Neither invasive or evasive

I'm thinking a lot about depression again lately. About the seven years of my life that I struggled so desperately with it. About all those times when I'd lost hope completely, and simply begged God to let me die, because I knew I could never quite manage to take my own life. About the times when someone would pray for me, and I would have a week or two of reprieve. And about the way it felt when that reprieve began to slip - the watching as my fingers slid off that cliff edge that they'd been clinging to. About how, after a while, I simply stopped telling people what was going on with me - because it was tiring to always be the one who was broken, the one for whom the prayers never worked.

I'm thinking about healing too. About how, nearly three years ago now, in a moment that was gentle and unexpected, the depression was simply gone. About how it took me three months to understand that this was not just another reprieve, that something truly miraculous had occurred in my life. Lately I've been wondering if that healing is a permanent thing? I don't think I'm depressed just currently, but I am amply aware that I am skirting the edges of that chasm, and that it would be easy to fall into that space.

I was listening again to a radio documentary on depression and spirituality that I downloaded a couple of months ago. I keep coming back to this program, for the unique insights it offers.

This morning, I am caught by the words of one of the interview subjects, Parker Palmer. He is speaking of the sort of community necessary, or at least desirable, to help one who struggles with depression or mental illness heal. He says, "...A community that is neither invasive of the mystery nor evasive of the suffering, but is willing to hold people in a sacred space of relationship where somehow this person who is on the dark side of the moon can get a little confidence that they can come 'round to the other side."

"Neither invasive of the mystery nor evasive of the suffering."

Not the easiest of goals, but so necessary.

There have been a few people in my life who have modeled this. Friends along the way who let me be who I was - for I encountered the mysteries of God in the depression, but also suffered deeply.

There are friends who are doing this for me now, though depression is not precisely the word I would use to describe these last several months of wrestling. Friends who are encouraging the mystery, not explaining it away. But friends who are also willing to listen, and to enter my suffering. I know, more clearly now, in the midst of one of the darkest spaces of my life, that I am deeply loved. My friends have shown me love, and, because of that, have helped me to understand in new ways that I am loved by God as well.