Lenten Project: Day Sixteen

There exists a confession fetish in the churches associated with Sovereign Grace Ministries. Every week in small group ("care group," they call it), it was always a competition to see who could outdo everyone else in confessing--but only the white sins, like pride. Never the heavy stuff, like suicide attempts.

When I talked openly about the urge to self harm, one of the pastors' wives eventually called me and we chatted. I vividly remember sitting on the grassy hill in my backyard, staring at the clouds while we talked. I also shredded many blades of grass during the conversation.

She gave me this advice to combat my severe depression and inner urges to kill myself: don't go on Facebook.  She said going on Facebook made her envious of other women's "perfect" lives and she got tempted to compare herself to them. When she avoided Facebook, she held on to her contentment.  Therefore, I ought to stay off Facebook so I wouldn't be discontent anymore. Since my friends on Facebook, constantly messaging me, checking on me, sending me Scripture and prayers, were all that were keeping me alive, I disregarded her advice.

At Sovereign Grace churches, there's a lot of, "our church is so amazing," and, "I love my pastor," and not so much, "I love Jesus," or, "Christ alone."  The overwhelming pastor worship made me wary when we first joined. I knew, even back in 2006, that CJ Mahaney was bad news, but I figured going to that church for a while would be okay.

And it wasn't all terrible. When we weren't busy confessing various petty offenses to one another, my small group was engaged in loving one another beyond measure. They came to my house and had a work day, we all went to the lake and spent a day on the water, and we had really amazing Christmas parties.

But there was always this underlying loyalty to SGM, the kind that screams, "Don't question too much, or examine too closely."  It was a manic loyalty.  And even our devotion to one another in our small groups had the sheen of artificiality.  For me at least, there was little substance to those relationships.  Lots of confession, yes.  But beyond trying to be the first in the group to confess being prideful every meeting, we didn't really create spaces for deeper understandings of one another.  We also were discouraged from trying other small groups.  Everyone stayed in the one assigned, unless asked to move by the pastors.

I questioned too much. And openly. I'd frequently disagree with some point or other from a pastor's sermon. And some of the young men from the church would attempt to quiet me--after all, Sovereign Grace Ministries is a staunchly complimentarian, patriarchal place, so women should shut up and sit down. Having a theological opinion should be secondary to keeping my home and raising my family. And even then, it should be closely monitored and filtered by my head, my lord, my husband. All the women were encouraged to do was repost and share articles from the Gospel Coalition, Together for the Gospel, and other Sovereign Grace affiliated and approved groups. Commenting anything other than, "I totally agree," or, "This convicted me," was frowned upon for women.  Even sharing opinions and convictions in small group as a woman wasn't given respect or weight.

CJ Mahaney once told me that my son was my highest calling. That my service to God in the form of motherhood was the biggest, most important thing I could do for Christ. While motherhood is a beautiful vocation, it certainly isn't my (or anyone else's) highest calling. I'm not defined by my mothering.

On the whole, I'm mostly just glad I escaped SGM without too much damage. The potential for great harm was always pretty high and very visible. And it scared me, though I tried to ignore it. That culture if shame and guilt, wrapped up in a cloak of "grace," is heavy and unbiblical, and I'm still unlearning some of the habits and attitudes instilled in me during my time as a young, restless, and reformed charismatic.

If anything, I hope I have put off the demeanor of haughtiness I wore so completely while I was a SGM devotee. I'v realised and embraced the fact that I don't have all the answers.  And maybe (probably) my church and pastor doesn't either.  And that's okay. 

Lenten Project: Day Two

You've probably seen the news about a pregnant mother, Ebony Wilkerson, who drove her van full of kids into the ocean.  My Facebook feed is filled with posts and reposts, some offering compassion, most offering judgement.  If you go to the news articles online, the comments sections are horrifyingly filled with calls for the woman to be "locked up, and throw away the key," or for her kids to be taken away from her, or for her sterilisation, since "people like her shouldn't get to be parents."

