When I come home from work everyday, I open the door and yell my son’s name. And then I growl at him. He jumps excitedly, crawling toward me. I pick him up, hold him close and whisper ‘I love you’, in his ear as he grabs whatever part of my face he can get a hold of as smiles gleefully.
I’m sure I did the same thing when I was a child.
I wish I did the same thing with God.
But somewhere between being a husband and becoming a father, I’ve forgotten what it means to be a child. To crawl into Abba’s lap and grab onto whatever parts of Him I can grab between my fingers.
In January, my church started having Sunday Night services that I volunteer for. I lead a group of volunteers in welcoming people. But I started dreading the whole thing. I felt like I was leading on autopilot. I didn’t want to sit through the worship and the sermon. And then I’d go home and be relieved.
I took me a couple of weeks to figure out why. The thing I really dread had returned. My depression.
I don’t talk about it much, unless we’re sitting over coffee and I’m really feeling like you won’t throw it all back in my face someday.
He’s worn different clothes through the years. He grew up with me. Kind-of. I thought he’d moved out and away. Or that I had. But he’d send me postcards now and again, stamped red with ‘Remember whens…’ to remind me of all of the damage I’d caused.Or he’d drop by unannounced and sleep on the couch before he got bored and moved on. And then he’d drop another postcard.
But I didn’t recognize him this time. He’d matured. He learned another language.He drank craft beer, had a mustache and wore jorts.
Jorts are the worst.
Jesus said that the thief comes in to steal, kill and destroy. Depression is a thief, and he’s employee of the year at thieving.
I’ve never been happier in my life than I have these past 10 months being a father, and learning how to live and to love my wife as I take on those duel responsibilities. But depression, thief that he is, has wormed his way into those relationships, tainting them. Putting distance between my wife and I. Between my son and I. Between God and I.
My son doesn’t yet recognize when depression has its talons in me. I hope he never does. My wife sees it more clearly. On those days, she holds me close and reminds me that I’m loved. That I’m not a failure as a husband and a father. And God is gracious. Even on the days where I let depression put a Grand Canyon between us, God still calls me by my name, growls playfully as He crosses the room and scoops me up in His nail scarred hands and whispers ‘I love you’ and encourages me to keep grabbing onto whatever part of Himself I can.
Jordan Wilhite 