despair

despair
No matter how remote God sometimes seems, I believe he is
never far away. Like the angel who stood with the Hebrew youths
in the fiery furnace, he is always there –Emmanuel, God with us. He
joins us in our pain. But what can we say to the despairing person
who feels that God does not hear her cries?
Janine, an acquaintance, sent me the following thoughts last year
during a time of turmoil in her family:
Our four kids are in their bumpy teen years. It is stressful as we
try to balance the freedom we want to give them as they grow
into young adults with the guidance we know they need. Just
the regular parent-teen thing, you know. But my husband seems
to take it all a bit harder than normal. As the conflicts seem to
escalate, his resolve weakens. The kids, insecure, push him further,
asking for – yet challenging – each boundary.
A terrifying event many years ago, when our lives were
physically threatened, still shakes my husband badly and haunts
him. Moving from our home of twenty-five years, and taking a
new job for the first time in many years, adds tension. His emotional
stability corrodes, and he succumbs.
This is depression with a capital D. Not discouragement, not
just a state of being down, or sad, or low. Depressed: numb, absent,
flat, grey, gone. For me, it’s a matter of living with someone
who is no longer the same person I married: where are you, my
husband? Blank.
Our sons react, not comprehending. My daughter grows
quiet and turns inward, confused. I am angry, then frustrated,
then stoic. Meanwhile, as days become weeks, my husband’s depression
drags on, and his self-confidence trickles away. We pray
each day, asking for help. We attend worship and prayer services
at our local church, hoping things will improve. Some weeks are
better. Sometimes even a few months go by and everything
seems okay.
When there are bad days, I just tell myself to hang in there.
After all, I’ve always been the optimistic, organized, have-it-alltogether
type.
But then I’m stopped in my tracks. One night, while I am taking
a shower, my husband realizes my second son is not at his
desk doing homework as we thought. Noticing the attic light on,
he investigates and finds him peering down through the ceiling
vent, watching me, naked.
I am nauseated, devastated. I feel totally betrayed. Looking
at women – every boy and man has felt that pull. I’m not stupid.
But sneaking into the attic to watch your mother shower?
We take our son to counseling, but it doesn’t seem to solve
anything. In the meantime my husband goes into a tailspin and
drowns in a new sea of depression. I am stranded, left to face the
doubled darkness and the pummeling waves alone.
I call my husband, and together we confront our son. Yes,
he’s been calling 1-800-dirty joke, and quite regularly. Yes, he’s
still bound to voyeurism; yes, he’s still deceiving us. My adrenaline
rushes. I’m so angry I don’t know what to do. I try to be loving,
but firm. My husband just stands there, silent, the depression
crashing in over him again. My heart feels scorched, but I
harden myself, determined to fight with all I’ve got.
Months pass, but our family goes from bad to worse. Our
oldest son becomes rebellious, dishonest, estranged from us. Our
second continues to peep at people in bathrooms and showers.
The youngest becomes demanding, selfish, wants to get out of
the house. I can’t blame him. Our daughter grows quieter and
quieter. My husband loses more ground and tries to compensate
for his feelings of parental failure by giving in to every whim of
the children in an effort to win their love.
When my son lies, my husband even takes his side, separating
himself from me, and when I find out the truth, he feels more
of a failure than ever. We go round and round, up and down. I
feel like so many windows of our marriage have shattered, it is
impossible to walk between the shards. What to sweep out?
What to repair? I want to scream, I want to run, but I can’t. I
don’t.