The Window

Originally written February 20, 2016, this article has been lounging around in a folder while I gathered the courage to publish it. I guess it’s time.

Imagine a room: it’s a comfortable room with big windows that allow in light. But because the windows are tinted to keep out the summer heat, opening the windows makes the room brighter. And the fresh air invigorates the room with the scent of flowers and pine trees.

About three weeks ago a window opened up in my being and allowed the full sunshine and scented air to come in, and I became exceptionally happy. Not that I’m grumpy, but now I was feeling an extra something that caused me to be humming or whistling a lot: which annoyed the dogs but gave me a brighter outlook on everything.

Three days into this improved outlook I was fixing breakfast and preparing the little cups for our daily pills. I picked up a bottle that I’ve picked up every morning for over 20 years, and as I reached to unscrew the cap, the Holy Spirit within me said, “You don’t need that; put it away.”

It was my bottle of anti-depressants. Something happened long ago that left me damaged, psychologically. Badly damaged. I was hospitalized for in-patient treatment, continued with out-patient treatment, then released with a prescription that has been my companion ever since.

I was tempted to argue with the Spirit. I did need these. I knew this because, although I have weaned myself down to a minimal dosage, every time I’ve tried to quit, things got weird quickly.

I was tempted to argue, but I didn’t. Instead, I said, “Okay”, and put the bottle in the back of the drawer, where it has remained, untouched ever since.

The excellent mood … continued! No weirdness descended upon me.

Last Sunday I felt I should say something, share my experience with my church family. Give God the praise for my new-found freedom. After the service I’d share my testimony.

But as the service concluded, doubts crept in. Three excuses stood up and paraded around my mind. Those, I’m sure now, were put there by the enemy to discourage me from encouraging others.

The First Excuse was that I am fully aware that some people think Clinical Depression is a fantasy, something that existed only in my head (which is itself an ironic joke). Those kinds of people have said to me, “Just get over it, go buy a new pair of shoes or something. That’s what I always do.” I take deep exception to this and suggest that such people haven’t a clue what they’re talking about. But that is a discussion for another time.

The Second Excuse was that no one knew I was afflicted. I’ve discussed my depression only one other church member, and then only as part of discussing something else. He may not even remember our conversation.

I am not, never have been, and hope to God I never will be, one of those people whose life and conversation centers around their ailments and maladies. It’s like they have competitions to see who is the most miserable! Is that any way for children of the living God to converse? Making a prayer request is one thing, but making a conversation of moaning and groaning is not who we are. So I don’t. The down side to that is that it makes it awkward to claim victory over a struggle no one knows you’re having.

The Third Excuse was actually the second excuse made flesh. It came as “remember the last time?”

I have, in fact, received healing several times. It’s an amazing experience. The biggest one was Easter of 2015.

Easter morning instead of our regular Sunday school class, Dan led us in communion and a prayer of healing. I had, for several years, been afflicted by emphysema. It was diagnosed in 2012, but had been creeping up on me for a long time. It was the result of having been a woodworker for 30 years. As a professional furniture maker I breathed sawdust and lacquer fumes for 8 to 16 hours a day, six days a week. The thing is that I knew the risk: I had written a couple of well researched articles for woodworking magazines about woodworkers and emphysema and how many of us die from it every year. I encouraged others to take precautions that I myself did not. So when it caught up to me, I was not surprised. I decided that it was my own fault and I should just man-up and own that.

Dan’s talk before the prayer worked; in his usual gentle, compassionate way, to kick that stool right out from under me by identifying that very attitude as hubris.

Having been properly chastened, I offered my malady up to God during the prayer. That burning tightness in my lungs that I had been living with just … went away! Like flipping a switch and a motor spinning down, the discomfort eased up over the course of a minute or so and was gone.

I wanted to hoot and jump for joy … but we were in church: there is a decorum to maintain (that statement is just slathered in sarcasm: in case you didn’t catch it. Sarcasm aimed at the stuffy, stodgy, churches we have attended in the past where if Jesus Himself showed up and asked to address the congregation, the leadership would ask Him to come back next week so they could put Him on the agenda.)

I waited. “What if this is just a trick of the mind?” I asked myself. “Maybe you THINK it’s gone, but it’s not.” But through the regular service, more changes came that left no doubt. After the service I HAD to go tell Dan what had happened. He listened, then yelled, “Hey, everybody! Doug has something to say.”

“NOOOOO!” thought I. But, caught like a deer in headlights, I repeated what I told Dan.

Afterward, people came by and patted me on the back and said kind things. Only one said anything I remember, and he said, “I didn’t know you were sick.” and what wedged itself into my depression-riddled mind was, “I don’t believe you. I think you’re showboating.” He didn’t say that, but that’s what stuck as the meaning behind the words.

So; here I was, once again, poised to make a startling announcement that, in all likelihood, many will not believe.

And I chickened out.

On the way home from church that afternoon, the window that had opened up within me, closed.

To be clear, the gift I was given remains: the depression no longer has me in it’s grip, to this very date I have taken no anti-depressants. That is gone and I’m clinging to that gift like a rock-climber on a vertical wall. The emphysema, by the way, is still gone as well. But that bonus of encouragement: the shot of happiness and contentment: that’s gone. What I feel from the Spirit now is disappointment.

Perhaps, God intended for me to offer my experience at that time, in that place so that some specific person could be encouraged by it. And my pride, got in His way. That thought has plagued me for the past week. Oh, I’m not despondent about it, I have no urge to go throw myself under a train. But I know God is disappointed. I let Him down. I let my church family down.

And so I apologize to them, and ask God’s forgiveness. Perhaps by sharing the lesson I’ve learned, some good may come of it yet.