when the ache tries to suffocate

The pleasant smile, the patient voice-- it’s not all phony, of course, but sometimes it is.  

The heaviness of this place can suffocate.  

Sin-- our own, and that done to us-- presses down heavy on our chests.  

 

Conceal, don’t feel.

Distract yourself.

Don’t ask that question.

Hide it. Numb it.

Smother it with melted cheese and a huge smile.

“Where is God in all this?” we wonder to ourselves in the darkness.

And there, in the darkness, our enemy begs us to stay:

Don’t ask that question. Pretend you already know.  Pretend you’ve never wondered.

Pretend you’re just “too busy,” or you’re “fighting something,” or it’s “just a headache.”

Conceal, don’t feel.

Don’t let them in, don’t let them see, be the good girl you always have to be

Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know…

The advice seems to make sense, when there is something to hide, something that might embarrass us, or hurt someone else. And yet it suffocates, and one can’t help but ache for Elsa and her secret.

For ourselves, and our secrets.

How often I am tempted to numb my own heart.

Surely there are circumstances when we must simply keep moving, and do the work in front of us, despite the way we feel, despite our Big Questions. And so I don’t try to discuss the issues of my own heart with children.  I may ache, but regardless, they still need to eat dinner.  I (try to) put on my pleasant voice and pray to be upheld until I can take off the mask, put on my PJs, and exhale.

But, oh, how I need to exhale.  I need to let it out.  We all do. The ache and the questions, the heaviness of this place, the way it weighs on us, the way the fog rolls in and it seems like the enemy is winning every battle.

Adults are supposed to have all the answers, and yet here we are, in grown-up bodies, with skinned knees, and heavy questions.  And we are still afraid of the dark.

And the enemy whispers:

Chin up.  Be tough.  Fake it till you make it.

Don’t ask for help. They’ll think you are weak.

Don’t be a wimp.

Don’t search His Word, call your pastor, or lean on your church family.  

Don’t run to God like a terrified, hurting child.  

Grow up already.

What if "growing up" means being hard and strong and cold? What if even that kind of "strength" is a not strong enough to weather any of this?  

What if the only real choice is to crumble in one way or another?

But where can we crumble?

Where can we find fellow weary sinners in need of grace? Blessed are you if you can name a fellow sinner right now, one who will hold your hand and bring your needs into the presence of a gracious God.

Where else can we go? We bring our aches and our big questions to God, where He promises to meet us.   In His church, in His Word, and in fellowship with his people.

And there, we hear others speak for us, those shocking words which we do not dare say,

words of grief, or anger, questions of the aching heart:

“Why have you forsaken me?” David cried aloud.

“Why have you forsaken me?” Jesus moaned from the cross.

The question lingers, but we are not the only ones asking it, and that is some comfort.

Others have breathed in the stale air of a dying world, and they, too, have gagged and choked.

Others have questioned like us, and hurt like us, and sinned like us.

And those others have been helped, forgiven, redeemed, rescued from this place.

God’s promises cut through the cold air, like a warm breeze carrying a hint of spring, and we breathe.  We inhale hope, and exhale pleas for more; for spring to hurry.

Free us from this place, Jesus.

Deliver us from evil.

-----

Deliverance is coming, because Jesus has come.

And again we pray, come, Lord Jesus.

----------
Today, I dare you to name the heaviness, and to ask your questions, out loud to other people and to God.

It's not safe here.

I'm holding my little guy down so daddy can take out the slivers. He screams throat-tearing protests, while I stroke his wet curls and whisper prayers. “It's almost done, sweetie.” I say as I kiss tears. Except that it wasn't. Daddy found nearly twenty slivers there in the softest part of his tiny foot. How could this have happened?

"Mommy why are you doing this to me?" he screams.

“Oh honey,” I held him tighter, no words to say, only tears, tears mixed with anger and questions. Tears falling for more than just his tiny aching foot.

I hate this place today, Lord! Some guy stealing kids right from their mama's side at the grocery store so he can do awful things to them? A random sniper on the interstate?

And now slivers? Is this supposed to be some lesson to me? Am I supposed to trust you in the suffering, to somehow be OK with the pain from the shrapnel of evil in my heart? It's not OK. If there's a lesson for me to learn, send me an email, or use a felt board or something. My child is suffering real pain, screaming real screams.

