Needing to Help

We always want to feel that we are helpful.  It's in our nature as Christians, and I'd like to think that it's in our nature as humans, too.  But one of the most difficult things to realize is that we are not always helpful, or useful, or needed.  Sometimes those around us are the ones who are needed, and it is our job to step away and allow them to help.

A few weeks ago, I stopped at a Subway to grab lunch on my way to work.  I don't typically go to Subway, since there isn't a drive-thru, but on that day I was craving a ham sandwich.  

I followed an older couple inside and made my way into the line.  They stood in front of me, a typical couple that had been married for many years.  When they got to the front of the line and the Subway worker asked what they would like, the man handed her a small notebook.  I realized then that this man and women were both deaf.  

There was nothing about them that suggested it, nothing you noticed visibly.  Until that moment, I saw them as "typical" people.  But when they handed the notebook to the young woman behind the counter, my view of them changed.  Suddenly I found myself wondering how they had gotten to the Subway.  Could you drive a car if you couldn't hear sirens?  What was their everyday life like?  How had they met?  I watched the Subway workers put together the sandwich, every ingredient written carefully in that tiny little notebook.  What was it like living your whole life having to carry around a notebook to be your mouth and ears?  To have to rely on the kindness of strangers to be patient and considerate?

As the man and woman waited for their sandwiches, another woman got into line.  She was younger, probably in her thirties or early forties, and wore scrubs.  When she passed the couple, she touched the man's arm and spoke clearly to them, greeting them like old friends.  The couple smiled at her, and turned back to get their sandwiches.

As we got to the checkout line, the wife went to fill up her drink while the husband pulled out his wallet to pay for the meal.  The woman at the checkout told him that the man in front of them in line had paid for them.  The husband did not understand, and so the woman wrote it in his notebook.  The man began to sway, and I watched his face, wondering if this was a common occurrence in their life.  But as I watched, I realized that his swaying was not a reaction to this random act of kindness.  Something else was wrong.  

The man leaned forward against the counter, his face turning grey.  The wife hurried to his side, while the woman in scrubs rushed and shouted for someone to grab a chair.  Being the next person in line, I grabbed one and put it behind the man.  As he sat down, he vomited.  The woman in scrubs instructed the Subway workers to call 911, and proceeded to check on the man.  

As these things happened all around me, I stood in uncertainty.  What was my role in this moment?  As a pastor, did I have a task I should be doing?  Should I comfort the wife, who was standing by her husband looking frightened and confused?  That would require pushing through the throng which surrounded the man in the chair.  I didn't know her, and she didn't know me.  There was nothing about me that identified me as a pastor, as a person who seeks ways to help.  

I stayed there for longer than I should have.  After I paid for my sandwich and filled my drink, I watched as the paramedics arrived and began questioning the wife and the woman in scrubs.  I stood, wanting - needing - to do something.  But there was nothing for me to do but to leave the chaos behind and give the people who were helping the room to do just that.

I've thought through this story many times over the past few weeks.  I'm still not certain what to make of it.  There are so many parts to untangle, so many layers to go through.  Who was the man who paid for their meal, and why was he inspired to do so?  What does it mean for this deaf couple (who seemed perfectly abled beyond their deafness) to receive this random act of kindness from a stranger?  Why does our view of someone change when something such as deafness is discovered?  What do we do in moments like this, when we feel the need to do something, but there is simply nothing to do.

I did say a prayer.  A short and small one.  I didn't know the couples' faith, or if they had one, but it was the only thing I was certain I could do.  And while prayers are important, they never quite seem like enough.

A little floral bag

Every year when it starts getting warm, I like to get a new purse.  It seems like a silly thing, buying a new bag every summer, but it's a nice tradition.  My summer bags are light and floral, made from fabric instead of leather.  They're a little bigger, so I can put extra summertime books in them.  But there's one problem: they only last one season.  The fabric is thin, so by September or October, little holes and tears start showing up in the pockets.  The strap comes loose, or a buckle breaks.  It happens year after year: those cute, floral summer bags at Target and Walmart are just too cheaply made to last past fall.  It's a sad fact, but one I've come to accept.

Today, my husband and I were at Target and I passed by the purse section, hoping to sneak a peak at my summer bag options.  But even though the swimsuits and tank tops have been out since March, the purse section hasn't arrived at summer yet.  Disappointed, I told my husband about my summer purse problem.  He seemed to think it was silly that I bought a new purse every summer.  Where was the one I bought last summer?  Why did I buy a new one every year?  Why didn't I just make one?

