Ramblings

Monday, March 13, 2023

Depression: Keep Fighting the Good Fight

Three years ago this month my nephew was born.

Earlier that month our world shut down due to the COVID pandemic.

Even earlier that month I spent four days in a rehab hospital.

Mental illness is a struggle for so many of us. With increased isolation and social media, many are struggling more than ever. For whoever is in the Pit, has lost everything, has no hope, can’t see a way ahead or anything worth living for, HOLD ON.

You are not alone. I have been there. I am still here.

Three years ago this month I very nearly quit.

I checked myself into the Hampstead Hospital and Residential Treatment Facility on a Thursday morning after a terrible night. Walking through those doors was one of the most frightening things I’ve ever done. It was the ultimate act of vulnerability: both admitting I had problems too great to handle alone and surrendering my freedom to submit to the control of others.

The decision wasn’t made easier by the long wait at Reception. Being a walk-in with no referrals or call-ahead, the office had to process my ID and insurance. It was just as well they had hold of my license, for every long minute of waiting so close to the front doors I longed to bolt right out again and drive home as if nothing had happened.

After all, I’d cut before.

I’d been this low before.

I could just call my therapist, tell her things were bad, and we could start meeting twice a week again.

Maybe my primary care doctor could increase the dosage of my daily anti-depressants.

I didn’t have to be here, didn’t have to lock myself in, proclaim my problems and failures so publicly.

But no.

The resolve that had gotten me showered and dressed, packed a bag and backpack with comfortable clothes, toiletries but no razor or contact lenses, my Bible and journal, and prescriptions in a Ziploc bag; had walked me to the car and made the ten-minute drive here—that resolve held me to my seat in the waiting room until Reception told me I was approved. And someone was there to walk me to the ward.

After long hallways and two locked doors I was in. On the ward I turned over my bags to be searched and emptied of any inadvertent contraband, sent a final text telling Mom what I’d done and where to pick up the car, and submitted to the rather brusque nurse’s exam (which doubled as a strip-search.) She was the only one to ever see the real cuts that prompted my stay. After a decade of highs and lows, of cutting and resisting the temptation to cut, I knew that if your pain was too deep for intervention, you inflicted the wounds out of sight.

The nurse wondered why I’d not taken Ativan to quell my blood lust. “You did all that cutting,” she said with disapproval. Her unspoken beratement stung, battling with my reason, what I knew of Ativan according to my doctor.

When the doctor had prescribed Ativan a few years before, white pills so tiny they seemed like a joke, she’d described it as an “anti-anxiety” medication. Ativan an emergency medicine, only to take “as needed,” such as a panic attack. Apparently it was such an attack that had prompted the prescription, chest pains then hyperventilation that landed me in the ER. Since then, I’d only taken an Ativan with the onset of such symptoms.

When I’d done “all that cutting” the night before, I’d felt no anxiety. It was pain. Pain so deep, sorrow and grief so profound I was drowning. There was no relief from it. But the physical pain of cutting was a distraction. It slightly lessened the emotional agony. Slightly.

But that agony was back in full force that afternoon as I sat waiting on the ward. The nurse dismissed me but until the staff finished searching my bags I was instructed to stay put in a chair. A chair front and center so when the other residents returned from lunch I was obvious at once. Spotlighted in my tragic humiliation.

They were gracious, my fellow inmates. Only two of them approached me whilst confined, and it was only to say a gentle hello, give welcome, reveal themselves as flawed and needy individuals, let me know I was not alone.

“Why are you here?” the first man asked.

“Depression,” I answered.

“Lots of people are here for that,” he said.

He and the other went away again, reabsorbed into the group activity. They left me with the reassurance that, yes, it hurt. However, here I needn’t try to hide the hurt.

This knowledge of solidarity didn’t quench my tears the first afternoon, didn’t lessen the agony. It would help, but not right then. Those first hours were simply hours of grief. I wept.

I wept for my loss and my failure. I had lost what I’d loved most. I was lost now, without purpose or interest in anything, no plan or desire for anything to come. I had failed at my job and my mission, failed my coworkers, my faithful supporters. Most of all I’d failed my children.

I’d been living my dream, the dream for which I’d waited so long, and now it was over. The best part of my life was over. If I kept living it would only be downhill from here.

I was just too weak. I chose to leave the Best Job in the World.

The guilt, shame, and sorrow for the hurt I’d caused compounded with my own hurt for I missed them all terribly. I missed my children, coworkers, the school, the work, the climate, the missionary status.

This grief for what I’d lost and missed so dreadfully piled atop the depression and anxiety already present, the very depression and anxiety which had driven me to departure. Driven me from my beloved children and position right to the edge of suicide.

Under all that weight, almost a year since leaving Haiti, since resigning as a teacher at Christian Academy of Petit Goave, I checked myself into Hampstead Hospital.

I needed help. More help than bi-weekly counseling with an excellent therapist. More help than two high-dose anti-depressants. More than extra Vitamin C and D and Magnesium, than healthy diet and frequent exercise. More than journaling and prayer, than church and Bible-reading, than friends and familial support. More than fresh air and sleep and occupation could do.

They weren’t enough, all these strategies. All the tools in the toolbox my therapist had been teaching me just weren’t enough.

And even though some months before I’d posted a blog boasting of how far I’d come on this depression journey, of how far God had brought me, of how much better I was than the wreck I’d been before—I was a wreck. Again. And ashamed of it. I was supposed to be better by now. Why was it still so hard? That was discouraging and embarrassing, rendering me more guilty and more depressed.

So I sought greater help. Declared myself unfit and turned myself in. From Thursday to Monday I was a patient among other patients.

Most of those on our ward were there for substance abuse, some under judge’s order, some repeat attendees who came through regularly. The ones who said with a shrug, “I know I’ll be back,” greatly saddened me, and somewhat angered me. They had come here to fight, to better themselves. They had no right to be so defeatist, to declare their own failure inevitable.

