Vocari Dei

One thing in my life that I think has been thriving in its own awkward way is prayer. I say awkward because it's a daily, clumsy struggle, but thriving because I've noticeably grown.

I've learned over the years that even though talking with people about what's troubling me can be therapeutic and at times directly helpful, there's only so much communication that can be done with our limited understanding. We can't make sense of ourselves half the time, so we can hardly expect others to do so. What's more, people aren't without their limits of patience. They'll eventually become frustrated, especially toward a person who's inconsolable or beyond their ability to help.

In contrast, God is always there, always listening, and never impatient. Most profoundly, He does understand us and our entire situation, even when we don't. That's been reassuring in ways that only a few months ago I wouldn't have even imagined. The option to turn to God when I just want to be understood by someone is comforting. Even if, when I'm on my knees, all I can do is be silent, sob unreservedly, or just tell God that I'm hurt, confused, and even mad at Him.

My latest reflections on prayer have led me to a conclusion about its sheer importance. And it's not about getting the answers that we want for our requests. While that happens sometimes, I feel like a lot of people miss the point entirely and see petitioning as a way to get wishes granted. In truth, our prayer should be focused entirely on open acknowledgment of how utterly we must rely on God. This form of complete surrender should be our humble approach behind all of the times that we turn to Him for anything.

Drowning in the Flood

I made a mess again.

My depression has dragged me down to what feels like rock bottom. I know it isn't, but perspective tends to dominate the human mind. It's times like this, when I feel the sheer weight of everything, that I feel, not so much that I can't continue, but that I have no will to do so. It's like I've allowed my circumstances to bear down on me so hard that my spirits have been crushed and I've degenerated into apathy.

My thoughts have been immersed in negativity for several days. I've felt lonely and abandoned, and these feelings seem to feed and sustain themselves, causing a downward spiral. I've felt so much anger and resentment, so much fear, and so much loathing for myself and for the world and all the people in it, that it feels like I'm beyond consolation. I've backslidden so far into old, sinful behaviors and attitudes that redemption feels hopeless.

The burden has been so heavy that, moments ago, I felt compelled to fall to my knees. I reread, for the umpteenth time, the description of love in 1 Corinthians 13, and it became painfully real to me that the way I've been has not been loving at all. I begged God for the forgiveness I knew I already have and will never deserve. But can I forgive myself?

As I write, I still wrestle with this, yet to find a peaceful resolution. To any readers, I'm sorry that this isn't a profound, feelgood, theological or spiritual post. This is a post of despair; of open recognition of my need for God's grace; of a deep longing to truly give my burdens to Christ. These are the thoughts of a human truly struggling with his humanity.

Darkness of Mine

I've been silent on this blog for a couple of months now, largely from a lack of inspiration or from scattered thoughts. I generally like writing, because it's helpful in anchoring the ideas that I have, providing a medium upon which I can expand and develop them. But lately it's been difficult, because not only are the ideas are all partially formed and lacking in any real consistency, but also because I haven't felt motivated. I suppose it's natural that these things result from depression.

As anyone who knows me can probably attest, I go through phases of being depressed, sometimes punctuated by brief periods of inspiration, which convince me that I can do anything to which I set my mind. Unfortunately, "brief" is all too adequate a description of those times, and soon I'm back in a state somewhere between sadness and void of feeling.

However, what frightens me about that "dark place," as I've come to call it, is not even its frequency or duration. While those aspects can be frustrating, they don't necessarily indicate infinity. That is to say, there's hope for an end to that form of suffering.

But you see, I often long for the times before I was prone to depression. I'll wish I could go back to a simpler, happier state of mind, which I theoretically inhabited earlier in life. But the truly terrifying thing about that is my uncertainty that such a time and state ever existed for me. While I do long for it, it's difficult for me to envision, and I can't seem to think of any specific instances in which I was truly "happy." To clarify, I can think of happy moments and periods of my life, but on deeper thought I'll also remember negative thoughts and feelings of inadequacy that were always present, even amidst those happy times.

I've had people imply, or even outright suggest, that this depression is just part of who I am, tied to my temperament, and that there's no cure or solution. That's a disheartening thought, especially when it comes from the mouth of a fellow Christian. The notion that I have a joy-inhibitor hardwired into my brain seems to fly in the face of the theology of a God who wants us to have abundantly joyful lives.

I have, of course, had the thought that I misunderstand what true joy is. I know it's more than just a feeling, and so it doesn't mean we'll always be happy and carefree. But my impression has always been that joy can't exist in the same space as depression; they contradict each other. So unless that's wrong and I truly don't understand, there must be hope for freedom from this. And unlike everyone else in my life (whether they actually do this or not), I can't just give up on me. I have to believe there's hope.