For years the depression that enveloped me in darkness kept me cold and hurting. The anxiety made my body feel like it was lit on fire. The juxtaposition between alternating numb indifference to burning unease was pushing me to the brink of madness. I begged the Lord to heal me for years, but with every perceived ignored prayer, my heart hardened toward Him and the thoughts that I would never be free from the prison inside myself reinforced my immurement.
Soon the praying stopped altogether, and I withdrew into myself. I was comforted by my anger and dysfunction. I had yet to take the ultimate leap toward total self-annihilation, but the toxicity of my bitterness and indignation was eating at me slowly—a smoldering fire reducing my being to ashes from the inside out.
“For an all-powerful, merciful God, You sure don’t have mercy upon me! Maybe I’m simply a fool for believing in a God that doesn’t even exist. You are nothing more than an imitation balm created to comfort the ignorant,” I’d silently shout at God.
As time went on, life grew bleaker. I had two beautiful children and a supportive husband, none of whom I was able to love as they ought to be loved. I was in the trap of the Ouroboros, the circular thoughts of hating myself because I was broken, and being broken because I hated myself.
At the hospital, I sat in a barren room with two chairs bolted to the floor. A man sat adjacent to me staring down at a clipboard.
“Do you have thoughts of harming yourself?” the doctor asked.
“Yes . . .”
While in the Behavioral Care Unit, I made friends and was finally in a place where I wasn’t alone. With both patients and nurses alike, I learned we all had our struggles that made us feel broken and lost. Our situations may have been unique, but the pain was all the same. Sometimes just knowing you’re not alone is enough to push you forward.
I was only there four days, but when I got into my car, ready to drive myself home to my family, I knew something inside me was different . . . until it wasn’t.
After the high of my newfound freedom and knowledge faded, I found my troubles were still there. Granted, it wasn’t nearly as bad as before. The medication was working and the tools I learned to help with my symptoms were part of my everyday repertoire. Yet, there was still something missing. The same empty feeling that had been part of me didn’t go away, it had grown exponentially. I knew it was time to find God again.
I devoured all the information I could find. Literature, biblical archaeology documentaries on YouTube, going to trusted Christian friends to ask questions—anything that pertained to God, I was soaking in voraciously. I needed to know if He was truly there or not.
“Please show me that You’re real. If You are, I will follow You until the ends of the Earth. I will give you everything,” I prayed.
However, the silence from God remained.
It wasn’t until I opened my Bible and started to reread the Gospels with the question who is God? rather than what God can do for me? that things started to fall into place. Jesus went from being this untouchable and unknown, to personal and tangible. God isn’t some invisible superior being in the sky wagging His finger at His Creation—He is my Father.
I continue to fight with the anxiety and panic attacks, but now I have peace in knowing that God is carrying me in His righteous right hand through it all. A hope was born that—though in this life we will go through fear, heartache, illness, pain, and all those things we generally try to run away from—I now had Someone I could run to.
The pivotal moment in my true understanding of the Lord was when my attitude toward God went from “Please deliver me” to “You are with me.” When we come to have a rich understanding of God and His character, we begin to run toward Him instead of away from our fears knowing that He will always be working for the good of those who love Him (Romans 8:28). With this change of perspective, suddenly the trials are worth having.
by Kelley Spencer 
by Laura Childers 
by Courtney Devich 