But those who said so were not fighting with Jesus. Although in the hospital under good counsel from licensed psychiatrists, compassionate doctors, experienced and open-hearted former residents (recovering addicts who now worked at the hospital helping others), these patients were convinced they would never make it, that they would return to their lives and manage for a little while before falling back into the same destructive habits, and be obliged, or mandated, to come back to the hospital. They were caught in a cycle of defeat, and they didn’t seem to want to fight.

That was the greatest tragedy.

I did not want to come back to the hospital. I did not want to need to come back. Although I liked all of my fellow residents and most of the staff, although I felt deep connections to some of them and was immensely grateful to the hospital, I did not want to stay there again, and surely did not want to be reunited with these same people again under the same roof.

I did not want to return to life outside only to fall back into destruction and necessarily drag myself or be dragged back here. The hospital was cold. It was confining. It was boring. The windows did not open and we were only permitted brief walks outside once a day, twice if we were lucky.

There was no music but the TV was always on too loud. There was an unimpressive book selection on one bookshelf. There was no privacy. Showering was awkward. There was only one bathroom for each gender. Obviously there were no devices with which to communicate with people outside (only the phone at the staff desk which we could use at certain times for short calls.) I had my sketchbook and a few pens but not many colors and no paint.

I already had all the right answers. I knew all the strategies. I’d been working for nearly a year with a competent therapist, and for two years before that had been talking with another counselor over Skype; these self-help and mental wellness tools were not new to me.

The greatest help the hospital offered me was the chance to weep uninhibited and to meet people as broken as I was. Sure, we meet broken people all the time, but rarely do we begin with confession. Our fall to, “I’m fine, how are you?” protects us from hard truth, ours and theirs.

Among my fellow residents, the question “How are you?” demanded a real answer. We wanted to know what the others’ were feeling, what struggles we shared, what victories we won. Essentially we already knew the worst of each other. Being here, we had all of us hit rock bottom. There was no further to fall. No fear, shame, or judgement remained. What was left was to build each other up. Only together did we stand the least chance of climbing out of that pit.

Being around these people was the greatest help to me, the greatest encouragement. And I listed their names as motivations to keep trying, keep fighting the good fight.

I loved my fellow inmates with the empathy of our shared struggles and the unconditional love of God. I remember them fondly even now, three years later. With only one did I keep any communication. We kept in touch for a year and met once for breakfast. Most residents, I think, want simply to move on with our lives outside the realm of the hospital, focus on all things, and people, unrelated to our stay and what landed us there.

In the television series “House, M.D.,” Dr. House is at one point obligated to stay at a rehab hospital. There, when staff deem residents ready to leave, they hold a celebration including a “re-birthday” cake, signifying that this is the first day of the person’s new life.

“We’re proud of her, we wish her well, and we hope to never see her again!” one of the doctor’s shouts at patient Annie’s re-birthday party. Everyone joyously joins in on the last phrase and applauds. The wish is that Annie will go on to thrive on the outside and never have to return to the hospital (House, M.D. Season 6, Episode 2 “Broken: Part 2”).

I was a voluntary patient at Hampstead Hospital and, at least when I was there, it was not customary to hold such celebrations, particularly with the odd hours of patients’ arrivals and departures. However, I appreciate the sentiment, and often recall that scene when reflecting on my own time in rehab.

In the three years since, I have slipped into low places. I have gone through periods of intense depression and there have been hours of despair when I’ve thought of removing myself from the world. However, since the hospital, I have not cut. The periods of deep depression have not lasted; suicidal thoughts have not consumed me nor have I made any lethal plans. I am better. I am not cured.

I still grieve what I lost.

I still feel conflicted.

I still get lonely and discouraged.

Sometimes I cry, or weep.

I still take two anti-depressants every morning. I still have an emergency prescription for Ativan. The last time I took it was over a year ago.

Some days, or moments, it is the thought of going back to the hospital that has rousted me out of the Pit or stayed my hand when tempted to cut. The idea of being confined is unpleasant. The idea of being a returning patient is worse. I will not be a repeat offender.

I refuse to give up the fight.

In fact, the one special “mental illness” workshop offered while I was at Hampstead provided me with a souvenir that still sits beside my bed, right behind my alarm clock. While most of the ward residents were at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting down the hall, a few of us sat around the common room table with a facilitator and made origami boxes, writing different words or phrases on each side. On the bottom of the box was our personal goal, on the inside sides were attributes, on the outside sides were strategies, and on the front was a motto or mantra. Mine was “Keep fighting the good fight,” from the Unbroken song “Good Fight” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0M3X3_pFD4. The ink is faded and the box a bit battered, but it’s there, visible to me every day, several times a day, reminding me to keep fighting this war of life.

Life is a war of so many opponents. Sickness, time, negativity, debts, toxic relationships—and each of us has a personal retinue of particular pernicious enemies of which others may or may not know.

The best we can do for one another is to be supportive. Sit and listen. Don’t accept the words “I’m fine.” Give someone your whole attention, without distractions of phones or television. Tell someone it is okay to cry and really mean it. Write a letter to a long-distance friend. Send a card through snail mail just because. Trust someone enough to share your own fears and failures. Pray for one another. Be joyful with another’s successes and good news. Cry with your friend for her loss or bad news.

Never dismiss someone’s illness as imagined.

Mental illness may show no outward signs. Neither do diabetes or heart disease.

I am mentally ill. I’m not proud of it. I am proud of what God can do with me, how He still uses me, is still making me a part of the Petit Goave school ministry, in spite of it. I am sick, I am broken, I am a failure and a loser. But God is the Healer, the Maker, the Victor, the Ruler. And I am on His side. So, even though I expect my entire life will be hard and I’ll have to fight, I know the outcome of this war. We win. And, oh glorious thought!, this life is not as good as it gets. One day there will be eternal life with God in-person, and there will be no more sickness, no more brokenness, no failure, no loss, no grief, no depression, no hurt. There will be only love and joy. That is a future worth fighting for.

