I told my husband I felt like shattered pieces of glass lying on the floor with no one to help me, no one who knew how to put me back together. The cracks in myself, in our marriage, in my parenting had come to a pressure point, and the pieces that were held in tension gave way.
It had been 10 months since we uprooted our lives from the home and community we had in Las Vegas to move back to where we had grown up. My survival technique of sucking it up and doing the next thing helped me get to where I was, but it left me exhausted and depressed. I had no energy to figure out how to disciple my kids in faith, to work harder toward health in our marriage, to know whether I was going through a bout of depression or recognizing a long-term struggle with it. I just knew I couldn’t go any further. I wanted to pause time, to escape for a moment to some place where I could breathe, to break away from the clinging and whining, and be still, at peace. But the fantasies of escaping turned dark, and even though I looked fine on the outside, I wasn’t well within.
I decided to make calls to therapists who might take me because I was desperate for help. The first one on the list provided seemed to be an ideal match— aware of different cultural and familial backgrounds, close in location, contracted with my insurance company. I called her naively thinking she would answer and have me scheduled as soon as possible. She never called back. The same happened with the dozen therapists I contacted. I reached out for help, but their silence affirmed I was unseen, unheard, alone.
Could the gospel be good news if it wasn’t good news now?
How could I keep going when I felt so hopeless? And how could the gospel be good news if it wasn’t good news now? I wrestled to reconcile what I knew to be true and the reality of my circumstances, and I could only conclude that the gospel had to be good news. It had to be! Because if not, what else did I have??
I repeated His story back to myself— the one He had written so long ago on the cross and the ones He had been writing in my life in the last year. He died so I could live. He has a purpose for this season of having left what was good to enter into what we didn’t know. He isn’t done with me yet. He loves me. Hold on, He seemed to be telling me.
He reminded me of the hope in the gospel, the hope for my future, the hope for living. I had been desperate for help, but my soul was unwell because it had lacked hope. I’m not healed yet, but I’m hanging on.
I’m not healed yet, but I’m hanging on.
As it anchored itself into my soul again, I started to see glimpses of hope all around me– in the unexpected provisions to pay for counseling, in a therapist who deeply desires my wholeness along with me, in confirmation through sermons and friends of God’s faithfulness in my life thus far.
Circumstances are slow to change though transitions seem to keep happening, but the glimpses of hope has made my soul well again. I’m still broken pieces laying on the ground, but I know the One who is making me whole again. I’m not healed yet, but I’m hanging on.
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