This hurts my real heart. 

I do not understand.

Later, I hold his hand tightly when we go to the library-- much tighter than usual. I look to the left and right, again, and again. I notice the other children, the run-down car, the unfriendly face on that man. I keep my son close to me.

It's not safe here.

I am like Sister Bear. Remember her? She was a happy little girl bear who trusts everyone, until one day her Brother warns her about stranger danger. Later, she returns to park-- the familiar, friendly park. But everything is different. People are suspicious. The man behind the newspaper is hiding something. The sky is darker. The birds' beaks are sharper.

It's not safe here.

I know, Father, it's not You that does these things, I know. But why don't you stop them?

I have no answers.

So I set my shoulders back, I clench my hands, and I prepare to fight. I will use my concealed carry permit. I will be more aware, more vigilant. I'll buckle them and warn them and make them wear helmets.

No way, not my babies. I won't stand for it.

I'll stand in front of the wave of evil and absorb it all so it never hits them.

Except that … I can't. I'm not enough.

It's not safe here, and we will not leave this world unscathed.

I will not.

My babies will not.

God did not.

God deals with this broken world in a strange way. Instead of destroying it, He enters it. Instead of abolishing the law, He fulfilled it. Instead of punishing the sinner, He welcomed the full weight of the punishment onto Himself on the cross. Instead of pouring out the cup of His wrath on the earth, He drank it Himself.

Instead of somehow erasing death, He suffered it.

And then He rose.

He entered into our dying, hate-filled world, and He did everything backwards. He loved. He suffered. He died. He lives.

He lives.

And by His glorious resurrection, He proves to us that He is not of this world.

And, by grace, neither are we.

It is not safe here. There are dangers on every hand. The world is suffering, dying, and we share in that suffering. And we scream throat-tearing screams and we ask heart-tearing questions. And we are not OK.

And yet, by grace, we are being made new in Christ.

We are set apart, heirs of life.

Today, we are merely far from home.

We don't belong here.

Praise God, we belong to Him.

photo credit educationdiva

marioarand

frog: eldon cook

Dear Sin-Sick Soul

Dear sin-sick soul,

soul afraid,

soul staring wide-eyed at death, 
at sin exposed:

You there, with the knees sore and hands dirty from weeding, weeding, always weeding... are you discouraged, when the weeds keep coming back?

but I'm such a big helper!

Do you fear because of the strong ones, the ones that will not give up their roots? You pluck off the top and cover the rest, you smooth down the surface, but you know what is underneath. The roots, growing stronger, too strong for your hands or even your shovel. You fear the day when it breaks through the surface again, where everyone can see.

Stop it.

Just... stop.

You are not the gardener.

You are in the Gardener's care.

It is God who will finish this thing.

Those weeds that seek your destruction, that sin-sickness that threatens to devour you-- it is too much for you. But it is not too much for Him.

Safe in His grace, let His Word diagnose that ugliness, and fear it, fear it so that it will drive you to Him, to help and healing.

Lay down your tools and your crutches, and see the powerlessness of your own two hands.

Be still.

Wait on the Lord with open hands and infested heart.

Wait- and remember who you are.

Who- by grace- you are.

You are a child of God, weak and loved.

You are covered in the perfect forgiveness of Jesus.

Your sins have been answered for with His own blood,

blood that gets down to the deepest roots, destroying evil and growing new life.

Your sin-sickness, your terminal illness is no match for Him.

Jesus came precisely for this: to seek and save the lost-

to seek and save YOU.

It is God who will finish this thing.

And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you 

will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.

Phillipians 1:6

---
Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Resist him, standing firm in the faith, because you know that the family of believers throughout the world is undergoing the same kind of sufferings.

And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast. To him be the power for ever and ever. Amen.

(1 Peter 5)

originally published 5/2014

A beef with God: The dance.

This is a dance I have done before, so at least I know how the steps go.
But I still hate it.
Perhaps you have done this dance before, too.

Step 1- Hear of a tragedy or some other sadness.

Step 2- Take it to heart. Stare into it deeply, and take on the burden of the sadness myself.

Step 3- Wonder where God is. Wonder if He really is good. Wonder how in the world can He allow such things if He really is good.

