Faithful
Today may well be for our family what my mother-in-law calls a "stone of remembrance" day. I'm not even sure where to start my story, to be honest, and it's probably a long one. So maybe I'll start at the beginning...
About five or six years ago, Micah and I began to pray often that each of our kids would have bedrock moments in their personal faith journeys that would serve as anchor points for them for the rest of their lives.
Throughout those years, we've become increasingly aware that these people living under our roof are their own people, sometimes because our personalities clash or they make decisions that wouldn't have been ours; but often because they assert themselves, come to conclusions we've never reached, or discover a passion in an area that's unfamiliar to us. With that awareness also comes the realization that our faith is not their faith--cannot be their faith. That God is faithful to them as individual people just as he has been to us. That they have the opportunity to have their own relationship with him, and that it may look very different from ours. Or not. They have the option of choosing not to pursue him at all. And so we've prayed for moments that would cement their faith and give them solid ground on which to stand in years to come.
Now, in our own lives we've learned not to shy away from pain. We don't seek it out, but when it comes we do our best to lean into it. Because we've learned by experience that God usually meets us in the painful places, that he walks with us through the valleys. We see him most clearly, sometimes, through painful moments. I can honestly tell you that my most painful experiences are possessions I treasure, because they're ground that was hard-won. They are my anchor points that remind me that if God could walk with me through that, then he can walk me through anything. They're the places where he literally showed up, provided what we needed, and gave us grace and peace that we couldn't have mustered for ourselves in the midst of our pain.
Recently, I feel like God has been whispering to my soul these reminders that, just as he's been faithful to me, he is faithful to each of our kids. I wrote a while back about staying the course, and this is at the heart of it: a quiet trust that he still holds them and their future in his hands, that he will meet them in the way that is most meaningful and necessary for them, that he is faithful and true in every moment of their lives. The truth doesn't come (as is often the case) in the midst of sunshine and roses. We are holding onto it like a lifeline in the midst of some unbelievable storms.
From about age ten on, Thomas has dealt with severe anxiety and depression. He comes from a fairly long family history of both (including me), so it wasn't completely a surprise. But it has been a long, difficult road for him. At first, we worked on coping skills at home: slow breathing, distraction, grounding. We kept the communication lines open always, and have spent thousands of hours in the past three and a half years working through things together with him. Eventually, we realized he needed more than we could offer at home, and we connected with an amazing counselor who was instrumental in guiding both Thomas and us. We continued to work on coping skills and just getting through the days. But things got worse and worse over time. He struggled to be away from us, especially me. School was agony, and I frequently got frantic phone calls or emails begging to let him come home. His self-esteem plummeted. And he often had thoughts about how much easier everything would be if he could just end his life.
I don't say it lightly when I say we felt like we were in a life and death struggle. We continued therapy, we continued talking, we continued to work on coping skills, and we prayed.
On the day Cora had her tonsils removed, Thomas reached his breaking point. He emailed me all morning begging me to pick him up, which, of course I couldn't, since I was at the hospital with her. He felt betrayed and at a loss. He went to speak to the school counselor, which helped, but he continued to struggle. Over the next few days, he was really truly in crisis. We met with his doctor and discussed all that had been happening, and determined that he needed more than therapeutic interventions to help him manage his symptoms. He started medication just before Christmas, and has slowly but surely begun to get to a better place.
Then a few months ago, Cora confided that she had been having nightmares each night for the past few years in which she killed herself, or in which people she loved died. She had had some unresolved grief over family losses a few years ago, and had had moments of what looked like depression in the years since. But we'd had no idea about her dreams. A little while later, she confided that she sometimes thought about dying during the day, too, and that it always felt like a relief to die. Eventually, she confided that she thought about dying often.
We'd been talking with Thomas' counselor from the time she first confided in us, asking for her wisdom in Cora's situation. Should we start counseling? Should we go straight to her doctor to discuss medication? Covid and the increase in mental health issues, especially in kids, meant that Thomas' counselor was extremely busy. She didn't have any openings coming up, but a co-worker of hers had a slot for the next day. I booked it.
Within an hour of seeing her, the counselor determined that Cora had OCD tendencies. There were little things she had always done that we hadn't necessarily paid attention to, like preferring even numbers, or doing things a certain way. She didn't have many of the stereotypical symptoms, and so it hadn't even been on our radar to consider OCD (ironically, we discussed OCD at length with Thomas' counselor, because of some very specific phobias and compulsions he had early on in therapy, but determined he didn't have it). She wondered if the dreams were actually related to the OCD. She planned to see Cora the following week to do some assessments, and then meet with Micah and me the week after that to review findings and discuss a treatment plan.
Those next three weeks were some of the most intense we've ever experienced, even compared to the intensity of Thomas' crisis moments. Cora's anxiety skyrocketed, and she began to beg to stay home from school, called and emailed me throughout the day, and complained about stomach aches and headaches. She stopped eating during the day, and only ate small amounts in the evenings at home. She was teary every evening, clinging to us and needing constant reassurance and contact. She thought about death more and more throughout the day, and yet felt panicky at night that she would dream about it. And then one evening, she came to me in the kitchen with a fistful of hair. She had tears in her eyes and said, "Mom, I just pulled my hair out. I wanted it to hurt." And then she confided, "I've been hurting myself at school, too. It feels good after I do it, at least for a minute. I dig my nails into my legs, or I pinch myself. I don't know why, but it makes me feel better." My stomach dropped. All I could envision was an escalating pattern of self-harm, and it looked like a long, dark future.
