Paying Attention (On Redbud Post)

I’m delighted to be featured in the Redbud Post this month. I share there about how depression taught me the value of paying attention and grounding myself in the present moment—and how that practice has brought refreshing to my heart in many seasons since.

Here’s a little snippet:

“I remember how I would pause with my morning coffee. I wrapped my hands around the body of my mug, the curve of the handle the perfect size through which to lace my fingers. I noticed the smooth pottery, the way it felt as the warmth pressed into my hands on the crisp morning. I watched the lazy swirl of steam escaping in curling wisps into the air. I felt my feet resting on the floor and considered the often-overlooked feeling of my feet pressing on the carpet and the floor pushing back, holding me in place. The wooden chair was hard, standard dormitory issue, but it too kept me in place. I sat, paying attention, rooted, just for a moment, in physical space and time. Inhale—the feeling of my chest swelling with air. Exhale—the release, my shoulders sinking down, down, down, releasing a breath’s worth of tension. This is what it feels like to be alive, I thought. I am here. I am alive. And, for one tangible moment, that was enough.”

Read “The Practice of Paying Attention” At Redbud Post

What Not To Say to Someone Who Is Suffering

We’re living through a season in which many of us are experiencing pain. It may be the the pain of physical illness, conflict, grief, uncertainty, job loss, ongoing racism, mental illness, or any other host of problems. These days, the list feels far too long. If you are feeling the weight of that pain today - you aren’t alone.

I’ve found that though pain is a universal human experience, most of us are innately bad at knowing how to handle it. We tend to be particularly bad when it comes to our words. In spite of any good intentions, we can do a great deal of harm in how we response when someone shares their pain.

Because it is such a pressing need, I’m reposting this guide from a few years ago about what not to say to someone who is suffering. May it help us all be better helpers and comforters during this season.

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When someone shares a painful circumstance with us, our response is an opportunity to minister comfort and love. We can incarnate the love of God to people in pain. This is usually our intention—to be helpful and comforting. Our intentions are good. But we often fall (far) short of them. Our words, in spite of our best intentions, can easily offer only cold comfort and further wounding. 

I know I’ve had moments walking away from a struggling friend thinking, “I shouldn’t have said that.” I’m sure you can relate. We must be aware of our words, aware that our gut-instinct response might not be the most helpful. 

I’ve compiled a list of common bad responses to people in pain. I’m sure we could all add a couple more from our own experiences (or missteps). I encourage you to read through them carefully and take note of the ones you’re prone to. Take some time to reflect on why you respond this way—is it your own fear? Your discomfort with pain? Then consider how you could respond differently the next time you’re in a similar situation.

Don’t…

• Speak for God in explaining why He’s allowing this pain. (Ex: God must have needed your (dead) loved one more than you did.) - Attempting to provide answers to the “why?” question of pain typically falls short both emotionally and theologically—and you cannot know for certain why God allows things to happen. Attempts at explaining the pain also often bring a tone of criticism or blame.
  
  
  

• Suggest an enhanced spirituality is the key to alleviating pain (Just pray more; Just have more faith; etc.). - Pain is a part of the human condition in a fallen world. Our spirituality does not provide a solution to every pain or struggle. We follow a crucified Lord, and our lives sometimes lead us through pain. We do not follow a gospel of “emotional prosperity” (Gay Hubbard’s term) but a promise of strength in weakness and joy in the midst of pain. These statements (just pray more, etc.) also heap on blame, as if the experience of pain is the person’s fault by lack of piety.
  
  
  

• Say “I completely understand.” - Even with the utmost empathy, there is no way we can completely understand. Each person experiences painful circumstances in different ways. And, usually, when we say this, we do not actually even begin to understand.
  
  
  

• Tell stories about your “same” experience or that of someone you know. - I don’t need to hear about your aunt’s-second-cousin’s-best-friend’s experience with cancer. Although well-intentioned, these stories can easily lead to increased fear and intensified pain. Reporting your own experience typically becomes an act of talking-about, not sharing-in someone’s pain.
  
  
  

• Catastrophize their painful experience, asking for morbid repetitions of their circumstances and emotions, or tell them how what they’re experiencing is the worst thing ever. - Any questioning and prodding that comes with little vision for healing, growth, and redemption leads to an increased sense of hopelessness, intensifying of pain, and increased fear. Exaggeration is not helpful.
  
  
  

• Try to solve the “problem.” - Responding to another’s pain as a problem with a simple solution is never helpful. Pain is much more complex than this. There is a time and place for problem solving during some painful circumstances, but do not volunteer yourself to be the fixer. This includes things like thrusting books into people’s hands, telling them the exact diet/medical treatment plan they must pursue, forcing them to attend groups/events they might not be ready for, etc. Do not engage in problem-solving or “fixing” attempts unless you have been specifically asked for these services.
  
  
  

• Start a statement with “At least…” - These statements almost universally undermine the person’s experience and implicitly suggests they shouldn’t be feeling the way they do. Catch yourself when you hear your response starting with these little words.
  
  
  

• Attempt to be a mind reader. - Ask good questions to understand what they’re feeling and experiencing. Don’t assume you know.
  