Step 4- Let a crust form on my heart towards God.  Perhaps give Him the silent treatment.  Look away from Him, and nurse my secret grudge.

(This is the kind of thing that can go on for days, weeks, or years. Sometimes this is the kind of thing that keeps people away from church for the rest of their lives. If you are one of those people- I get it.)

Step 5- Fall on my face in some way or another. Realize this is not a good long term strategy.

(aside: sometimes the above steps combine with medical problems or hormones or whatever and depression follows. Depression can cause you to feel stuck right here, forever, no matter what you do. If this is you, say it out loud to someone, please.)

Step 6- Write and pray and think. Realize that my bad day wasn't just about naughty kids or the stupid dog, but about the beef I have with God.

Step 7- Start talking to Him again.

God I've been pouting.
I have something to say. I know I shouldn't say it, but if I if I talk to you I can't not think it, so I might as well say it...

What the hell, God? 
(forgive me but ... what is going on here?)

Why? Where are you? You really love us? I believe- kind of- help my unbelief, Lord!
How can I possibly let my light shine when everything around me and inside me is so dark?

Step 8- Fess up

My heart is overflowing with anger, mistrust, and doubt. Forgive me, Jesus.

You have proven to me a million times that You are good and trustworthy. But God I am weak.. I need You to do it again...  show me where to look so that I can again believe that you are good!

Step 8- He helps.

I ought to know this already, but He mercifully repeats Himself.

He swaddles my flailing soul in the comforts of His Unchanging Word.

He gently turns my eyes back to the cross of Christ.

Here I find forgiveness for my sins. How quickly I forget His poured out life for me!

Here I realize there is so much I do not understand.  How can I scream angry questions at Him?

Here I find evidence of His goodness.  Overwhelming evidence. Evidence that bled out of His heart and flowed down on to the rebellious earth. onto me.

My questions do not disappear, but they are quieted for a moment while I rest in His love--

while I am weak and loved.

I look up to Him. I open my hands to receive help.
Faith.
Hope.

I look forward to the day when I will see Him fully and my questions will be silenced forever.

And God raised the Lord and will also raise us up by his power.

1 Cor 6:14

originally published 10/1/14

Upheld (depression, again)

Let me tell you about a girl I know.
She has eyes that see the brokenness of this world and a heart that deeply hates what she sees.  She is burdened, maybe even suffocating with the grief she carries.  She wants to make it better, and she tries to, but her efforts don’t seem to make a dent in anything.  And what bothers her even more than being ineffective is that often, sometimes even as she works to right the broken parts of this world, she finds herself tripping over her own brokenness, her plans foiled by a mess that she made by her own self.

And her arms and legs and very heart are caught the web.  Any movement on her part is just wild flailing, but what else can she do?  She could give up in despair, try to sleep it off, and hope that she will wake refreshed and not with fang marks in her neck.  Flail or collapse, pointless activity or abject despair: these seem to be her only options.

This girl is me, when depression takes hold.  It hits me like a storm that comes suddenly and then passes over, It is ugly and dark and scary, but it is over (for now.)  And again, God has been faithful.  I am upheld.

I say that often to my close friends, when the question “how are you doing?” can’t be answered well in a word.

I am upheld.  What do I mean by that?

It’s complicated, this awful grace-filled life.  And when it’s not the time or the place to unburden my soul, to pour out the griefs and complaints, to recount the the faithfulness of God mixed in, to divulge the tangled mess of a heart that doesn’t even know what’s good for its own self and yet is still carried forward by her Father to be at this job or doing this mom thing despite all these glaring weaknesses… I say, I am upheld.

Sometimes, I am a house of cards and I’m sure one more thing will knock me right over, but I haven’t fallen yet.  Every moment that goes by, every push against my house that does NOT make me collapse feels like a miracle, reminds me that God is my helper, and I am upheld.

Sometimes it means: I have just found my way out of the pit and I don’t even know how it happened. My head is lifted up, there is some light in my eyes, and this isn’t my doing. God has again been faithful and sent relief, and yet I know my weakness afresh and its scary. But God is holding me (and He was when I couldn’t feel it, too), and so, I am upheld.

I am upheld: I crawled my way to church (on the inside) and Jesus met me there: He held me and covered me in his own robe, like a soft blanket, he fed me and restored me, He listened to my complaints, and I am upheld.

