Resurrection Power

This morning, I woke from a drug induced sleep and padded into the kitchen to make my coffee. (I'm not really sure I padded, because that always makes me think of footy pajamas and I certainly wasn't wearing any such cuteness.) The time had sprung forward and fortunately, I missed the magic moment due to the previous night's pharmaceutical blessing. I changed the clock on the microwave and waited for the coffee to finish brewing so that I might enjoy that first incredibly deliciously rich sip that cleanses my palate and invokes the new day.

This may seem like a simple morning ritual to you, but for me, it was an essential part of the day. You see, when your depression goes into remission, it's easy to put on the mask of normalcy and go on with the affairs of the day. Ah, but when depression slides out of remission and slaps you squarely on the jaw, you are reminded that normal measures will not suffice. Those of us who are "in the club" understand quite clearly that getting out of bed is a major accomplishment on some days. Those in the know will tell you that putting on clean clothes...or standing under the shower's blast of hot water while summoning all of your energy to bathe is a gargantuan task. Those who do not know enjoy the luxury of doing regular morning tasks as if on autopilot and do not have to give them a second thought. Those of us who walk under the cloud understand that just getting out of the house in matching socks and clean underwear is the equivalent of saving a baby from a burning building. So, aside from it being just a courteous thing to do, please try to greet people you see with some modicum of kindness. You have no idea what they have been through before they got to you and if they are one of the many whose depression is teetering on the brink of remission, your words can serve as either a knot in the end of a rope to hold on to or as the knot of a noose.

This morning, after I finished my coffee and morning meditation and prayer, I walked to the bathroom to shower and prepare for church. Fortunately, my hair knows just what to do, so that's not an issue but I sometimes feel like I need a team of experts to handle my eye makeup...which will inevitably be ruined by the ritual of car worship before I get to church. I carefully attend to my mascara and liquid eyeliner and then go through the many steps to ensure that I don't put the crease color on my brow line and the illuminator too close to the eyelash line. Oh, and then, I have to take a picture of this masterpiece with my cell phone because I have to make sure it looks okay when my eyes are closed. Why all the attention to the eyelids? Because just a few hours prior to this artistic moment, I was in that place which leaves me with puffy lids above and dark circles beneath.

I had spent the larger part of the previous day in an exhausting training session. I came home from the session and felt a little bit tired. I considered stopping for a bite to eat, but decided to return home where I relaxed on the bed for a moment and then decided to go out for some free wifi at the local coffee shop. I put on my cute girl jeans and button down shirt and suddenly, out of nowhere, it hit me. It felt like a cheap sucker punch in the middle of my chest. I began sobbing and could not stop. I crumpled to the floor and wailed as if I were a dying animal riddled with slugs from a deer hunter's shot gun. I pulled myself up and leaned on the side of the bed, still weeping and wishing that I had a life alert button to press. I really had fallen and could not get up, but there was no life alert button and there was no one to help me up, so I'd have to work it out somehow. Now, if you have a brain that is not challenged with depression's effects, you might be thinking, "well, shake it off and keep it moving!" To that, I release a string of expletives that would cause Dick Gregory, Eddie Murphy and Redd Foxx to blush profusely. That, in essence, is the problem with depression. The brain is not functioning as it should and things that once seemed simple are difficult. Things that should be effortless require great effort...often greater than what is available in the moment of crisis. Despite this challenge, I managed to peel off my clothes and slide under the covers and curl into a tight little ball.

I must pause here to insert this comment for those who know that I am on occasion a grand storyteller who loves to entertain my reader or hearer with flourishes and embellishments. In this case, I am giving the dirty but true details because someone somewhere needs to know that he or she is not alone and sometimes, the doctors' questions do not make room for the stories that we need to tell. In this story, someone will find a kinship or even some relief that theirs is not a solitary confinement. So, until there is no need for the healing power of story telling, I will continue to tell the story in it's grittiest truth because in times like these, clean is overrated.

As a rule, I do not keep a lot of medication in my home. However, as one who suffers from blinding headaches, I do keep certain medication on hand. I happened to also have something that would help me sleep. Here's where it gets dicey. My non-diseased brain is fighting for control of the situation and screaming, "Don't touch the bottle! You're not strong enough! You'll never live it down if it's ruled an accidental overdose!" The other part of my brain is quietly presenting an alternate argument, "Well, we're sitting here in a state of pure hysteria and something has to be done. You don't want to lie awake for another night do you? After all, you've got to go to church tomorrow or you'll have to answer a whole lot of questions that you really don't feel like fielding, so what's it going to be? Another sleepless night? Have you seen the luggage set that is growing under your eyes? No one is coming to rescue you tonight. You are falling apart and this will be your epoxy by proxy." (Yes, even the personified character of my brain has jokes.) I stretched my arm out and wrapped my shaking fingers around the small brown bottle...with the child-proof cap. I pressed down and twisted the cap and let it rest in the palm of my hand while I peered into the bottle to count the pills. The tears made the pills merge into one big yellow blur, so I tipped the bottle and one small yellow pill fell into my hand. I replaced the top on the bottle and exchanged the pill bottle for the water bottle. I took a swig from the water bottle and despite my lifelong struggle with swallowing pills, managed to wash the tiny yellow pillow down my throat. I continued wiping tears while I waited for the familiar blanket of sleep to wrap me in its comforting, though temporary anesthesia. After an agonizing period of rocking and waiting, I felt the little yellow pill melt and spread her numbing goodness all over my body. The sobbing ceased and the childlike shuddering breaths evened out and I could breath normally once again. Sleep was overtaking me and I was relieved. Nothing mattered anymore except for the relaxed state of consciousness that I was about to enter. I could only hope and pray that the peaceful relaxation would carry over into the morning hours when I would once again have to face 'the people'.

