Depression, Death and Resurrection

Years ago I was in a deep dark place--looking back I realize I was

in the midst of major depression--situational major depression, but major nonetheless. My boyfriend, who I truly believed I would marry, and I had just broken up; I had a misunderstanding that I didn't understand with close friends, and I lost those friendships with no closure; I was living in a town I didn't want to be in; I was in graduate school, working, and trying to figure out who I was because everything I thought I knew about myself seemed to be changing; and I was struggling with faith and where I belonged in church. (That struggle ultimately brought me to the Episcopal Church--)

Having major depression while trying to maintain both graduate school and a job is, well let's just say, it's not very easy.  I lost motivation; I lost self direction--I wanted nothing more than to pull the covers over my head every morning and simply disappear into the world of oblivion.  This was over 20 years ago and like many other things (eating disorders for example--My Struggle with an Eating Disorder) people didn't talk about depression or any mental illness, or if they did, it was negative and judgmental, and so in addition to struggling with depression, I was full of shame.

Enter my daddy--several times a week as he drove past my neighborhood towards the hospital he would knock on the door, wait until I got out of bed and answered and say "I just thought I'd stop by to have a cup of coffee."  He would sit on my couch and read the paper while I showered and got dressed.  We didn't talk about why he was really there; I suppose I even let myself believe he really was just stopping by.  We didn't talk about the fact that were he not to stop, I may very well have just stayed in bed and let my world fall apart.  We didn't talk about it; we've never talked about it, but it happened.

This morning on my run I thought about those months.  I thought about how much grace and unconditional love Daddy showed me, and I thought about how hard it must have been for him to watch me suffer. I know I would go back to those dark dark months and live them over and over rather than watch one of my children suffer as I did.  And I shuddered because I knew as much as that's something I would willingly do, I couldn't. But what I could do is hold onto the hope that I believe in--the resurrection that I know comes, and then I thought about a conversation from last night...

A close friend and colleague was over yesterday--we were talking about our sermons for this week (okay, truthfully we were planning her wedding, but we did spend a few minutes talking about our sermons--a well spent few minutes).  It's Pentecost this week--you know the Sunday everyone wears red and we have to talk about the Holy Spirit--

We talked about how hard it is to preach this Sunday and yet how important it is.  We can't harness the Holy Spirit; we can't harness God.  God alone brings resurrection--what is so hard is that as people called to preach the Gospel, as my wise, faithful friend said, "we are called to help people walk to the cross; to help people let go and to die because we know the good news; we know resurrection will come."  "Yeah," I agreed, "We know it will come but not through us; all we can do is take the walk together and sit at the foot of the cross with each other knowing it will come because we have faith; we have hope." (Hebrews 11:1 "Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." NRSV)

"It's the Paschal Mystery." Rachel named.  "And I believe," I piggybacked on her, "That we are called to name all the death and resurrection we see in the world--even the little things."  We talked about a recent incident in her life (but that's her story) and how it was clearly an example of death and resurrection.  We talked about how new life after death looks different, but that we are called to help people see that the new life although different, can and will be better--more life giving--a gift from God who loves sacrificially, unconditionally--God who loves everyone no exceptions.

This morning I thought about that conversation as I thought about those months of desolation all those years ago, and it struck me that clergy are called to preach the Gospel but we are ALL called, each and every person, as the priesthood of all believers to walk together to the cross, through the cross and into resurrection. And I believe we are all called to share our stories of death and resurrection because it is in sharing our stories that another finds hope; it is in sharing our stories that another can take the walk to the cross knowing that resurrection can and will come--that it has come for others and it will come for them.  My life was different after that time (during one of those mornings Daddy suggested to me I might want to talk to one of his good friends, an Episcopal priest, The Rev. Donald Fishbourne--look where that led.) Resurrection may look different for different people, but resurrection is available for ALL, no exceptions.

