There's a Reason

The year and a half after my youngest was born, I – like many women – suffered from post-partum depression. The weekends were always the worst, particularly Sundays. I drug myself through the weekdays thinking, “Hubby will be home over the weekend. The weekend will be easier. I can’t wait for the weekend when he’ll be home and everything will be easier.” Then the weekend would come. He would be home. And nothing was easier.

One Sunday afternoon, I was upstairs in my bedroom having an emotional meltdown. I don’t know what triggered it – it could have been anything or everything or nothing. But I was lying on the floor, my body wracked with sobs I was trying to keep silent so my family wouldn’t hear me. I had already locked the bedroom door; I was afraid my husband would come in and see me in this state and have no idea what to do with this slobbering mess of a woman. Maybe he would finally just give up on me altogether.

But for some reason that particular horrible afternoon, I gradually realized that sobbing on the floor alone had gotten me nowhere and was going to continue to get me nowhere. This wasn’t going away of its own accord. I had to talk to someone.

The question was, who? I rattled through a list of possibilities in my head and quickly eliminated them all. Too weak. Too judgmental. Too far away. Then out of nowhere (out of nowhere? I guess that’s where God is . . . ), I thought of my pastor.

Jeff was a great guy – or so it seemed. I didn’t really know him that well. We had joined the church about a year earlier when I was pregnant with my youngest, and of course, moms with young babies are quite busy and pre-occupied, so I hadn’t had many conversations with the man. I wasn’t sure why at that moment, he just seemed like the right person to call.

Truth was, he seemed like the ONLY person to call.

So I called him, and he invited me over. I pulled into his driveway wondering how in the world I would start this conversation.

Because by this point in my depression, I really hated telling people how I felt. I had already opened up to all the close friends who I thought would be supportive . . . and they were. But as most people who suffer with mental and emotional problems will admit, you seem to eventually wear people out. As much as others love you and want to help you, it’s hard to keep hearing about the pain that doesn’t go away and that they can’t fix for you. Eventually their responses to you are shorter and less immediate or frequent. They’ve had to go on with their lives while you are still drowning in yours. You start feeling like a burden on humanity.

Jeff was very gracious as we sat and talked in his living room. I don’t remember much of the conversation. I told him what I was feeling, and he listened. He didn’t seem shocked at what I said or overwhelmed by the feelings I expressed, so that was a good thing.

I shared with him the greatest struggle I was having at that moment. “I know God is powerful. I know he could take this pain away at any moment if he wanted to . . . and I’ve pleaded with him to do that. But he doesn’t. I don’t understand. It’s like he wants me to feel this way.”

Jeff responded matter-of-factly, “Well, maybe he does.”

Um . . . excuse me?

What kind of answer is that?!?

I stifled my irritation for a moment (maybe I misheard, or maybe he misspoke) and asked, “Why would God want me to feel this way?”

“I don’t know. Why does God let people get cancer? Why does God let children starve to death in third world countries? There is a lot of pain that God allows, so maybe there’s a reason he wants it to happen.”

I sat stunned for a moment. And then tried to change the subject. Jeff may have clarified his remarks, but I don’t really remember anything else that was said in the conversation . . . because I just couldn’t deal with that idea right then. Maybe God wants me to feel this way. I was able to go home and eat dinner with the family, so apparently our conversation had done me some kind of good. But still . . . 

It wasn’t until I woke up the next morning that I let myself confront that bewildering concept again. What possible reason could God have for me to hurt like this? I really didn’t know.

But I did suddenly have images of my pediatrician’s office. Many of you fellow mommies have experienced the needle guilt with me. You take your pudgy little darling in to the doctor, and doctor determines that your poor precious needs a shot. You’re holding that tiny, sweet body in your arms, seeing the wide, beautiful eyes gazing into yours with complete love and trust . . . and then the needle goes in. And those trusting eyes suddenly widen with fear! Confusion! Betrayal! What’s going on? This hurts! THIS HURTS! Why is this happening, Mommy? How could you let someone hurt me while I’m here in your arms? I thought you loved me!!

Maybe it’s like that. Oh, sweetie . . . I know it hurts. I’m so sorry it hurts! I’m right here hurting with you. But there’s a reason – a good reason. You just have to trust me.

Yeah. Maybe it’s like that.

I still have moments when I’m grasping to trust and believe this. Yes, God could stop the pain, but he doesn’t. Who knows why. I don’t believe it’s because he wants me to hurt, but he apparently intends to work through that hurting. Because he wants things for me that are totally beyond my understanding. Good things, healing things, victorious things. And if he wants the pain in my life for that moment, he’s going to carry me through it. He’s not going to let it swallow me whole or destroy my spirit.

Oh, beloved . . . there’s a reason. Trust me.