The Twelve-inch Bridge
If I am going to be completely transparent about who I am, I am going to admit that I struggle with depression. There’s a pervasive numbness about me as I go through my day, some days, and yes, I know it’s not the rose-colored picture everyone may want to see, but it is the unvarnished side of myself that isn’t so obvious to the casual observer.
I’m working through the issues that relate to this numbness, this depression, but there’s also an entrenched hereditary factor that cannot be covered up. My grandpa struggled with it. His sisters. My dad. They worked through it, by the wonderful grace of the Master, and so will I; it is a battle of epic proportions some days, and others it’s barely noticeable.
One of my largest mountains to climb, especially when I sit down to write, is peeling away the numbness and exposing the soft core of my heart. I think I’ve built a wall around it, much like people who have been injured protect themselves from reinjury. We are born into this life with our little fists clutching feverishly against themselves, feebly holding on to our own inept strength. As time goes by, we learn to open our palms and embrace the strength of others, some learning that the only true strength in human existence comes from the Creator.
I think I’ve still got my palms clenched.
The numbness intensifies the tighter I clutch. It’s an extra layer or two of skin that envelopes me, darted with the worries and cares of life, with unresolved finances, with perceived rejection by peers, with the rantings of my preschooler as I lead her to time-out. It deepens the longer I draw from my own resources, my own failing sense of control.
I am utterly indefensible, most of the time, but there are weak points in the armor, where arrows have struck, and often I can be found licking my wounds on the way to find assurance from those I trust most on this earth. I haven’t yet learned to perpetually run to the Person who matters most; I know this will have to be a priority. I know I cannot do it in my own strength; His Spirit wills and guides my steps.
I know God doesn’t want me to be numb. He calls us to guard our hearts, not to numb them; I know this. I know it in my mind, not my heart, but I’m working on crossing that 12-inch bridge slowly but surely.
I’m working through the issues that relate to this numbness, this depression, but there’s also an entrenched hereditary factor that cannot be covered up. My grandpa struggled with it. His sisters. My dad. They worked through it, by the wonderful grace of the Master, and so will I; it is a battle of epic proportions some days, and others it’s barely noticeable.
One of my largest mountains to climb, especially when I sit down to write, is peeling away the numbness and exposing the soft core of my heart. I think I’ve built a wall around it, much like people who have been injured protect themselves from reinjury. We are born into this life with our little fists clutching feverishly against themselves, feebly holding on to our own inept strength. As time goes by, we learn to open our palms and embrace the strength of others, some learning that the only true strength in human existence comes from the Creator.
I think I’ve still got my palms clenched.
The numbness intensifies the tighter I clutch. It’s an extra layer or two of skin that envelopes me, darted with the worries and cares of life, with unresolved finances, with perceived rejection by peers, with the rantings of my preschooler as I lead her to time-out. It deepens the longer I draw from my own resources, my own failing sense of control.
I am utterly indefensible, most of the time, but there are weak points in the armor, where arrows have struck, and often I can be found licking my wounds on the way to find assurance from those I trust most on this earth. I haven’t yet learned to perpetually run to the Person who matters most; I know this will have to be a priority. I know I cannot do it in my own strength; His Spirit wills and guides my steps.
I know God doesn’t want me to be numb. He calls us to guard our hearts, not to numb them; I know this. I know it in my mind, not my heart, but I’m working on crossing that 12-inch bridge slowly but surely.
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