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Showing items filed under “Mental Health”

The New Year

The New Year is almost here. And amid all the news and entertainment personalities who chatter mindlessly about New Year’s resolutions, I wonder how many other grieving mothers are dreading the end of 2015? Call it denial or an unhealthy unwillingness to face reality, but I find myself mentally clutching at the fleeting seconds of 2015 the way my fingers grasp the sleeve of a departing friend, and plead “Don’t go! Not yet! I’m not ready for you to leave.”

 

It probably sounds weird and even stupid to say I’m dreading the New Year- but for many of us grieving mamas (and dads, brothers and sisters, grandparents, uncles and aunts and friends), the end of a calendar year means we have to emotionally gear up to face another year without our beloved son or daughter.

 

See, I survived 2015. I survived the year Matthew would have turned 30; the photo album I would have created and presented with joy never started. I survived the 3rd Christmas without his silly, loving presence opening gifts in my living room. I survived 365 more days without hearing his voice on the other end of my phone or seeing his name pop up in a text. I survived seeing his dearly loved Toyota truck parked in my driveway every day with no deafening raucous music playing. I survived all the birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, and our family vacation without him. I made it through 2015.

 

But starting at midnight tomorrow night, I have to start all over again. Another 365 days without Matthew. All the birthdays, holidays, anniversaries and family vacations will occur as they do every year, but they will go on without him. Another 365 days of no texts. No phone calls. No late night “Hey, Mom! Can I come over and watch a movie with you and Dad?” No outrageously inappropriate but loving greeting cards on my birthday or Mother’s Day. No “I love you, Mom.” Of course he wasn’t perfect – not even close – and in fact, mental illness brought tremendous suffering to him and our family. But he is my son. And I miss him. And to think of beginning another 365 days without him? Can I emotionally survive next year and the year after that and the year after that and all the years between now and my own death?

 

Those who aren’t in the middle of grief probably stopped reading after the first paragraph. That’s ok. I understand and don’t resent them. The Bible says in Romans 12:15 (NIV) says, “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.” For any who are in a vibrant season of abundance and pleasure, I rejoice with you! Truly! I laugh with you! I cheer you on! I’m grateful for these days of strength and well-being you are experiencing. And for those of you dear ones who are mourning, I mourn with you. I ache with you as you long to hold your son or daughter one more time. I weep – sometimes quietly and sometimes till I gag – with you. I make room in my heart for your grief. As Pastor Brady Boyd says,” We have to make room for those who can’t celebrate (New Year’s).”

 

And yet, like the Psalmist in his laments, I must circle around to my only hope of emotional survival as I finish 2015 and begin 2016. Rev. 21:3-5 (MSG) promises, “'Look! Look! God has moved into the neighborhood, making his home with men and women! They’re his people, he’s their God. He’ll wipe every tear from their eyes. Death is gone for good – tears gone, crying gone, pain gone – all the first order of things gone.’ The Enthroned continued, “Look! I’m making everything new.’”

 

One calendar day – God knows when – everything painful and broken will end. The countless tears spilled through the millennia, the innumerable deaths, and the immeasurable pain human beings have endured will finally reach their limit. They will end. The God who “moved into the neighborhood and made his home with us” will make EVERYTHING new. Because of that, I will survive every calendar page allotted to me until calendar pages themselves are gone and I find myself in that place of never-ending newness. Grieving friends, hold on. What we long for is coming...

Posted by Kay Warren with

I Know the Kind of People in Charleston, South Carolina

Growing up, I knew where I would be every Wednesday night. It didn’t matter if I was tired, or had a bad cold, or too much homework, or if it was raining cats and dogs. No matter. We were going to prayer meeting. In our small Southern Baptist Church where my dad was the pastor, prayer meeting was the gauge of the depth of commitment of someone’s faith. Anybody could come on Sunday morning; the committed came back Sunday night, and the true saints of God came on Wednesday nights. It almost always began with a potluck supper served on white butcher paper tablecloths. You could eat food from every region in the world in the fellowship hall of our church every Wednesday night – Americanized, of course – and no self-respecting potluck was complete without an outrageous variety of Jello salads that contained mystery ingredients, brown-n-serve rolls (why were those so tasty?) and vast quantities of homemade cakes, pies, and cookies.

 

Then came Girls in Actions (GAs) or Royal Ambassadors (RA) where girls and boys worked separately to become “kings” and “queens” through Bible memory and missionary activities while the adults listened to another sermon from the overworked pastor who hoped that somebody was listening to his hastily composed message. Choir rehearsal often followed the evening, but the highlight was the time of prayer for congregation. If attendance at Wednesday night prayer meeting was proof of true spirituality, then I grew up with saints.

 

There weren’t many younger couples with kids by the end of the service– they scooted out after the kids’ activities – but because I had to stay as long as my father did, I took many a late-night nap on hard pews, only vaguely listening to the older folks reciting their aches and pains needing prayer; their many “unspoken” requests, their tears falling as they whispered the names of prodigal husbands, sons and daughters. My dad patiently wrote each request in a notebook, and asked for volunteers to stand and pray for “Sister or Brother So and So’s need.”

 

I don’t know that we saw many miraculous healings or restored marriages or returned prodigals in our little church – but what I remember most was the faithfulness of the few who gathered each week, each one earnestly seeking God. I caught their pattern of looking to Him for help, guidance, healing, and strength when they were weak. They weren’t mighty heroes of the faith as some might define heroes, and while I can’t remember many of their names, my life was marked by their Christianity.

 

That’s one of the reasons I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach last night when I learned of the shootings in Charleston, South Carolina. I KNOW the kind of people that were in that sacred place of worship – they were probably the faithful intercessors there to support their church, their pastors and their fellow church members. They were likely the kind who could be counted on to be there regardless of weather, fatigue, illness, hardship, or cost. They were the pillars of the church. As a pastor’s daughter, and now the wife of a pastor, I wept for the loss of their beloved pastor – their shepherd committed to taking tender care of his flock. There is unfathomable sadness and anger that these committed brothers and sisters were murdered specifically because they were black. That they were murdered at a Wednesday night prayer meeting just adds one more poignant layer to the horrible crime.

 

Most of us are horrified and shocked and feel helpless to change systemic racism and I certainly don’t have a brilliant plan. God does. The church of Jesus Christ is the ONLY effective weapon I know of that can knock a hole in the ugliness and sin of racism. Multi-ethnic churches provide the opportunity for people to do life together – and when they do, barriers begin to fall and love can grow. My only hope is in the church – where all come together at the foot of the Cross, all equally in need of a Savior, and find forgiveness, restoration and recognition that we belong to the same Body of Christ. It’s Thursday, not Wednesday, but I’m praying.

Posted by Kay Warren with 1 Comments

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