So, my friend, keep fighting the good fight.

Jesus said: “I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved. They will come in and go out, and find pasture. The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full…I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand.” John 10:9-10, 28

My previous Blog regarding the Depression Journey: https://rachelallyssaramblings.blogspot.com/2019/10/suicidal-missionary-continuing-story.html

If you need help:

988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline

We can all help prevent suicide. The Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones, and best practices for professionals in the United States. https://988lifeline.org/

(Text or call # 988)

Hampstead Hospital and Residential Treatment Facility

Information: https://www.dhhs.nh.gov/about-dhhs/locations-facilities/hampstead-hospital-residential-treatment-facility

Information: National Institute of Mental Health

https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics

Thursday, December 29, 2022

Invincible Smiles: Hope despite ongoing crisis

I know they’re invincible. I know that there is nothing under the sun which can defeat them, which can persecute them to the point of hopelessness, strike them down so they do not rise, fall upon them so they do not dust themselves off and start again. In my own few years I have witnessed their response to Hurricanes George and Matthew, the flooding and destruction; the world (in)famous 2010 earthquake and subsequent cholera epidemic; cycles of presidents, coups, and protests that blockaded the nation, choked the air with the black smoke of burning tires, and filled the streets with rubble and bloody bodies.

I have been to the local hospitals where the shelves are bare and the lights flicker, where what care the doctors might have mustered has sweated out with their hopes and ideals, drowned by the dreary reality of constant helplessness and inability to grant relief with no supplies and no funding. I have demanded immediate treatment for a needy student, gone door to door to the adjoining green and white pharmacies for prescriptions the patient could never afford. I have been impressed and depressed at the methods of medicine which do without electricity and steady supply of one-time use gloves and syringes.

I have wept with gratitude standing under the cold flow of the shower, remembering the labors of our friends and students pumping water at their local cistern or toting buckets from the reservoir. In that same reservoir women scrub clothes, pigs wade, men wash their motorcycles, and children bathe. I have grimaced walking the unpaved streets after a rain, dodging the gray flow of sewage water clotted with trash, and have watched safe and dry from the car’s interior as pedestrians and moto-drivers navigate the rising flood of that same gray, trashy water during the driving rain.

I have rubbed cream on white spots of fungus on so many heads, on circles of ringworm, on burns and bites and oozing wounds. I have given soap and washcloths and helped scrub faces and hands that had no chance to learn or do at home. I have held children with fevers, stomach ills, headaches, broken bones, all better off there at school where there was someone to watch them, medicine to give, water to drink, and the possibility of a doctor’s care. The office where we were meant to have administrative discussions, grade papers, plan lessons, or meet with parents, was almost always also a nurse’s office hosting at least one sick child. It was here they were introduced to Band-Aids, antibiotic ointment, thermometers, and acetaminophen and ibuprofen.

I have spread peanut butter on hundreds and hundreds of crackers to give as a meager morning meal—something to tide the children over until their proper midday meal of rice and beans (every day the same fare). Many mornings children joined me in the kitchen, eating extra crackers before class to ease their hunger pains. But the crowd of children became so large we had to stop this practice and simply ready the plates as fast as we could so they might eat.

Most days the rice pots were scraped clean as students wolfed down their first heaping helpings and raced back for seconds. I made the phrases “I’m hungry” and “I want a cracker” part of our English lessons. Although these children will probably always live in poverty, unable to fulfill their wants or even basic needs, we persist in teaching them assertion. They will become their own advocates.

They learn to ask for water, for medicine, and for hugs. The last is a breakthrough I’ll never forget.

Although our supplies of rice and beans and crackers and peanut butter are limited, although medicine and ointments can always cure the ills, we can always supply hugs. And there is never a shortage of requests. As children learn the power of hugs, the warmth, the refuge, the nourishment that could overcome hunger pangs and swellings and sores, we push them to hug their parents and guardians. And we tell those parents and guardians to hug their children. The awkward unfamiliarity of so many of those hugs breaks my heart. For far too many, our orders of “Hug your son!” or “Hug your mama!” instigate the first time, or the first time in a very long time, that parents and children had embraced. That they had touched with gentleness and affection rather than punishment and anger.

The staff reminds one another to hug the children as much as possible, knowing that our arms might well be the only welcome they ever know. The short hours at school are to treasure the children: to listen to them, be silly with them, hold them, and, of course, to teach them academics, health, and God’s Word. The children come to know best words we repeat every day: “I love you. Jesus loves you more!”

Although my working title at the Peacemaker School of Petit Goave, formerly called Christian Academy, was “English teacher,” my mission is always to love the children. There were days I missed teaching due to preparing peanut butter crackers, administering first aid, counseling, or taking someone to the hospital—doing what was needed at the moment. Each of these missed lessons was a loss, time I mourned because classes were a joy. But I could never regret choosing one form of love and aid over another. And these choices, to stay and help run Preschool while their teacher was ill, to extend sixth grade class so we could finish the poetry books, to coach a small group of students for a Bible skit; these choices were just constant confirmation that I could not help everyone, could not fix everything, but could only do my small part, one piece at a time, one day at a time, one person at a time.

This is the kind of thinking we must maintain to work in the third world. Lose sight of the small things, of the individual soul, and we will be overcome with despair at the chasm of need, the hopelessness of such suffering.

They have not lost hope. Even now, when so many of us missionaries and aid workers have fled, when fuel and food supplies are blocked, when schools are attacked and hospitals are burned, the resilient Haitian people have not given up. They have seen disaster, they have lived hardship, and they only ever had little to lose. Now, when circumstances are worse than ever, when gangs indiscriminately kidnap, assault, torment, and murder, the Haitian people persist. Our Ti Goave children persist.

