While talking about Holy Week, I made the statement that Jesus had a really bad week. Think about it. His week started out with a celebration but ended in betrayal, physical agony, and death. It was a week of extreme highs and extreme lows and it involved crying out in prayer so fervent that sweat turned to blood. I can't think of a week much worse than that! But I can think of times that have been dark. And I can relate to betrayal, agony, and death--maybe not death of my body but death of relationships and hopes and dreams. And I can feel extreme highs and lows. And I can remember crying out so hard that I felt as if blood would leak from my pores. Yet just as Jesus experienced the resurrection--because Jesus experienced the resurrection--so, too, have I experienced movements from dark to light...and during this Holy Week, I want to share parts of my darkest story with you now (and ask forgiveness for its length and for details that you may have already read). This was written in 2009 as part of a final paper for divinity school, yet, somehow, I feel like I'm still writing it today... …While I was in Divinity School, I talked to Dr. Timothy Brock a lot about my journey. After taking seven and a half classes with him and writing a lot in each of those classes, I shared quite a bit with him and walked away either aggravated, challenged, or encouraged by his words. After taking Life Span Development and being introduced to how the Myers Briggs Personality Inventory intersects with spirituality, I began talking with Dr. Brock about the MBTI and decided to become a certified administrator. After my dear friend and mentor, Kay Simpson, died, and I found myself struggling to keep going, I received grace from Dr. Brock who supported me in going to therapy and affirmed the work that I was doing as I wandered through my dark night of the soul. After forcing myself to attend class on a day when I wanted nothing more than to sleep, I heard Dr. Brock say, “I believe that before we were born, God pulled each of us to God’s chest and gently whispered into our ears who we were supposed to be. Life on earth, then, is our quest to live into the fullness of who we were created to be. The world tries to make us into its image—oftentimes thinking that it is doing us a favor. But we must seek to live into the uniqueness of our self, just as Jesus lived into the uniqueness of his self.” When he finished talking, tears were already pouring down my face. I finally got it: I am a unique and wonderful self. And God loves me for me…
After I resigned from my position as youth minister at a local church, I did not attend one church regularly…I sometimes attended the church where Kay was on staff, and when she moved to another church, I followed her there.
The new church had had a contemporary early service for quite some time but had always struggled to find musicians for the service. When Kay arrived, she decided to rotate praise bands each week, and she asked my band and me to play on the second Sunday of each month. We agreed. My band consisted of my college suitemate, a friend who I met through camp, and a friend who was the daughter of a teacher at school. We were all teachers and we all loved making music, so we met at my house each week to practice, and we played at Kay’s church each month. Our practices consisted of a lot of talking and school debriefing, but they were the highlight of my week for well over two years. After Kay died, the band died, too. I am still not exactly sure what happened, but we never recovered.
November 11, 2006, was the second Sunday of November. As usual, the band and I met at the church at 7:30am to set up our equipment and do a sound check. What was not usual was the way that Kay walked into the sanctuary to greet us. Kay had left a message on my voice mail on Friday and told me that she was not feeling well. As soon as I saw her on Sunday, I knew that she still was not feeling well. Even so, she came in to work to print the bulletin and make sure we were okay. We asked her to sit down and listen to our songs for the day, so she did. She closed her eyes, opened her hands in a receiving posture, and looked so very content listening to us play. When we finished, she told us she was going to go home and rest. We asked if she wanted one of us to go home with her because she looked so bad. She told us she was fine and slowly walked out of the sanctuary. Kay died later that night.
Alone in her apartment, having been sick for a long time, the flu from which she was suffering caused her enlarged heart to go into cardiac arrest. I went to a music education conference immediately following church that day. I returned home on Tuesday in time to go to my night class. After my night class, I called one of my friends to check in. With panic in her voice, she said, “We don’t know where Kay is.” One hour later, we were at Kay’s apartment watching the rescue squad roll away Kay’s body. The next day, we were planning her funeral. The next we were at her apartment cleaning it out. The next day was the same. Saturday was her funeral. My band and I played at the funeral. Eight months later, I returned to Kay’s apartment to finish cleaning it out.
Kay’s death occurred during my eighth year of teaching and my fourth year of divinity school. I had continued taking night classes until that year, but that year was the last year that I would be able to do so because all of the core classes had cycled through. I was at an impasse: either quit teaching and continue taking classes or continue teaching and quit taking classes. Every bit of logic in me said that I should continue teaching. My job was steady and secure. I had benefits and was able to contribute to a retirement plan. I knew that I was working on a diverse mission field, and I had finally fallen into a groove with my planning and lessons.