We are called to love as God loves, sacrificially and unconditionally. We are God's hands and feet working in the world--hands holding a newspaper, and feet walking up to a front door and rear ends sitting on a couch and lips drinking a cup of coffee--we can be God's instruments of grace and hope and love--someone's path to resurrection.  Guess my daddy knew that...

The Dress and Resurrection

My parents and the dress

I was packing to head to North Carolina and then the beach.  For the first time in years I hadn't bought an Easter dress.  What to wear?  I went through my closets pushing dresses back and forth and my hand kept settling on one and something in my heart kept saying, "wear that one."  I argued with myself, "It's really too dressy for the beach--even for Easter."  "Wear that one." I kept hearing.

I've worn that dress one time--April 2010 to my Daddy's and Marguerite's wedding.  It was not a happy event for me at the time; it was not a night I'm proud of or a night I want to remember.  I've written about it--that too was painful.  (The Death and Resurrection of My Family) Oh we've come so far beyond that night, but that dress just reminded me of the grief and pain.  I don't know why I have never gotten rid of it.  I

The Wedding

really didn't want to wear it again.  It took me back, and I didn't want to go back. We had all moved forward--I didn't want to remember that night.  That was my Good Friday--I just want Easter.  "Wear that one."  I heard again.

Oops--as I drove into Charlotte I realized I had forgotten The Dress.  Oh well..."Wear that one."  I was beginning to think I was losing it.  Why wouldn't this voice shut up!?!?!?!  Fine, I'll call Chris and ask him to bring it.  If he forgets, well oh well..... guess what?  He remembered.

Last night I realized why I had to wear that dress--it needed, I needed, something tangible that reminded me of resurrection.  I hadn't gotten rid of the dress--it was a symbol of some sorts.  For me it was a reminder of pain--but it was just a dress, actually a nice dress, but I just looked at it and saw grief, and pain and figurative death.  I mentioned I was wearing it today for the first time since their wedding.  And I told my dear friend Jamie that Marguerite and I had fought that night.  She was shocked.  "Really?  You two?  I can't imagine that." "Yeah," I said, "It wasn't a good night.  We had words."--Marguerite looked at me and quietly said, "It was my wedding."

It stung; it stung because I knew that I had hurt her and she hadn't forgotten.  It hurt because I knew I had hurt her that night and despite that she has been nothing but good and kind to me ever since.  She had been hurt and she had never said, she had just loved me at my pace--on my terms. Now I was panicked--do I wear the dress?  Will it hurt her?  I do have something else I can wear.  "Wear the dress."  (Seriously voice--SHUT UP!!!)

I got up and put on the dress.  We took pictures--my parents and I--my daddy and my bonus mama. (I also realized this was the first weekend I introduced them to people as my parents--it doesn't change I still have two living parents, but some of us need more than two....) During church we passed the peace; I hugged and kissed Daddy and Marguerite.  After I kissed Marguerite a woman shook my hand and said, "I love your dress." and she concluded with, "I'm glad you and your parents are here today."  "Me too," I thought, "Me too."

This afternoon I've been thinking about Good Friday, Holy Saturday and Easter.  I've been thinking about the cross and all the beautiful crosses I have and I wear.  I thought about how in the first century the cross was just a symbol of cruelty, punishment, violence and death, and how we now adorn our churches, our homes, and our bodies with them.  That Easter morning over 2000 years ago, Jesus transformed the cross and the world.  Because of God's unconditional love, acceptance, inclusion, and grace the cross is no longer a reminder of pure violence--of grief and pain--but is also a reminder of God's redeeming unconditional love.  We don't have to live in Good Friday, but we do go back and we do intentionally remember--every year.  We remember so that we never forget how our lives, how the world, have been transformed because of the first Good Friday and Easter morning. Remembering doesn't mean we are living in the past, but it reminds us to give thanks for the reconciling love of God and it gives us the hope that the whole world will someday live into Easter morning.

It's a pretty dress; it's fine, but it's just a dress.  We--Marguerite and I-- have a beautiful relationship, a relationship transformed because of love and forgiveness and grace.