In an earlier post, I described the epiphany from God that provided me with the knowledge that my son was suffering from depression. When he realized that he did indeed have depression, at my urging, he went -- mostly willingly, somewhat reluctantly, to our primary care physician. He returned with prescription, but to my surprise, no referral to a psychologist or counselor.
So I blessed my son with an Oscar-worthy performance of my "Toolbox Lecture." I called son into my office one evening and invited him to sit down. I pointed to my upside-down desk chair and announced dramatically, "My chair is broken! Woe is me! Whatever shall I do?" Suspiciously humoring me, he tentatively suggested, "Fix it?"
"What a great idea!" I exclaimed. "But where do I start? If only I had something to use to do that, like a tool maybe?" all as I "accidentally" directed his attention to the toolbox sitting on my desk by casually leaning on it.
Rolling his eyes but still humoring me, he stated the obvious: "There are tools in the toolbox."
"Really? There's something in there that will help me fix my chair?" I feigned stupidity.
"Yes, mom."
Without lifting the lid of the toolbox any further than was required to snake my hand inside, I blindly removed the first tool my hand touched. I grandly waved a measuring tape at my son. "Ta-dah! I have a tool! Now we can fix my chair!"
"No, mom."
"What? Is this the wrong tool?"
"Yes, mom."
Meryl Streep got nothing on me. "Oh, no! All is lost! Whatever can I do now? My chair will never be fixed!"
Raising his eyebrow and wondering where all this is leading, son still plays along for the moment. "Uh, mom, get another tool?"
I gasp, "You mean I shouldn't give up? I should try something else? There's still hope?"
"Yes, mom."
I torture him long enough to repeat this, twice more withdrawing a not-so-helpful tool from the toolbox, until triumphantly my hand emerges with a screwdriver and we both agree that now, after several tries, we have the right tool.
I close the analogy by telling him that fighting depression is like fixing my chair. We have a huge toolbox filled with wonderful tools: a plethora of different medications that address a variety of physical issues, counseling, support groups, psychologists, etc. All the tools are useful, but not all of them are the best for doing what we need done.
I encourage him that his recovery will be a process. The first tool we pull out of our toolbox may not be spot-on the perfect tool for the job. We may need to try a different medication. Or add individual counseling. Or support group. But we will press on. We will not give up. We will try everything and anything until he is well. We shall overcome! Together we can do anything!
Seriously, I am not clever enough in the flesh to have come up with the toolbox analogy/lecture. It just happened. Poof! It was in my mind, and I believe it was given to me by God Himself. With that belief, I just knew that in a couple of months, all would be right again.
As I said before, boy, was I naive.
I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,
and in his word I hope;
my soul waits for the Lord
more than watchmen for the morning,
more than watchmen for the morning. Psalm 130:5-6
Then Jesus told his disciples a parable to show them that they should always pray and not give up. Luke 18:1
But do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. 2 Peter 3:8
He makes all things beautiful in its time. Ecclesiastes 3:11
You have turned for me my mourning into dancing; you have loosed my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness. Psalm 30:11
I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.” John 16:33
As Christians, we have a most amazing weapon in our arsenal against the battles and wars raging in our lives. And that is hope. Jesus told us we would have tribulations in this world, but that He has overcome them.
A friend brought me this heart-shaped souvenir rock from a trip she went on. My hope always faltering, the rock lives on my desk so that I can see it, pick it up, hold it, remind myself of the hope I have. The stone is cool and polished smooth. I often trace my fingertips over the letters as if trying to absorb the engraved hope by osmosis into my broken heart.
It does not take much for the door of my anxiety closet to swing wide open and all the boogeymen to rush out and attack me in weak moments.
Yesterday, it was jealousy, downright sinful envy that washed over me upon receiving a save-the-date card for a friend's daughter's wedding. The happy couple smile adoringly at each other on the Pinterest-inspired card seem to mock me, and my stomach knots. The self-flagellation begins as I sternly tell myself that I am beyond happy for my friend and her family at such joy.
But the knot tightens. I doubt that my son will ever be healed enough to venture forth into the world, find the love of his life and get married. Bolstering my doubt is his closed bedroom door. I think I did see him yesterday, after I texted him to remind him to come eat something.
Mentally, I relive the past week. The Christmas Eve midnight service we went to. The brief conversation we had where he admitted that he is feeling better after a year and a half of treatment. He describes his depression and moods as once being like an upside-down mountain range. There is no up. Only down and further down. I imagine a rock-climber clinging to further down trying to climb up higher to simply down. But now, he explains, it's like right-side up rolling hills.
Much easier to navigate, I had remarked, trying to not press him to go deeper than he is comfortable sharing, and praying fervently that I won't say anything stupid to make him clam up and end our conversation. His succinct reply darts my heart: Don't press an analogy too far, mom.
Hubby limps in from work. He is in severe pain, arthritic knee worsened by cold and damp. He needs surgery desperately but we can't afford it. The "economic downturn" was apocalyptic to us. After losing the job he'd been at for 25 years and bouncing around from job to job for the last five years, he's been at his present job for a year and a half. Not yet long enough to be out of work for eight weeks during post-op recovery and still have a job. Not long enough to have made the leap from an hourly employee to a salaried employee and have income during that recovery.
In all this anxiety, a verse pops out of the blue into my mind. "He makes all things beautiful in its time." In His time, not mine.
Discouragement is simply having reached a premature conclusion.
I rub fingertips across my stone. I can feel hope.