I don’t know why it should still surprise me. As aforementioned, I’ve witnessed some of Haiti’s greatest disasters and the people’s dogged response to keep living; I’ve visited their homes and seen how they survive on the sparsest provisions. It should be no surprise to see the children smiling. To see their brilliance shining through all the evil in the background.

Yet, once again, the pictures of them, clustered on the plain wooden benches in the campus courtyard, hugging bundles of food stuffs in their skinny arms, I am taken aback at their joy. I feel at once humbled and astounded and impressed and dumbfounded and ashamed and thankful and proud. My heart bursts with love all over again, new and shining with hope. Hope that has been dwindling, crushed beneath the load of bad news and horrible reports, mountains beyond mountains of obstacles which have deprived these children of education, safety, food, water, health care, their very innocence.

They never lost hope. And they smile still. Those smiles can almost make you forget the bad news, the very real and present dangers of marauding gangsters and invisible diseases; those smiles bring beauty to even the most emaciated faces, sunken eyes and wasted cheeks, arms and legs that appear far too frail to carry those treasured bags of rice and hike the hills home. Of course, the dangers are still there and Haiti is still in crisis, veritably anarchy without government leadership or humanitarian resources.

But God is still there, too. While most of us who can, both foreign and Haitian, have left and now watch anxiously from exile, God stayed. He has not and will not ever abandon His children. Even if we doubt, flounder in bewilderment as to why God has left Haiti to the wicked, these children still believe. Our faithful Christian brothers and sisters in Haiti still believe—they have known far longer and better than we privileged foreigners that God is their only hope.

When the cistern is dry, the pot is empty, and the charcoal runs out; when the rent is due on the over-crowded house with the leaky roof, when illness strikes, when thieves break in and steal and rats and damp destroys; when there are no emergency services, no social workers, no health insurance, no food pantries, scholarships or relief packages; when there is no evacuation helicopter, no way out and no way ahead, there is only One Hope. It is not the Great White Hope. We are not the Great White Hope. None of us are, no matter how hard we work, how much money we raise, how many barrels or pallets of supplies we send, how many houses we build, how many students we teach or children we sponsor. We may help to spread hope, but we are not the Source.

God is the Only Hope. God alone can stand against any gangster and any weapon, remains unaffected by any disease or malady, never weakens from hunger, thirst, or overwork. He never sleeps and He never loses sight of a single wandering child, desperate mother, or humiliated father. And although He may not grant a life of ease and comfort, may not smite down all the corrupt officials and gun-toting gangsters as we might wish, God will come through.

Somehow God has always come through for these children. He has put them in school when their families could not pay school fees. He has delivered the MannaPack rice for the children’s meals through blockades and fuel shortages. He has paid the school staff and building rent. He has sent doctors, dentists, and specialists at just the right times. He sent a team to paint all the walls white and fill the school with light. He sent carpenters and electricians to build benches, bookcases, stools, and handrails, and to wire the building for lights and fans. He has arranged relationships with bankers, pharmacists, police officers, customs officials, booksellers, pilots, and barrel-shippers to fill needs. He provided a motorcycle to transport daily food and water. He has saved students and staff from vehicular accidents and hypertension. He arranged a beautiful graduation during COVID lockdown. He provided a new campus and residence and secondary school. He has safely transported staff and supplies to and from the capital warzone, again and again. Somehow God has always come through. Even in tragedy He has brought good.

When we reflect, we cannot deny God’s goodness. He has provided and protected His ministry innumerable times. While watching Haiti from afar, still waiting for news of improvement, we can remember all these ways God has proved Himself over and over. Even as our hearts ache at the increased suffering of the Haitian people, even as we long to be there with our loved ones, we remember that God is there, bringing Hope in the darkness. And we can rejoice with every smiling face of another child who has not forgotten from whence comes real Hope.

Thursday, November 25, 2021

But If Not: Part I

Even if you didn’t grow up in Sunday school you’ve probably heard some version of the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. They were the three young Hebrews who stood up to the infamous Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar and refused to bow down before his golden idol despite threat of execution. Anyone who did not bow down and worship the massive statue was to be thrown into the fiery furnace at once, an apt manifestation of the powerful king’s wrath.

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were captives in a foreign land, essentially helpless, defenseless, but in a crowd of thousands of their countrymen cowering with faces to the ground, these three stood tall and fearless. They were ridiculously bold, outrageously audacious as they declared “We are not careful to answer, you, O King” (Daniel 3:16 KJV) paraphrase: “We don’t have to explain ourselves to you.” Boldly and baldly they stated they would not bow down to Nebuchadnezzar’s idol no matter what he threatened or did to them.

“Our God, whom we serve, is able to deliver us from the fiery furnace, and He will deliver us out of thine hand, O King,” they said (Daniel 3:17). They were unflinching before this world-famous king whose conquering armies had just decimated their homeland and carted their people off as slaves, whose extravagant hanging gardens were among the wonders of the ancient world, and whose empire was the most powerful of its day.

In their devotion to God, the God of their homeland and their ancestors, the God who assured their identity as more than slaves in a foreign land, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego scorned the king’s threats. Their utter lack of intimidation mocked Nebuchadnezzar’s threat of terrible death, their being burnt alive in his dreadful fiery furnace. Their stance belittled him and his weapon into a petulant child with a campfire which so enraged the tyrant that he ordered the furnace be stoked hotter than ever.

Still, the men to be chained and tossed into this inferno were unafraid. Still, they were certain of their deliverance. “Our God is able to deliver us from the fiery furnace, and He will deliver us out of thine hand, O King. But if not, be it known to thee, O King, we still will not bow down” (Daniel 3:17-18).

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego knew there were only two possible outcomes: either God would take them out of the furnace and King Nebuchadnezzar would be amazed, or they would die and go to be with God where they would be even more amazed in His presence. Either way, they would win. Either way, they would be delivered. Either way, they had nothing to fear for God was on their side.