I scoffed at the suggestion at first.  Make one?  Usually making something meant that I had to buy fabric, and fabric was expensive.  Making a purse would cost more than buying one, and it wouldn't last any longer.  What purses I had made were short-lived.  Besides, I hadn't pulled out my sewing machine since December.  I didn't want to sew now.

But as we got closer to home, I started thinking about that purse I would make.  How many pockets it would have, what color fabric I could use from my stash.  And suddenly, I knew I'd rather make this year's summer purse than buy it.

The tan is a linen that I originally bought to make bread sacks.  It's been in my stash since January, completely forgotten.  The black and white floral is from a friend's dress that I'm making (and need to finish). All in all, it was a cheap little bag, much cheaper than the purses at Target would have been.  

I forgot how much I love sewing purses.  I made a few in college, but none in the past few years.  Purses are easier than dresses and skirts, and much faster.  I can draw what I want my purse to look like, and in a few hours it sits before me, complete and pretty close to what I'd dreamed.  There is something wonderful about imagining, designing, creating, and finishing a project in one sitting.  It makes me feel accomplished, without having to be patient.  

Sometimes it's nice not having to be patient.  :)

Rays of Sunlight

I suffer from depression. 

This is a fact I have come to accept in my life.  It is something I realized after many years of not understanding why I sometimes wanted to curl up under a blanket and escape the world, why I could not bear to talk on the phone, why I found myself crying over things that should not upset me, why I worried so often that I was not good enough and would never be good enough.  I have been through quite a journey of emotions with my depression, and while I am embarrassed by some of my reactions, they are a part of who I am today. 

I know that I am not alone in my depression. A 2011 NPR article says that 11% of Americans are prescribed antidepressants, and that many more Anericans suffer from depression but are unwilling to tell their doctor for fear of being prescribed antidepressants. But the strange thing about depression is that, though there are many of us, we suffer alone.  We feel that we are alone, helplessly so, even when we are surrounded by friends and family and those who suffer as well. 

When I am depressed, I push people away. Friends, family, even my wonderful husband. I push away God, too, unable to form prayers in my mind to a God who allows me to suffer so much. I want to be alone because I feel safer.  I alone understand my own inner pain. It is strange that part of suffering from this disorder is to push away the things that might help me to feel better.  

In my most recent struggle with depression, I found that my social life was not the only thing suffering. My spiritual life, which in the past few years has become an incredibly important part of my life as a whole, was almost completely gone. It wasn't simply that I wasn't praying or talking to God. I was not knitting, not spinning, not creating. In curling up on the couch and watching TV, I was pushing away the practices that help me to connect with my inner self, and with God. I was, again, pushing away the things that would help me to feel better. 

I was recently assigned a paper for my Spirituality class where we had to find a character from the history of Christian spirituality to write about. After some searching, I fell upon Therese of Lisieux.

Therese of Lisieux was a young Carmelite nun who struggled many times throughout her life with what she called "the night of my soul."  Toward the end of her short life of 24 years, she suffered physically as well as spiritually, and at time considered suicide as a way to escape. She wrote of dealing with this struggle in her autobiography, The Story of a Soul. 

"When I sing of the happiness of Heaven and the eternal possession of God, I do not feel any joy therein, for I sing only of what I wish to believe. Sometimes, I confess, a little ray of sunshine illumines my dark night, and I enjoy peace for an instant, but later, the remembrance of this ray of light, instead of consoling me, makes the blackness thicker still."

I have considered this passage many times over the past week.  It is both profound and simple. Act out what you wish to believe so that you might experience a "little ray of sunlight."  Though Therese writes that remembering these moments "makes the blackness thicker still," I strongly believe that we must experience these little bits of light in order to make it through the darkness. It's like walking through a dark hallway. When you use a flashlight, it makes the going easier for a while. But when you turn off the light, the darkness is even darker than before. But eventually your eyes will adjust to the blackness, and you will find your way to the end of the hall. 

Depression is a part of who I am. It will always be a part of who I am, even when I am not directly suffering from it. However, if in those moments of sadness I can find my friends and hold them dear, I will remember that I am appreciated. If in those moments of struggling I can allow myself to hear the struggles of others, I will remember that I am not alone. If in those moments of pain I can bring myself to talk with God, I will remember that I am loved.