Wrist vibrates. Fitbit’s telling me to wake up.
“Abandoned. Abusive. Alone. Arrogant. Annoying. Bastard. Boring. Burden. Exhausted. Failure. Fake. Forgotten. Hurtful. Hypocrite. Meaningless. Rejected. Stupid. Trapped. Ugly. Waste. Weak. Worthless.”
I did not invite this. An invasion has taken place upon my mind. Before I smell the morning brew I can taste the familiar bitterness of this belligerent bastard beating me back into the pillow.
“Just five more minutes.”
“I can’t do this today…. I really can’t do this today.”
“I hate being alive. I want to die. Don’t think that Stephen, people know you’re a Christian, and that isn’t very Christian of you. I hate being alive. Stop. I don’t even have friends. That isn’t true. They hate me. They don’t. We’ll see.”
I rub my eyes and open them to see the 6am light coming through the blinds.
“Good morning Lord. I’m sorry I’m thinking these things again. Thank you for this morning. You are wonderful to me and I so dearly enjoy your loveliness. Be on my mind today and let my words and actions glorify your name among my friends. How amazing it would be for them to see just how good you are to me. You deserve everything and I want to give you everything. But the world is already yours and so I just thank you for sharing yourself with me. Please free me from this familiar foe who’s face all too well I know.”
“Good morning Stephen.”
“Hey honey, good morning… I love you. How’d you sleep?”
This is my groundhogs day. I don’t always struggle to articulate these mental atrocities. But I do struggle to admit them, because it isn’t very Christian.
The old man warring against the new, accusations and proclamations of anything but the truth. So each morning I wake to this war in my mind, Stephen v. Satan. Or is it Serotonin? Seriously, who knows? I’m on the highest dose.
Here’s what I do know, we all have our own battles. Some are momentary, and some till we go to glory. Taking it upon ourselves to gauge the maturity of a saint based on the pain they can’t shake is both arrogant and self-centered, chiefly a mistake.
When you deal with the depressed Christian who fights a fight day and night that is not welcomed but arrives at first light, understand that whether it’s Satan or Serotonin causing the groaning – the presence of said fight does not negate the adopted son’s right.
I might even dare say that the Christian without a fight might still be the walking dead not yet brought to life.
Here’s some parting advice.
“You are most loving, patient, kind, and gracious when you are aware that there is no truth that you could give to another that you don’t desperately need yourself.” – Paul Tripp