The self-harm continued over the next few days. She was always teary about it, but always said she felt better, too. We talked at length about good ways to cope, ways that would help her body to feel better, like exercising or jumping on the trampoline. We were careful to treat it as a coping skill, which it was to her, and to equip her with alternate coping skills that would help more in the long run. But most coping skills take time and practice, and the release of self-harm was immediate. It was too tempting to resist.
We met with her counselor as planned, and discussed everything that had happened in the time between the appointments. The updates meant a full shift in how we approached things with Cora. She determined that she had a panic disorder and OCD tendencies. She carried a huge amount of stress from all the things she had on her plate (we'd given her free reign this year to choose activities, and all realized too late that there was a lot on her--and our--plates this year). She proposed working on reducing stress levels drastically until the next appointment, at which time she would begin to tackle some interventions and therapy with Cora.
In the midst of all that was happening, I laid next to Cora one evening before she went to bed. I had been singing to her and talking about her day. She rolled over and looked at me, and said, "Mom, I've stopped praying. I don't really believe in God, and I don't want anything to do with him. I've been asking him for four years to take this away from me--I didn't even tell you about it, because I thought he would. But he hasn't. I don't think I can trust him anymore, and I'm not going to pray."
I held her close and told her it was OK to feel that way. I told her God is gentle with us when we're hurting and doubting. And I just held her until she fell asleep.
I slipped out of her room and filled Micah in, and we texted grandparents and a couple of close friends. Over the next weeks, we prayed constantly for her. She still came to church with us, still sat with us when we prayed as a family. But she was stoic through all of it. We didn't press her. We tried to give her space to make up her own mind.
One evening, after laying and talking with her again, I came downstairs and the tears streamed down my cheeks. I told God I was exhausted. I felt like we had been fighting daily just to keep these two precious kids of ours alive. I was carrying the weight of their mental health, the weight of their social and school lives, the weight of their futures, and even the weight of their faith--and I could do nothing to help them. He seemed to whisper, "I'm faithful in their lives, just as I've been in yours. Lay her down." I imagined carrying her to his feet, as desperate as the people in the Bible bringing their loved ones to Jesus' feet, and laying her young body down. Through the tears, I prayed, "OK, she's yours. Here she is--I'm letting go. Do what you will with her life, it's not mine to hold on to. Here she is." Like Isaac on the altar, I laid her down and stepped back.
That was a couple of weeks ago. We've been struggling along in the days in between, riding the swells of the waves with both kids--especially with Cora--and breathing in the small wakes. To say it's been intense would be an understatement.
One morning during my devotions, I remembered the prayer we've been praying these past few years, for moments of bedrock faith for the kids. I recognized how often those moments in our lives have been accompanied by deeply painful experiences, and I suddenly had a new perspective on this season. What if this difficult journey has a purpose? What if this is, in a roundabout way, the answer to our prayers of several years? I shared the thought with Micah, and we prayed a little differently from then on. We asked that God would use this time to anchor their faith. We asked that he would open their eyes so that they could see God all around them, at work. We asked that he would make something good of this, something solid and foundational, that they could look back to for their whole lives; to know, without a shadow of doubt, that they had seen him here in this place.
Then this morning, I was eating my breakfast when Cora sidled up next to me and whispered, "I prayed last night. I haven't in weeks, but I prayed last night." I smiled at her and told her I thought that was wonderful news. I fought the urge to dig deeper into it or to press the point. But I kept on praying.
We all attended Sunday school (although Cora came reluctantly), and afterward attended the church service. It was the first time in weeks that we'd all been there together, between sickness, travel, working in the nursery, etc. The worship music today cut straight to the heart, and I found myself worshipping in a way I haven't in a very long time. And then we sang a song that said, "I'm not enough unless you come, would you meet me here again?" Suddenly I heard Cora's voice next to me, singing the words. The room blurred and the tears poured down my cheeks. She reached for my hand, and I clung to it like I was going to drown. Thomas slipped out and whispered that he needed a quiet place to pray. He confided later that he was praying for Cora, and that he had never before prayed and seen such an immediate answer.
We sang (or tried to sing) the rest of the song. Cora continued to join in, and raised her arms as she sang. It felt as though something had shifted. It felt as though God had filled the space. I heard God whisper, "You're worried about all of the dangers and potential hurtful things that could come in your kids' lives, but you need to understand that all that should concern you is this. If they are mine, if they are walking with me, then there is no possible danger they can face in this world that I will not walk through with them, and bring them safely to the other side. I will walk through the flames beside them. They are secure in me. This is all that matters."
I don't know what the road looks like from here. No less painful, I'm sure. But when God is in the pain, he also fills us with peace and grace, with strength for each day, with wholeness in spite of our brokenness. Oh, I pray that for our kids! I pray it for ourselves! He will use their mental illness to do things in them that could never have been accomplished without it. I speak that truth from the depth of experience. And my prayer is that, just as I wouldn't trade the painful valleys he's brought me through for anything in this world, someday they will have the same richness and peace about the road we're walking now.
God is faithful. To each of us, God is faithful.