And so it is, I woke to find a new day. I was unfazed by the day that lost an hour because I was just glad to have escaped the day before. Calm had returned to the flesh that I called home. The storm had passed and the violent wind and water of ragged breathing and incessant tears had stopped if only for a moment and now, after a cup of coffee and a moment of prayer, we find ourselves back at the moment when the eyelids were being disguised with a palette of plums and sparkly browns. I put on one of my favorite dresses - a blue cotton button down A-line dress with 3/4 sleeves. It is kind of Audrey Hepburn-esque, so that makes it a fun and fashionable feel-good dress. I slipped my feet into my red patent-leather pumps and reached for my coat and keys. In a brief moment of pure stillness, I felt it. There was no fanfare or airy orchestral string sound. There was just this incredible stillness and in that peaceful moment, I was made aware of what had happened. In that stillness, I realized that I had been the beneficiary of resurrection power. We talk about it in church but sometimes, I think we sometimes confuse resuscitation with resurrection. Resuscitation is the restoration of consciousness. Resurrection is the restoration of life. The little yellow pill had altered my level of consciousness from awake (and anxious and a wreck) to asleep (that thick, dreamless, restorative sleep). When I was finally ready to greet 'the people' with my carefully made up eyes and genuine smile, I felt it. I felt as if I had been brought back from the clutches of death. As I lay in that bed last night, damn near convulsing with the waves of sadness and grief that were overtaking me, I felt as if death were the only way out. I felt as if morning would never come and the night's weeping would endure endlessly. But it did not. Morning came. I would love to say that joy came as promised by the Psalmist, but it was not quite joy. It was her first cousin, peace. Life, as I knew it..in the state of depression remission had expired. So, yes, I did die a little bit last night. Some part of me died but with great gratitude, today, I walked in the light of life and realized that there is such a thing as resurrection power but we must experience death and not just altered consciousness to get there.

Morning Came

Morning Came

Darkness yielded herself to the light
And the morning came
Cozy blankets which had been
Lovingly tucked around sleepers
Have shifted in the night
And now that morning has come
They are no longer needed
Blankets, sheets, comforters
Are now tossed aside as sleepers wake
And greet the day
The sleepers no longer need to be tucked
And swaddled
And wrapped
Because morning came and brought with her
a new day
For the ones who slept
Sleepers...
swaddled
tucked
safe
But for the sleepless ones
Darkness has yielded herself to the light
And the morning has come again
But there is no way to greet the day
Because though we were tucked
Sleep never came
And it's still the day before yesterday.

When Lament is Authentic Worship

When Lament is Authentic Worship

As an American Christian of a darker hue and as a woman of a certain age, I am well aware...if not painfully so...that I always worship from a position of privilege. I have transportation, I have pretty clothes and accessories, I have coffee and breakfast items and our worship space is really quite beautiful with its wide-open windows, polished pews, wireless microphones and fine sound system. The trouble is, at least for today, that none of those things are really important to me. Today, being able to be authentic is paramount and today, clothed in my Sunday best, I fear that someone will challenge my way of being authentic in worship. I do not feel like smiling today. I am sleep deprived and broken hearted and grieving...and no, thank you, I do not want to talk about it in the vestibule. Oh, and by the way, I won't just get over it either. This is me coming to church 'just as I am'. Often, in our desire to live out the mandate to "rejoice and again I say rejoice", we neglect to allow people to visit the space of lament and grief. It is as if it makes us uncomfortable...or is it slightly guilty...to be so happy when someone beside us is not laughing and smiling along with us. What would it look like to come to a worship space where you can weep because that is your response to the gospel? What does it look like to present a gospel that welcomes the wailing women? What does it mean to leave the sacred space of the sanctuary and go out into the sacred space of God's creation with the good news on your lips and tears in your eyes? I daresay it is not a contradiction. I am not suggesting that we wallow in our sadness but I am asking us to give ourselves and one another permission to be authentic as we live out our lives. In Toni Morrison's marvelous novel, Beloved, Baby Suggs calls the children to laugh, the men to dance and the women to weep. Ain't I a woman? Well then, today, you shall hear me weep. This is the good news, yes, Jesus loves me...even when I weep and wail...because while I am trusting and waiting, I am being authentic in His sight.

scratchin on a napkin

I was scratchin on a napkin
my mind had an itch
and I was scratchin on a napkin
there was a dry patch
that needed liftin
and scratchin and greasin
but I was scratchin on a napkin
my thoughts
my dreams
my hopes
all scratchin on a napkin
in ink that could only sink
into the napkin's fibers
like oil on my scalp
after a good scratchin
lifting my thoughts
easing my mind
soothin that itch
like a good scratchin
but i was all alone
just wishin
and hopin
and scratchin
on that napkin
still itchin
still scratchin
still on that inked-up napkin

keeping me alive

keeping me alive

Your voice rests in my ear
Reminding me that I am loved
Not for my hair, smile, or gifts to you
But for the self that I am
The sum of my parts
You love my broken pieces
Just by being present
You show up when I am lost
You are the rope around my ankle
when I go into the darkness
masking itself as the holy of holies
and when I wander off into
the darkness that would swallow me
I wonder if you even know
that when I would traipse over
to the dark side
tempted by the siren's song
Your voice calls me back
Into the light
I know not how or why
But I pray you keep calling
Lest I die
In my skewed solitude
Wooed by a haunting melody
Drawing me away from life's light

(for Valerie)