It is by pure grace that God holds me up, and oh how I need it.

I am re-reading one of my favorite books with my Sunday night book club, Grace upon Grace. And it occurs to me that I am STILL fighting some of the same battles with myself that I was fighting years ago when I read this book.  I am weary of my own weakness.  I want to graduate. I want to say that I WAS weak and loved, but now I am strong and loved and independant, too! I grow weary of being a beggar, of being reminded that I am utterly dependant on God for everything.  I wish I had just one solid mature independent area in my own self that I could count on to be stable and right and GOOD in my own strength. I’d sure feel more secure, or at least happier, that way.  But that is not the way of faith, the way of grace and trust and reliance on the gifts He gives.

Insead, we are invited to be upheld. We are invited to be children, and to be held.

O Lord, my heart is not lifted up;
    my eyes are not raised too high;
I do not occupy myself with things
    too great and too marvelous for me.
But I have calmed and quieted my soul,
    like a weaned child with its mother;
    like a weaned child is my soul within me.

O Israel, hope in the Lord
    from this time forth and forevermore. (Psalm 131)

I think of my son, who cries when he’s tired and takes comfort in being held. Tasks undone, questions unanswered do not bother him in the least: he is held, and so he rests.

This same posture is taken by one Benedictine sister retired from a university professorship on account of a debilitating illness who said, “For so many years, I was taught to ‘master’ subjects. But who can ‘master’ beauty, or peace or joy? This psalms speaks of the grace of childhood, not of being childish. One of my greatest freedoms is to see that all the pretenses and defenses I put up in the first part of my life, I can spend the rest of my life taking down. This psalm tells me that I’m a dependent person, and that it’s not demeaning.” (as quoted by Kathleen Norris, THe Cloister Walk p.106)

We have not outgrown childlike dependence on God. We have not graduated. But take heart! God does not demand that we graduate- He invites us to watch Him provide! He calls us as His children to trust in Him, to wait on Him in hope, to look to Him for provision.  We are his children, holding on to Him with our feeble grip, even as He holds us with the almighty strength of His love.

It is by pure grace that God holds us up, and oh, how we need it.

Be held, and upheld in Him today.

A gust of icy wind (on Depression)

I (re)learned something this week. Maybe if I write it down I will remember it forever.

The energy to clean my kitchen and smile at my children

can vanish in an instant.

The energy to clean my kitchen and smile at my children

is not a given.

The energy to clean my kitchen and smile at my children

is precious when I have it.

The energy to clean my kitchen and smile at my children

is not the reason I am loved.

Fall. My favorite tree is bright red and I can see it out of our kitchen window.

Lovely, deep red predominates, but the second glance reveals orange, yellow, and even green toward the middle.   The blue October sky as a backdrop-- it is a breathtaking sight.

Today I sit in a lawnchair by this tree.

The wind is gentle, but a strong burst comes, and it begins.

The stripping.

Red leaves cascade around me. Lovely, for a moment, but I see what is happening.

The stripping.

I think of this stripping, and how I have felt it in my own heart.

My patience, my energy, my zeal for life-- it is shocking how it can all just vanish. When the cold hands of depression reach up and grab me by the ankles, what else can I do?  I fall on my face, and all of my beautiful leaves fell off into the grass. There in the pit, I am left with nothing but my own filthy rags.

I cannot get up and clean the kitchen. I have no sincere smile for my children.

They are unsettled, and I am unsettled, and bare.  And so very cold.

A leaf lands on my computer. What was glorious and red from a distance now reveals to me its imperfections. Rotting spots. Discoloration.  

The stripping continues.

Unlike the tree, I do not stand still and accept the gusts of wind.  It hurts too much, so I question God’s work, His presence. I do not know whether to repent or fight or cower or quit, so I try to do everything at once, until I collapse, exhausted.

And then, the seasons change, orchestrated by the loving hand of my Father.  

The climate changes, and suddenly, I can feel the sun again.

I did not make the season change again. I cannot call up the sun. But today, it shines, and as it shines God fills in the coldest parts of my heart, sending the truth of His love that I already know down deeper, deeper.

As for me, I am poor and needy

but the Lord takes thought for me

He is my help and my deliverer 

(Psalm 40:17)

He who directs the seasons also directs my ways, even when I do not understand them.

In this, I can rest.