Neither King Nebuchadnezzar nor his guards understood the peace these men had as they stood without trembling before such a ruthless conqueror, as they were sentenced to death, as they were bound tightly from head to foot and tossed into a furnace burning so furiously the guards nearest the furnace were themselves consumed by the flames.

Neither the king nor his guards believed in the God of the Hebrews. They thought a god who would let his people be conquered either could not or would not bother to then save three men from burning to death. Because surely a god of any real supremacy or goodness would not allow his servants to be placed in such a position at all. Surely a god who loved and cared for his people, who had the power to give life and heal sickness and smite the wicked would protect those people from invaders, would simply destroy their enemies utterly. That’s what a good god would do, right?

That’s what we want a good god to do—protect us from harm and give us all we ask for. Keep us from situations where we must choose between standing up and execution. Keep us from the furnace. From the lions’ den. From the cistern. From prison. From flogging. From eviction. From betrayal. From rape. From slavery. From being widowed or orphaned. From miscarriages or the loss of a child. From sickness, hunger, depression, and loneliness.

A good god would not let these things happen. Would not let these sufferings afflict his children. Would not let a good man die torturously on a cross for crimes he didn’t commit. From the midst of our hurt we might think so. From the cross, the pit, the furnace, from the sickbed, the graveside, the jailcell, we might think there is no good god.

But even when blind with pain, remember that there is One Good God. Every thought He has for us is good. He is incapable of evil thoughts. And although He may allow suffering in our lives, He allows it to come to pass. It will not stay; it will not thwart our destiny.

“For I know the thoughts that I think of you saith the LORD, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you an expected end” (Jeremiah 29:11).

God knows exactly when this particular trouble crushing you will end, when this particular suffering will conclude and you will be through it. He has everything planned out, meticulously, scrupulously, astoundingly detailed like a tapestry woven with a thousand colored threads. In the middle of the mess of our misery and befuddlement we can only see the tangle of overlapping strands, dangling ends, and awkward knots. God, the Creator, can see the whole completed masterpiece as a sumptuous wall-hanging across the room: every thread perfectly fitted to form an elaborate, gorgeous image.

God has a plan. God has had a Plan since the Beginning, and the most important part of the Plan has already happened. The pivotal moment occurred when the War for the World was won, long ago, through suffering. Like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, if we believe in the Good God, we know we will be delivered. We can say with absolute audacious certainty that we need not fear that fiery furnace, or the lions’ den, or the prison cell, or the hospital room, unemployment, eviction, or gangsters. We know that we Win either way, whether by God stepping in and working a visible miracle for the world to see, like eradicating the cancer or dropping an envelope of cash in the mailbox; or by God taking us out of the world and unto Himself in Heaven. We will celebrate either way: joyously here on Earth or far more abundantly when we meet again in Heaven. That is the assurance of the Christian, the person who believes in Jesus Christ as Savior.

It’s not an easy assurance. Life is hard for us broken people in this broken world dominated by Satan, the Enemy, whose only goal is our destruction. Every evil is his weapon: from depression to jealousy to arthritis to pornography to gossip to addiction to fear. Division is his delight. He’s cunning and conniving and feeds us lies like candy. Convincing people of his nonexistence has been his greatest trick, in the words of Charles Baudelaire: “la plus belle des ruses du diable est de vous persuader qu’il n’existe pas!” Le joueur Généreux/The Generous Gambler 1864. Do not underestimate Satan.

Thank God, Satan constantly underestimates God.

As Pastor Raymond Woodward says, “While the devil is feverishly playing checkers God is playing chess, and He’s got him outwitted, outgunned, outmaneuvered, and out-moved every single time!”

God sees not merely several steps ahead but to the very end of the game, even beyond the game to the other side, to the victory awaiting us. He sees us in our suffering and grieves with us in our pain, but He does not despair for He knows what Good is waiting beyond the trial. God Himself shapes that coming Good, for as He promised, He considers us with “thoughts of peace” and deliberately designed that “expected end” (Jeremiah 29:11). While Satan may be playing games with our days, feverishly leaping checkers and piling sorrows upon miseries, all his schemes cannot detract from God’s Grand Master Plans for our lives.

Our trials are allowed by God—and they are limited by God. No matter the trial, it cannot thwart God’s purpose. Not only so, but the trial brings about God’s purpose.

Trials are allowed by God. Trials are limited by God. Trials cannot thwart God’s purpose. Trials bring about God’s purpose.

The prophet Jeremiah learned this even after he’d watched his city burn and his people carried off in chains. After he’d endured the worst day of his life, this long-suffering man of God took up his pen once again and wrote that God’s mercies were new every morning and His compassions were unfailing. “Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed…great is your faithfulness” (Lamentations 3:22-23).

Job maintained this even after he’d lost everything: his lands, wealth, children, health, even the love of his wife. With empty, boil-scarred hands, he sat in the dust and praised God. “Though he slay me, yet I will hope in him…Indeed this will turn out for my deliverance” (Job 13:15-16).

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were sure of this as they stood up before a tyrant king and his guards, as they scorned his fiery furnace. They declared their allegiance to their God even unto death.

Jesus’ assurance of this, and his shared great love for humanity, caused him to stand guilty for crimes he didn’t commit, to volunteer as tribute for torturous punishment, to sacrifice himself in place of the real agitators and convicts. He bared his back to flogging, then heaved a heavy cross upon his back and carried it through the streets and up a hill, bearing the shame of that public parade, the crowds who knew only the worst offenders warranted crosses, laid himself down naked before all those scoffers, opened his hands to the soldiers who hammered nails through them, watched with gentle eyes as he was heaved upward, the ugliest of bloody spectacles. His only response to the jeers and accusations, the temptation to call ten thousand angels to his rescue, was to ask forgiveness for his executioners, who had already accepted the blame for his blood on themselves and their children.

Then Jesus died, after hours of agony, and the jubilant mood of his human enemies was nothing compared to the ebullience of Satan’s assured victory.

