expect to feel like I've crossed some huge finish line in December, having arrived-at-last at being brave. But I do sense that I am already becoming brave. And that is what I want to feel every day for the rest of my life.
The process of becoming holds more value than the being, and I don't want to lose the wonder and vulnerability of the journey.
So I take a deep breath, and I close my eyes, and I ask for an extra dose of courage for everyone and everything I will face.
And I choose to become braver today than I was yesterday...
:: :: ::
I'd love to hear about your OneWord365 journey at this halfway point.If you blog about it, please share the link. Otherwise, would you share a few thoughts in the comments?
Last night I stumbled upon The Traveling Wall. This half-scale replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, DC is in Nashville for the week. I slowly walked the full length of it, overwhelmed by the sacrifices of so many.
"Did you find all the names you were looking for?"
I couldn't see him, but I followed his voice across the wet grass. As soon as the four older gentlemen came into view, I knew...
I shook their hands, looked them in the eyes, and told each one how grateful I am for their service.
They invited me to join them, so I sat down between John and Wendell and listened as they reminisced. John had been a medic in the war, and grew emotional as he described some of the things he'd witnessed. "I will never forget those children's faces..." His voice trailed off as he looked away and just stared at The Wall.
There was a lot of solemn silence in our 30 minutes together.
But there was also sweet laughter, talks of fishing trips, jokes about the helicopter overhead, and the kind of adorable flirting only grandpas can get away with. ("Come to the fair in August, and I'll treat you to a plate of concession food on me!")
It was moving and wonderful and such a gift...
When I finally said goodnight, I walked away humbled and grateful for my short time with this band of brothers.
