Lent calls us to confession. We’re supposed to look deep, set aside our denials, and speak aloud the things we’ve been hiding from ourselves and from others. I have been forced to admit just how hard it has been to see God’s loving work of redemption in the world lately. And that has led me to confront and confess what I have been denying.
Somewhere in the rainy weeks of February a hole opened up, and I slipped into it. Perhaps if I’d been more self-aware, I’d have recognized the slide and been able to dig in my heels to halt my descent. But this was not one of those times of healthy awareness. So, I tumbled down into the mire all the time denying that I’d fallen.
Depression is, for me, a deep hole with a muddy bottom that swallows my footsteps, forcing me to spend two or three times the normal effort to get through the day. That mire coats my skin, dulling all feeling with its cold dampness, leaving me numb. And its walls block almost all of the sun and sky. Yet, I have spent weeks denying the mire, the numbness, and the dark.
Saying it, confessing it as I’ve done this week and am doing now is not a miracle cure. Admitting it does not move God to lift me out of the pit to stand and celebrate on solid ground. No, even writing these words, I’m still in the same place, wondering how long it will take to climb back out. But, at least, I’m now being honest about where I am.
And where is that? It’s a place of dull colors, of winter-dead trees that seem far from spring. It’s a pit where I’m so very tired most of the time my focus is simply on doing what needs to be done and praying that nothing out of the ordinary happens.
It is a place where redemption is almost impossible to see.
Oh, it’s out there, I know. There are a million small acts, minor kindnesses that are changing this old world of ours. But, through the mire that covers my face, I can barely see it. The world seems as dark and forgotten as this place in which I’ve found myself. Because, what is also within this muck are the hands of despair. It reaches out, grasping me, and pulling me deeper. And its grip is hard to shake off.
What keeps my head above the mire are the small strings to which I cling: that this will, in time, pass, that the words of all the echoing voices are lies, and that naming this place is the most powerful thing I can do. Because my words can carry over these high walls. They can speak the truth of my confession.
And they can tell someone that they are not alone.