“I’ve got you this time!” was probably what the devil was crowing, toasting himself and boasting his brilliance and permanent ownership of the Earth and all wretched souls therein.

To everyone watching, indeed, God’s Plan seemed a failure. Jesus’ disciples, despite his forewarnings, couldn’t believe he had died. His eleven closest followers were as lost and bereaved as the rest of his friends, grieving and terrified that they would be next on the Roman execution list. So many had seen Jesus as the One God had promised: someone for whom long ago Job, Jeremiah, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego had hoped. With his death, they were devastated, wondering if God really would ever deliver them. Perhaps they’d better bow down to the system, bend down to the golden idol of the Romans, and simply forget their faith and their convictions.

That’s how it feels sometimes.

We’d be better off giving in. We’d be better off avoiding all this suffering. Surely life would be better without sickness, break-ups, theft, corruption, late fees, crime and punishment? If we had the power of a good god, we’d make better choices—we would not allow all of this hurt. I’ve certainly thought this way, certainly asserted sometimes to God that “it’s just not fair” and “enough is enough!” and wondered why He doesn’t simply STOP the trauma. Pull us out of the furnace. Pull us out of COVID-19, out of the clutches of gangsters and kidnappers, out of poverty and famine.

God’s response is always gentle. Rather than smite me or knock me back with a thunder blast, the LORD of all Creation speaks kindly to me, as a loving Father. No matter how many times I make the same mistake or repeat the same complaints, He is patient. God’s mercies are new and His compassion unfailing.

Here, He speaks through the wise words of writer Kimberly Henderson:

“I would have pulled Joseph out. Out of that pit. Out of that prison. Out of that pain. And I would have cheated nations out of the one God would use to deliver them from famine.

I would have pulled David out. Out of Saul’s spear-throwing presence. Out of the caves he hid away in. Out of the pain of rejection. And I would have cheated Israel out of a God-hearted king.

I would have pulled Esther out. Out of being snatched from her only family. Out of being placed in a position she never asked for. Out of the path of a vicious, power-hungry foe. And I would have cheated a people out of the woman God would use to save their very lives.

And I would have pulled Jesus off. Off of the cross. Off of the road that led to suffering and pain. Off of the path that would mean nakedness and beatings, nails and thorns. And I would have cheated the entire world out of a Savior. Out of salvation. Out of an eternity filled with no more suffering and no more pain.

And oh friend. I want to pull you out. I want to change your path. I want to stop your pain. But right now I know I would be wrong. I would be out of line. I would be cheating you and cheating the world out of so much good. Because God knows. He knows the good this pain will produce.

He knows the beauty this hard will grow. He’s watching over you and keeping you even in the midst of this. And He’s promising you that you can trust Him. Even when it all feels like more than you can bear.

So instead of trying to pull you out, I’m lifting you up. I’m kneeling before the Father and I’m asking Him to give you strength. To give you hope. I’m asking Him to protect you and to move you when the time is right. I’m asking Him to help you stay prayerful and discerning. I’m asking Him how I can best love you and be a help to you. And I’m believing He’s going to use your life in powerful and beautiful ways. Ways that will leave your heart grateful and humbly thankful for this road you’ve been on."

Kimberly D. Henderson, 2017 ©

Works Cited

· Henderson, Kimberly D. “When You Feel Painfully and Hopelessly Stuck in a Season You Don’t Want to Be In.” WordPress, 23 Sept. 2020, https://kdhenderson.wordpress.com/2020/09/23/when-you-feel-painfully-and-hopelessly-stuck-in-a-season-you-dont-want-to-be-in/?blogsub=confirming#subscribe-blog. Accessed 21 Nov. 2021.

· KB. “Heart Song.” Weight & Glory, Reach Records.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2daj3G0LVKY

· King James Version. Palgrave Macmillan, 2003.

· King, Martin Luther. “But If Not.” YouTube. 5 Nov. 1967, Atlanta, Ebenezer Baptist Church, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pOjpaIO2seY. Accessed 21 Nov. 2021.

· Lagazettedesydney. “A Very Actual Old French Poem: The Generous Gambler.” 1864, https://lagazettedesydney.wordpress.com/2015/05/02/a-very-actual-old-french-poem-the-generous-gambler/. Accessed 24 Nov. 2021.

· MercyMe. “Even If.” Lifer, The Orchard Music, Nashville, Tennessee.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B6fA35Ved-Y

· Woodward, Raymond. “But If Not.” YouTube. 1 Aug. 2021, Capital Community Church, Capital Community Church, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ORmSm_VdkEg. Accessed 21 Nov. 2021. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ORmSm_VdkEg

But If Not: Part II

“I would have pulled Joseph out. Out of that pit. Out of that prison. Out of that pain. And I would have cheated nations out of the one God would use to deliver them from famine.

"I would have pulled David out. Out of Saul’s spear-throwing presence. Out of the caves he hid away in. Out of the pain of rejection. And I would have cheated Israel out of a God-hearted king.

Ms. Henderson noted with the reposting (2020) of her poem that it was the most shared piece of writing she had ever released to social media. My thanks to God for so inspiring her, and my thanks to Ms. Henderson for sharing her inspired words with us. Perhaps obviously, my response was to share what I would have done, who I would have saved. The following five names are all loved ones from Christian Academy of Petit Goave, Haiti, who died between June 2016 and October 2021. Four of them are children.

I would have pulled Angelo out. Out of the basin where he drowned. And I would have robbed him of Heaven, of the love of Jesus rather than the unsympathetic thumb of his matant and years of restavek servitude. I would have robbed us of the increased awareness of time, the surge of urgency to love and work, to treasure and hold close each child God bestowed on us in each moment we had, for we couldn’t know if that would be the last.

I would have healed Joozenaïka. Cured her of the fever and diarrhea drying out her frail body. Restored her to health and returned her whole and smiling to her joyous parents, their beautiful only child. And I would have robbed CAP of the medical fund begun in her honor, the collection dedicated to prevent any such tragedy from occurring again. I would have robbed partners of the awareness of this dire need to buffer for the easily treatable: burns, abrasions, and deadly dehydration.