Weak and Loved.

Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.

Hide us in Your Word, in Christ, that we may weather all seasons. Amen.

If you know exactly what I'm talking about, read all of Psalm 40.
Click here for more of my thoughts on depression

re-posted from 11/2013
re-lived often.

weak prayers, resting

The architecture of a church points me upward, reminds me of God's majesty.
I am small, God is big. This is most certainly true.

I feel my smallness mightily this week after a depression flare, a reminder that I do not control a single thing that really matters.

I kneel in the pew after communion.

My prayers are weak, quiet, uncertain. I don't know what I even need. I only know that I have need, I am need, I am a huge black hole of need that doesn't even know what to ask for. My thoughts are tired. My prayer is weak.

There in that big church, I am small, and my God is big. But he's not too big.  He's not so far up there, not high in the sky where he can only hear loud prayers or confident prayers.

I know this because I know His Word.
He is near to the broken-hearted, to the crushed, to the tired in spirit.

My God is not way up there, waiting for me to assemble a good prayer and shoot it up to him.
He is with me, even me, even here.

What words do I pray that day after I receive His body and blood?  Were they profound, lengthy, or holy?  I remember only a quiet "thanks" and a weary "help me." But He prays with me and for me, right alongside me.

I imagine him there with me, on the creaky kneeler, His feet like mine resting on the torn coloring pages under the pews. I imagine Him letting me lean right on Him in my weary praying. His arm is around me for comfort and support. His other hand rests on my praying hands, and He prays with me and for me.

He sweeps my prayer up into His; he takes my prayer and amplifies it, sanctifies it.

He untangles all my tangles, and He knows exactly what I need.  He sees me with clear eyes and looks upon me with the love of the Father. He lives to advocate for me, and He does this even when I am too weary to pray.

My weakness takes refuge in His strength.

In His arms, surrounded by His prayer, I wait in safety.

---------------------

But you, O Lord, are a shield about me,

    my glory, and the lifter of my head. (Psalm 3:3)

He is able to save to the uttermost those who draw near to God through him,

since he always lives to make intercession for them. (Hebrews 7:25)

---------------

For more on depression click here.

Depression: Lookign up from the stubborn darkness

Depression: Looking Up from the Stubborn Darkness by Edward T. Welch
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

"God sometimes puts his children to bed in the dark."

True enough. But how do we wrap our minds around that? How do we move forward, still in pain, and trust? How is it possible to keep living even in the dark?

This book is an honest, yet gentle help for the depressed spirit. While admitting that there are biological components to depression and encouraging medical treatment for them, this author addresses the spiritual questions and struggles that are often intertwined.

"What depressed people need—what we all need—are daily reminders of spiritual reality. As the truth of Christ is impressed on our hearts, we must offer that to others, and they to us. The target is always Christ and him crucified."

"Etch this in stone: if depression gives you an early warning—and it usually does—bring everything you have to the fight. Take your soul to task. Ask for help. Force feed yourself Scripture and words of hope. Be on guard against self-pity, grumbling, and complaining. And keep the cross close at hand."

This book is a great resource for those who strive to do that very thing.



View all my reviews

Just Come

Then Jesus declared, “I am the bread of life. 

Whoever comes to me will never go hungry,

and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.

But as I told you, you have seen me and still you do not believe.  

All those the Father gives me will come to me, 

and whoever comes to me I will never drive away. 

For I have come down from heaven not to do my will but to do the will of him who sent me.  

And this is the will of him who sent me, that I shall lose none of all those he has given me, 

but raise them up at the last day. 

For my Father’s will is that everyone 

who looks to the Son and believes in him 

shall have eternal life, 

and I will raise them up at the last day.”

John 6:35-40

What does God require of me?
COME.
Not behave, then come.
Not fix my heart, not sort it all out. Not buck up. Not be strong.

Just. Come.

And He says "whoever comes I will never drive away."

Think on this with me today. Read the verse again slowly.

Don't skim.

It is God's will that whoever comes to Him
(Me! You!)
shall NOT be lost,

It is God's will that we come,
and
It is God's will that we are cared-for,
kept safe in him,
redeemed and restored and healed and helped,
and finally, raised up on the last day.

We are in His hands. We only need "come" and He will do the rest.

Let's rest in that today.

