We sing our songs, and we think of a gentle mist, but the way that God’s righteousness comes is through a storm, through the sharp smacking of water and air onto a shocked and complacent earth.
We sing our songs, and we think of a gentle mist, but the way that God’s righteousness comes is through a storm, through the sharp smacking of water and air onto a shocked and complacent earth.
I was too ill to speak to anyone, so they could not love through words or presence.
Our church loved us with food and ironed clothes.
I don’t know many people who are eager to take medication, especially for those “invisible” psychological needs. And in the church there is often a peculiar bias against mental unhealth, an implicit or explicit message of “If you had enough faith, depression would not be an issue.”
I heard pastors and church people tell me that loneliness was a sign that I don’t quite love God enough, that I need to try harder to be satisfied by Him alone. That the cure for loneliness is to draw closer to Jesus. I think they were wrong.
The Bible, which talks of the God I know, is full of people who struggle, who get it wrong, who misunderstand, who get depressed, who are far from perfect. I fit into that crowd. I can know their God.
How do you respond to a friend who’s hurting? I have a post-graduate qualification in counseling, I have been a paid Christian minister for over a decade, I have also experienced suffering. But nothing in my experience or training is as useful as this simple verse:…
Half an hour earlier, I’d sent my wife and kids off to school. Normally I’d get up before they went but it’d been a bit chaotic so I was grabbing some breakfast, and about to go for a shower.
“I’m in an ambulance. Sam has had a massive seizure. Get to the hospital.”
Because I have lost my son and I miss him every day. And seven years hasn’t begun to heal the hurt of not being able to hold him. And Jesus is still enough.
Tanya Marlow blogs on the Bible, suffering and the messy edges of life [read more]