Yet I was miserable. I had been miserable for a long time. I had immersed myself in church, retreats, the band, work, classes, friends, and family, and I had learned to pretend really well. Deep down, though, I hated myself. I hated who I had been, who I was, and who I was becoming. I was full of so much shame for being me that when Kay died—Kay, who knew the details of my life and still loved me—Kay, who was a safe place of unconditional love and encouragement—Kay, who, like Dr. Brock, believed that I was a unique and gifted self, created in God’s image—Kay, who died alone even though she was loved by so many—Kay, who I had taken for granted—I could not hide the shame anymore.
In January 2007, I went to talk to the campus minister, Faithe Beam. She recommended a professional counseling center in Raleigh, but I was too afraid to contact the center. I had always heard that Christians should not need counseling if their relationship with God was right, and I did not have the courage to deal with the perceived stigma of going to therapy. I struggled through two more months, progressively falling into a deeper and darker depression, but at the beginning of March I gave up the fight and contacted Triangle Pastoral Counseling Center in Raleigh, NC. Shortly after I entered my contact information, I received a phone call from Jenny, and I began sessions with her later that week. What she did not know was that I was planning to request her if given the opportunity. I never had to make the request, though, because Jenny called me first.
After an intense period of struggle and discernment, I decided to resign from my teaching job so that I could attend divinity school full-time. Once I made the decision, part of the anxiety that had gripped me went away and I knew that I had chosen the right path. I did not know where the money for my bills would come from, if my savings account would be depleted, where I would find health insurance, or how I was going to buy gifts. But I knew that I had the support of my parents, my brother, my sister, my aunt, and my friends, and, somehow, I knew that that would be enough…
Learning to function in a new ministry capacity while doing the draining emotional work of individual therapy, Family Systems, and Counseling in the Christian Congregation left me exhausted. The entire semester was one of journaling, reflecting, engaging the good and bad of my family system, and facing my demons. I learned what it meant to be a non-anxious presence and I realized that I wanted to be a non-anxious presence more than anything else. I realized, too, that my attraction toward certain people and events came from their being non-anxious. I learned to identify the root of my shame, fears, desires to please, desires to be perfect, and unwillingness to show grace to myself. Once I identified the root causes, I was able to begin re-writing my story and believe—truly believe—that I am a person of worth and value simply because I am created in God’s image. Kay had tried to tell me. Dr. Brock had tried to tell me. Faithe told me. Jenny told me each week in therapy. But until I got it for myself, God and I were not able truly to transform my life.
I went to Camp Mundo Vista as the staff worship leader in the Summer of 2007. I stayed during the weeks to help out as much as I could, but I needed to return home for therapy and family events each week. The summer was good. I made some very dear friends. However, I was still at a point of intense struggle and even at camp, the place where I feel God’s presence the most in this world, I could not leave the struggles behind. Grief consumed me. Letting go of Kay, my job, my band, and friendships overwhelmed me, and the uncertainty of being a full-time student nagged at the part of me that likes to be certain.
I went back to Mundo Vista as the camp worship leader in the Summer of 2008. I administered and interpreted the MBTI for the staff, coordinated both staff and camper worship services, worked in the office and served as camp gopher, and provided a safe, non-anxious presence for anyone who needed to talk. Just one year before, my anxiety level had been so high that I could not listen to anyone talk without filtering the conversation through my experiences and internalizing my inability to help the situation so much that I literally wanted to cut the hurt out of me. In just one year, so much healing had occurred in my life that I could feel the difference as I walked around the camp. A large portion of that healing had come through the work that I had done in my classes the semester before. Yes, I was exhausted when the semester ended and camp began, but the exhaustion was so worth the effort that I would do it all again. And it was only temporary. I lived away from everyone else over the summer—in a room of peace, silence, and seclusion, and for the first time in my life I was able to go to sleep at night without noise distracting me or fears weighing me down…and I was able to rest.
…I entered divinity school knowing that God loved me and that I had been called, yet I did not love myself enough to believe in myself or my call. I pretended. I wrote and spoke eloquently. I went through the motions of ministry. I loved others deeply and spurred them along in their faith. I appeared to have everything together. Yet I did not.
As my classes pointed out the unconditional love of Jesus Christ, though—as they taught me about God’s design for humanity to live into its fullness, God’s heart for social justice and redemption of this world, the beautiful story that I have the privilege of being part of, the men and women of faith who have gone before me, the greatness of creator God who is big enough to handle all of my doubts and questions, the community of love that exists within Triune God, and the depth of scripture that testifies of God’s faithfulness to God’s people—and as I accepted the love of professors, friends, family members, and a therapist who embodied the love of Christ, I slowly began to break down the wall of shame that I had hidden behind and embrace the person that I truly am: a child of God, redeemed, resurrected, and set free to love and serve in grace.