Father,

You invite me to come to You, through Your Son. Melt my stubborn heart, and teach me to come to you as your child. Grant me a heart that repents, trusts, and clings to You in all things.  Keep me safe in Your grace, that I may know Your peace. Amen.

(reposted from 9/12)

He didn't have to, but he did.

On gratitude...

“Our capacity for gratitude is not connected with an abundance of resources but rather with a capacity to notice what it is that we do have.  This is expressed powerfully in the traditional African-American prayer of gratitude that the Lord “woke me up this morning clothed in my right mind. He didn’t have to do it, but he did.” 

(Christine D. Pohl, Living into Community)

Still talking about depression...

It seems this winter will never end.

The birds fight for seed outside my window, and I like watching them.  I point out the “daddy cardinal” and the chickadee to my son, like my parents once did for me.  

The birds have conflicts: we laugh. They do not make me solve their spats. I’m not responsible for enforcing fairness and teaching kindness in the bird world.  Birds are so light.

Children are.. heavy.

And the snow lays heavy, and cold.

And I haven’t written much about depression lately, because I feel like I will merely repeat the same things. And yet, that mom inspired me to write this post. Because even when there’s nothing new to say, I ought not be silent. Because we need each other to keep talking.

My friends who understand ask, “How are you feeling?” and I tell them “meh,” and they understand.  Some days are light, some are oppressive, unbearably heavy.

I spoke to a local mom’s group on the “Five Love Languages” recently, and I couldn’t give a talk like that without a special word on depression. Because I know what wonderful parenting advice sounds like to depressed ears.  And I could imagine a mom listening feeling like I have felt-- someone who loves her children, truly, but whose body or mind refuses to act out, or even feel that love.

It might look like this: You know your child needs a little quality time, so you gather the supplies and (you hope) the patience to do a craft.  By the time the craft is finished, you are near tears.

And you think your child can only conclude this: Mommy hates crafts, and probably me, too.

Depression can twist those good intentions and make them angry, sad, ugly.  And parenting advice just sounds like more evidence of failure, more things to add to the list of “Hard Facts that Prove I am a Terrible Human Being.”

So I spoke to that mom, and I said what others have said to me:

Depression is awful.

I understand.

Say it out loud.

Lean on others.

See your doctor.

God is stable even when we are not.

It is good to remind myself and others of these simple things.  Yes, I am still struggling, some days more than others. I wish I was writing a victory post, one that contained the secret I finally discovered for ending this struggle.  But instead, I am what I am. Still weak, still loved.

It feels like this winter will never end.

But I see no reason to trust those feelings, not when there is so much evidence to the contrary.  

Spring will come, and Christ is Risen.  

Lord, help us to remember that this life is not about being perfectly happy, nor it is about being well.  It is about waiting in hope for You to fulfill all things.

It may be very cold here, while we wait.  It may be too dark to get much done, at least, for a season.  It may be time to curl up in a nest of blankets, drink tea, and simply... wait.

Wait for the warmth of spring to dawn.

While you wait, make your nest in His strong promises.

I’ve been curling up in the book of Peter again lately.  

Blessed by the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ who according to His great mercy has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead,

Did you cause your birth? Or Jesus’ resurrection? Or your rebirth? No. These are not flimsy human works, but works of God Himself, and THIS is our hope.

to obtain an inheritance which is imperishable and undefiled and will not fade away, reserved in heaven for you, who are protected by the power of God through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time.

Read that part again, and notice all the firm words, the strong, unshakable words. These things are solid and stable, by the grace of God, even when you are not.

In this you greatly rejoice, even though now, for a little while, if necessary, you have been distressed by various trials…

(1 Peter 1:3-6)

In this we rejoice, even when joy seems impossible. 

We rejoice in the hope, the certain hope, of spring, of the lifting of our burdens, of freedom from depression and sin and grief everything that weighs us down.

Until then, we wait.

I am waiting with you, friend.
This winter will not last forever.

----------------------------------------

For more: 

Nest comic
Everyone should see this- especially those of you who love someone who wrestles with depression. 

*that* mom
A kindred spirit on depression

Depression (more of my posts)
click here for the archive

If you are struggling and have never said it out loud, please say it to someone today.

And if you are somebody's someone, remember that there is great comfort in your loving presence, and soft blankets.