All I can feel for her is sadness. It seems obvious that she was under the influence of a serious illness when she did this. I feel this sadness profoundly, because I am an Ebony.

Next, 2010

In the Spring of 2010, I attended Sovereign Grace's NEXT Conference in Baltimore.  With my sister Joanna, I rode the packed-full chartered bus from Greenville, SC, to the conference center.  Almost immediately upon setting out in the very early morning, I started miscarrying a baby.  It was my third miscarriage.

At that point, I was in the early stages of severe postpartum depression, brought on by my son self-weaning a couple months before.  I had sunk deep enough into my depression that my libido was completely gone.  For several months, I'd been saying no.  Thus, when I began miscarrying, I was shocked.  Somewhere along the way, consent lines had been crossed, and I couldn't even remember it!  I knew that my marriage was not a safe place, but I hadn't understood how unsafe till then.

The shock and sudden grief of discovering an unexpected pregnancy, only to simultaneously realise that the precious little life I'd unknowingly carried was already gone pushed me over the edge.  I was pretty depressed, but that event caused me to totally lose my will to live.  The next day, after settling in the hotel and attending a couple conference sessions, I wasn't at all better.  The bleeding had stopped, but it seemed my heart was hemorrhaging.

That afternoon, I attempted to step out into heavy rushing traffic in downtown Baltimore, right by the Inner Harbor.  My sister Joanna stopped me.  She didn't know exactly what my intentions were, but she could tell that something wasn't right, even though I wouldn't talk to her about it.  She stuck to my side, as only an annoying little sister can do, making sure I didn't try to hurt myself anymore.

In the evening, before the conference session (if I remember correctly, it was on Scripture, by Kevin DeYoung), one of the young men who came with our church group approached me and told me he felt led to pray over me.  Perhaps he'd noticed how I stared blankly at the ships in the harbor while at dinner.  I'd been wishing I could swim underneath those ships and intentionally fill my lungs with harbor water.  Maybe he just felt a leading from the Lord.  I don't know.  What I do know is that when he prayed, a peace came over me.  I knew that I would make it back home to Greenville alive.

I didn't know that I'd continue this struggle with postpartum depression for quite some time, or that I'd have to take medicine to feel half-way normal again.  I couldn't have imagined that my marriage would simply disintegrate and end up having heavy consequences that I'd have to live with forever.  I didn't realise that I'd keep my lost baby a secret till today, when Ebony's story would prompt me to tell mine.

What I did know was that I had hope for the next day.  That's it.  Just a day's worth of hope.  And I kept getting days' worths at a time, until, in October of 2010, I got that theme tattooed on my arm.

Ironically, I was required to cut off my NEXT 2010 wristband in order to give the tattoo artist access to my whole arm.  I felt as though I were cutting away the darkness of that past and fixing my eyes on the future, with my daily allotment of hope.

The rest of the story is crazy and imperfect and quite a winding tale (other parts of which I may yet blog about during this Lenten project), but suffice it to say, my ex-husband and I have reconciled, as much as a divorced pair of people can be, and have both affirmed our forgiveness for each other many times, for many different failings on both our parts.  I talked to him before even posting this, because I respect him enough to not want to be heartless and unkind to him anymore.  My past is my story.  I can only tell what I experienced.

However, the point is that I now look at my past through the lens of hope.  That hope gave me time to heal, time to grow, time and distance to learn to forgive.

PPD sucks.  I know how Ebony feels.  Abuse is horrible (and there's some indication from news sources that she may have been experiencing that as well).  Loss is terrible.  But there can still be forgiveness and healing.  There is still hope in redemption.  Hope for tomorrow.

If you or someone you know is acting strangely soon after having a baby or weaning, please know that there is hope.  You can't feel it, but it's there, waiting for you.  Please let someone know that you need help.  Talk to your doctor, a neighbour, a friend from church or your community, or contact someone at Postpartum Support International.  You are not alone.