“When all the world appears to be in a tumult, and nature itself is feeling the assault of climate change, the seasons retain their essential rhythm. Yes, fall gives us a premonition of winter, but then, winter, will be forced to relent, once again, to the new beginnings of soft greens, longer light, and the sweet air of spring.” Madeleine M. Kunin
I often hear people say that they continue to live in the upper prairie states because, “I love being where there are four seasons.” The fact that this is easy to argue against–on March 24th we got like 6 inches of snow and I have spent more Easters in flannel and fleece than pastel dresses. We may have 2 seasons–a hot one and a cold one, but I don’t live here for the weather anyway. I live here because I have people here I could not really thrive without (and for some reason we haven’t just all made a pact to move to temperate places together). It was on back-to-back weekends with some of these important people that I stumbled across seeing the edges on one of my own seasons–book ends.
I have struggled with depression and anxiety for most of my life–the first time I was medicated was in seventh grade–but the last half of my twenties and the first half of my thirties have been some of the darkest and deepest dives into the black pit. In the midst of the darkness faith has still been a constant. I believe that some of the perspective on the matter that I now have has been because of God’s consistent and unwavering love for me throughout depression.
So dread and sorrow and disappointment and anger and sadness have been emotions that I have gotten really used to feeling while in the pit–and these are not the emotions that “good Christian girls” feel. We are supposed to count all things as joy and rejoice–again I say rejoice! (why does that still sound like it is through gritted teeth in my head?) There is this pervasive thought that because of what Christ did, humans are supposed to be filled with gratitude and be happy (dammit!). Well if you have ever tried to will yourself any other emotion than the one you are feeling you know this goes one of two ways: instead of the emotion you are trying to tamp down–say, sadness, it pops out as anger (or eating an entire bag of mini peanut butter cups), or you get good at shutting down emotions and you are just numb.
I don’t think God wants numb over tears. I don’t think God wants happy masks over sorrow–I think God wants us to be fully alive, free from unhealthy social expectations and fully to be a beautiful broken and mended us. Mending and healing take time, and God was kind not to demand my tears stop in one instant and here is where my first bookend of this journey began: Lament. Lament (as I know it) is the spiritual practice of telling God that the current circumstances failed to meet your expectations and that you are expecting something different. Lament as spiritual practice can feel foreign to us, as we have been told that our joy is equal to how saved we feel, but this is biblical. Below is a favorite lament of mine, Psalm 13:1-4
For the director of music. A psalm of David.
1 How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
2 How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and day after day have sorrow in my heart?
How long will my enemy triumph over me?
3 Look on me and answer, Lord my God.
Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death,
4 and my enemy will say, “I have overcome him,”
and my foes will rejoice when I fall.
Here the poem is short but direct–I feel forgotten. I feel like I am fighting within myself. I am in the dark, and no one, not even you God seems to know. Now if your internal response to my last statement is, No, you can’t say that! God is always with you and always knows! don’t stop reading–and lean into that discomfort. Laments are honest prayers written from the place of the pit–and God seems OK with the feelings as Jesus quoted another lament psalm from the cross, My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? (Psalm 22:1a). God showed me through lament that my darkness did not scare God, instead God could hold all of my feelings and sit with me in the darkness.
And there was plenty of darkness.
Until there was a little more light,
then a little more,
and then some more still.
Until my lament could start to turn and I could pray with full feeling the last two verses of Psalm 13:
5 But I trust in your unfailing love;
my heart rejoices in your salvation.
6 I will sing the Lord’s praise,
for he has been good to me.
When you have spent years blinking in the darkness you don’t always know what to do in the sun–you don’t always know how to be in spaces where you used to cry and mourn and slog your way through. And that is where I was two Fridays ago. Sitting in a chapel, with a small grin on my face and a question in my head, “what do I do in these spaces now that I am not feeling dread or sorrow or disappointment or anger or sadness? What do I do when lament isn’t quite fitting? And I heard in my head, “Learn Levity.” And just like that I was introduced to the closing of this season of depression–my other bookend.
Levity–lightness or humor, if you go to extremes it is irreverent and fickleness, but in that moment what I heard in it was, “I taught you lament, now I am going to teach you to be light.” God again is not scared of our feelings–either ones that are full of weight or of those that are feather light. And I imagine that it may take God another decade to love me to an understanding of how light life can be as well.
I am happy to close the bookends on this space in my life, to move on toward the “soft greens, longer light, and the sweet air of spring.”
He has Risen. Let the world be filled with the Light.
Like the bookends pictured? You can get them here. I do not receive any compensation for the link and I am not trying to promote their products, I am just grateful for the use of their picture.