I would have healed Anaika. Gone back to her before her birth and ensured Mom was well-nourished, provided for mother and child so together they would grow strong, so the devasting long-lasting effects of malnutrition wouldn’t shorten this little girl’s future. Then I’d be sure her kidneys were cured, all systems developed in full-working order, and she’d live long and prosper.

And I would have robbed CAP of progress. Of a whole new locale, complete with downstairs residence and extensive advantages including outdoor space for play and assembly, storage, full kitchen, added security and beauty. I would have robbed the seventh grade of a secondary school, the next level of their education. I would have robbed her family of their permanent residence, her father of his position as caretaker, her mother of a business place, her siblings of the advantages of growing up on the mission campus. I would have robbed us of this vision of God’s glorious working: His preparation of our needs, bringing beauty from ashes and so much good from the evil of death.

I would have healed Madame Marjorie. Relieved her that day of her terrible headache that she might teach in peace. Seen her back to her stern, perseverant, God-loving self at once, ready to tease and hug a moment after seeming so fierce. Kept her with her family who needed her: working husband, five children, three yet under the age of ten. Kept her with us who needed her as our third-grade teacher. And I would have robbed her children of steadfast partnership, robbed her family of the generous aid of another family.

I would have robbed Madame Marie Nadie of the opportunity of entrance into CAP, of job security particular to God’s employment. I would have robbed her family of those advantages. I would have robbed us of Marie Nadie.

I would have healed Adeline. Gone back to her birth and ensured the curse of asthma never entered her little body. Made her lungs strong, whole, hale and hearty enough to thrive in the chill mountain air, the damp cement walls, through the charcoal smoke and traffic fumes, through the ubiquitous dust. I would have kept Papa and Mama together, a healthy couple able to provide for their three children. I would have kept Adeline with us for years to come, watching her glow with health and the pride of doing well in lessons she was well enough to understand. And I would have robbed her of true perfect health and wholeness in Jesus’ arms. I would have robbed her of reunion with her Papa, Madame Marjorie, Anaika, Joozenaïka, Angelo, and Madame Missoule. I would have condemned her to years of suffering in this broken world.

And I know I would have robbed us of something, too. Of what I do not yet know.

But as I see the fruit, so painfully harvested, of Anaika’s and Joozenaïka’s deaths, I am sure that Adeline’s death was not only to her gain. Adeline is at rest now, beyond all the pain, fatigue, and fear of asthma, the constant struggle simply to breathe. She no longer needs our help. Even as I weep at the thought of not seeing her when I return to CAP, Haiti, for her mother’s grief, I thank God that Adeline isn’t suffering anymore.

And I look forward to what God has in store. What beauty will God grow from these ashes?

What goodness is God working from the evil of Marjorie’s sickness and death, her husband’s widower-hood, her children’s motherlessness? How will God show us that all things, even the too-recent and too-close-together excruciating losses of Marjorie and Adeline, work together for the Good of us who love Him?

Even as we toured what would become CAP’s new locale for the first time, a magnificent two-story house with rooms painted pleasant pastel colors, I choked on tears not merely for the grief of Anaika’s absence, but for the wonder at God’s working. Only a month after her death, God was walking us through this building, set in a compound with space for Recreation, for storage, for construction of a kitchen, a building so perfect for our needs we couldn’t have better listed a description. Of course, there were a hundred obstacles to moving CAP from our faithful building on the National Road, the only building the seven-year school had known. However, as God tumbled Jericho He brought down all of these.

The money to rent the building. The money to renovate, to build an outdoor toilet and an outdoor kitchen. A brand new, more powerful generator and a technician to hook it up. A vehicle and helping hands to move furniture. Fuel just enough to power the generator and the vehicles. A new director. A new third grade and fourth grade teacher and teachers’ assistants. A cistern, water tanks, a pump, and a water truck. Feed My Starving Children Manna Pack rice and a storage room too small to hold it all. Five extra days of cleaning and organizing with Beverly, Claudia, and I from the States, the impossible obstacle of our presence overcome by flights on little planes and long drives circumventing hot spots, buying gas on the side of the road as we passed gas stations chained closed.

Those five days of cleaning and organizing were supposed to be five days of school with children overrunning a campus not prepared for students: due to the ongoing horrors of kidnapping, threats, and protests, schools were closed and most people stayed home. We didn’t see the children, but we worked hard Monday to Friday and God used our team of many helping hands to great end. He also brought the Manna Pack rice and the water truck through by 5:00 Friday afternoon before darkness drove us home and national lockdown drove us prematurely out of the country.

Now November is coming to a close and Haiti is still in turmoil, the U.S. Embassy still ranking Haiti at a Level 4 “Do Not Travel,” and there is yet no end in sight. Gangs outnumber and outgun the police. They seem to outwit and outmaneuver the few remaining legitimate government officials. Fuel prices are a steal at $11.00 per gallon. Nuns, priests, missionaries, pastors, nurses, and patients in ambulances have been shot at and killed on the road. School children have been injured in abduction attempts and campuses have been overtaken by gangs. More than a month has passed since seventeen missionaries were kidnapped, including five children. Children die from this deliberate violence and from lack as the fuel shortages and roadblocks deprive them of basic resources.

Anaika stayed at three hospitals that ran out of oxygen. Adeline died because the local hospital had none to give.

We could easily despair, we could easily be angry, we could easily claim that we could do better.

However, remember Joseph, who suffered betrayal, slavery, and imprisonment in a foreign land. God used Joseph to save his entire family and to plant the Israelite people in a land where they would flourish.

Remember David, who suffered the insane jealousy and wrath of his king, the betrayal and death of his son, life on the run hiding in caves, the death and assault of a son and a daughter. God used David to deliver the Israelite people from the Philistines, used him to model us a man after God’s own heart, used him to write the Psalms.

Remember Esther, who suffered the indignity of being groomed for a ruthless king, the fear of discovery, the burden of her people’s fate, and the risk of execution. God used Esther to save the Israelite people from genocide and show Himself to the Babylonian empire.

Remember Jesus, who suffered like no other when he was on the cross, the only truly good man to die.

(“Jesus suffered like no other when He was on the cross / Why do the good die? That only happened once” KB “Heart Song”). God used Jesus to save us all, once for all time. Jesus who was and still is the Perfect Plan. Jesus, who confounded Satan, defeated him forever when he rose again to life. God’s Plan went beyond Jesus’ ministry on Earth, beyond the cross, beyond death. The Plan saw the Expected End, the Good that was to follow.

God didn’t pull Jesus off the cross. He didn’t spare him the pain. As He didn’t spare Esther, David, Joseph, Jeremiah, Job, Shadrach, Meshach, or Abednego their pain and trials. As He didn’t spare Angelo, Joozenaïka, Anaika, Marjorie, or Adeline. Instead, God used Jesus on the cross to save everyone. He used these people in their pain to help others, to do greater good than they could have imagined, and to make them stronger.

Job was confident, even as he sat in those ashes, that God was refining him. “When he hath tried me, I shall come forth as gold,” he said (Job 23:10). If you read the book of Job to the end, you know this is true: after Job’s trials, the loss of everything, even the disease of his flesh, you know that God blesses him more abundantly. He has “twice as much as he had before,” even better behaved and more laudable children (Job 42:10-17). He lives a long and prosperous life: like gold.

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego do not burn up in Nebuchadnezzar’s fiery furnace. They come forth as gold, unsinged, without even smelling of the smoke. They lose nothing except their bonds. God does not save them from the fire; He saves them in the fire.

After the three have been cast into the inferno and the guards who passed them in have been consumed by the flames, Nebuchadnezzar sees figures moving within the furnace.

“Did not we cast three men bound into the midst of the fire?” he exclaims. “Lo, I see four men loose, walking in the midst of the fire, and they have no hurt; and the form of the fourth is like the Son of God” (Daniel 3:24-25).

The king sees four men in the furnace. By his own admission, this king who has ordered the execution of three men for their faith in a deity in whom he does not believe, the fourth figure appears so glorious he compares him to the “Son of God.” God doesn’t save his servants from the furnace; He saves them in the furnace.

Astounded, King Nebuchadnezzar goes near the opening of the furnace and calls for Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego to come out. This time, when he addresses them, he calls them “servants of the Most High God” (Daniel 3:26). God’s three servants come out, unchanged save their bonds have vanished.

Pastor Raymond Woodward says, “There is freedom in the furnace of affliction when God is there with you. The only thing you stand to lose in that fire is the chains that bound you on the way in.”

God allows our affliction, our pain, but He does not ignore or enjoy it. He mourns and weeps with us, and He walks with us all the way. As God’s servants we are called to walk through the fire whether it burns us or not, knowing that God is walking through the fire with us, as He stood in the fire with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego so long ago before the very eyes of King Nebuchadnezzar and his guards. We remember that even should God not spare us the pain of the fire, He will deliver us, one way or the other.

I know God delivered Angelo. I know He delivered Joozenaïka, Anaika, Madame Marjorie, and dear Adeline. I know they are with Him in Heaven now, free of abuse, suffering, affliction, trial, trauma, and sickness for once and for all. I know that one day I will meet them again, in an ongoing celebration with all those who have gone before to Heaven, including those heroes Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego, Job, Jeremiah, Esther, David, and Joseph. I cannot wait to meet these heroes, to see my beloved children again. Most of all I cannot wait to meet Jesus face to face.

Meanwhile, I take heart knowing He is with me here and now.

Knowing that He has not forgotten His children at CAP. He has not forgotten the fifteen Christian Aid missionaries still in captivity. He has not forgotten any of the Haitians nor any of the residents suffering under the near-anarchy of the gangster-run country. He has not forgotten a single of His suffering persecuted children in Ethiopia, North Korea, Afghanistan, or Columbia. He holds each one close and is walking beside each one even as He somehow walks beside me.

I do not know what my Expected End is. I only know that already God has made me better than I was before. Already He has proven Himself over and over, stronger than depression, anxiety, loneliness, joint pain, migraines, allergies, fatigue, and political correctness. Already I see myself a little closer to gold.

God’s Plan is more masterful than Satan’s. His chess playing and tapestry weaving long ago outwitted, outgunned, outmaneuvered, and out-moved Satan’s cheap cheating at checkers. Some of His Plan He’s revealed, with the new CAP location and secondary school for CAP’s seventh grade because of Anaika’s death. These glimpses of the masterpiece by the Grand Master make our beloveds’ passing more meaningly, if not exactly easier.

My Friend, as Ms. Henderson said, I want to pull you out, I want to stop your pain, but I know that’s not the Way. God will grow beauty out of this hard, out of the ashes. He will work this for your good. God does have an Expected End for you, and He only has thoughts of peace toward you.

Maybe we won’t become legends like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, however, even if we don’t and even if we must burn in the furnace, let’s be strong and remember that when this is over, we will come forth as gold.

Our trials are allowed by God. Our trials our limited by God. Our trials cannot thwart God’s purpose. Our trials bring about God’s purpose.

Madame Marjorie with two of her children

Adeline

Joozenaika

Anaika

Angelo

Works Cited

Henderson, Kimberly D. “When You Feel Painfully and Hopelessly Stuck in a Season You Don’t Want to Be In.” WordPress, 23 Sept. 2020, https://kdhenderson.wordpress.com/2020/09/23/when-you-feel-painfully-and-hopelessly-stuck-in-a-season-you-dont-want-to-be-in/?blogsub=confirming#subscribe-blog. Accessed 21 Nov. 2021.