  
  

• Say “God won’t give you more than you can handle.” - I do not see this promised in Scripture. (This statement seems to be a misapplication of 1 Cor. 10:13, which is talking not about pain, but about God providing ways out in temptation.) God will sometimes give us more than we can handle—we will be weak and, humanly speaking, falling apart. But He has promised that His strength is perfect in our weakness. We’re weak. He’s strong. It’s more than we can handle—but it’s not more than He can handle. His strength gives us what we need to keep going. (see 2 Cor. 12:7-10)
  
  
  

• Say “It must be God’s will. You just have to have faith.” - This is true in the sense that we can trust in the goodness, sovereignty, and power of our loving Father. However, it’s of little comfort and typically sounds more like “Grin and bear it, oh you of little faith.” It also opens up theological questions of whether or not the painful results of sin and a broken world are in fact “God’s will” (for example, the death of a child, or the pain inflicted by someone else’s sin). I have rarely seen such deep theological waters to be an effective pain reliever.
  
  
  

• Say “You need to just turn it over to the Lord.” - It is true that we can and should entrust our pains to the Lord. This does not mean the painful circumstances disappear. This statement typically communicates that if you’re still struggling or in pain, you haven’t actually turned your troubles over to the Lord.
  
  
  

• Tell the person how to feel. - Any time you begin a phrase with “You should be…”, for example, after someone has passed away: “You should be grateful you had so much time with them,” or to an infertile couple, “You should be glad you have so much time together without a baby.” These types of statements suggest their pain is illogical or ill-grounded.
  
  
  

• Offer empty assurances. - Do not make a promise you can’t keep or aren’t sure of. Just because you would like it to be true, doesn’t mean it will be true. (Ex: I’m sure God will heal you; I’m sure you’ll have a baby; I’m sure you’ll find a good job.)
  
  
  

• Try to distract and entertain away the pain. - Some level of distraction can be a helpful respite in the midst of a painful season, but attempts to entertain away pain (as if it will disappear if we just don’t pay attention to it), are unrealistic and unhelpful. The presence of laughter does not mean the absence of pain. Laughter and distraction are valuable—but not when they become tools of denial.
  
  

At the end of such a list (with perhaps a few examples that sound a bit too familiar in your own voice), we can easily say “Well, then, what am I supposed to say?!” Read more about helpful ways to comfort someone in pain here. Hint: It may not actually involve that much talking on your part.

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This post originally appeared on May 3, 2017, and is part of a series on ministering to people in pain. Click here to see all the posts in this series.

Vulnerability Begets Vulnerability

My natural inclination is to maintain the illusion that I have it all together. I would prefer people to look on and see someone who is confident, competent, and self-assured. I would prefer them to see my successes, to perceive perfection, to find no cracks in the facade.

Of course, reality is far from this image I would care to project. My house is not perfectly clean. I get stains on my clothes. I still cannot write words like “maintenance” without verifying their spelling. My child is not always perfectly behaved, and, if I’m honest, neither am I. There are some issues or struggles I have more questions about than answers. I wrestle with self-doubt and impostor syndrome, and there are days when simple things provoke stress and anxiety. And this just scratches the surface. I don’t even fully succeed at consistently admitting my imperfections.

I do not have it all together. And I’ve found that I’m not the only one who benefits when I admit and embrace that fact.

Somewhere along the line, I came to believe that I was best able to help people if I didn’t struggle myself. I assumed confidence would invite people to trust me. But in practice, projected perfection alienates more than it invites. When I need someone to confide in, I want someone who understands. I want someone who can empathize with my weakness, someone who can relate to my pain. I need someone with scars. And other people do as well.

I wrote a book about depression. In it, I share some of my own story, some of my own pain and doubt and darkness. At one time, I would have found that vulnerability to be terrifying, but not any more. Because what I have seen is this: the most common voices I hear when I share my own struggles are not those of criticism and shame, but rather ones who say, “me too.” I’ve seen it play out time and time again: vulnerability begets vulnerability. When I muster up the courage to share my story and my struggles, I see other people find the courage to share theirs as well. Leading with vulnerability creates a safe space for others to enter into, and in that safe space we can take a small step toward healing together.

This doesn’t mean that we don’t need to be discerning about when, what, and to whom we share. The reality is that there are some people with whom it is not “safe” to share our most raw pain. There are also times when we aren’t ready to fully disclose a painful season we’re still in the midst of.* And there are some details we may not find appropriate to share with everyone. But these factors are a call for discernment, not for complete silence, and not for faking perfection. Even if you aren’t fully able to share, even the smallest hint or comment, even being slightly more vulnerable than you would be inclined to be, may be enough to give someone else who’s struggling the indication that you’re someone they can trust, someone else who has been (or still is) where they are.

I do not have it all together. And I can confidently say, neither do you. So admit it. And share your story. Yours may just be the story someone else needs to hear.

*As a writer, I once received what I have found in my own experience to be great advice: Be careful what you share publicly about a painful circumstance you’re still currently in the midst of. Don’t share fully (or possibly at all) publicly until you’ve come to enough resolution of your pain that you don’t need your readers to be your therapist and you will not be deeply affected emotionally based on their response (or lack of one). In that season, I wrote privately, and I shared honestly with trusted friends and briefly with those I was acquainted with, but I waited to write/speak publicly until I was in a more stable place.

The Bible Won't Cure My Depression, But I Still Need It

When you’re depressed, it doesn’t take long until you begin to receive prescriptions for how to fix yourself. They come in many forms. Some of them are pithy feel-good maxims that look like they should be painted onto a piece of distressed barn board: Just choose joy. Think positively. Count your blessings. Some come in the form of diet, exercise, or lifestyle advice: Have you tried cutting (insert food item here) out of your diet? Nature will be your healer; you just need to get outside. Have you tried (insert exercise program, alternative medicine product, or lifestyle fad here)? And, unfortunately, if you’re a Christian, some of these prescriptions come in the form of spirituality: Just pray more. Spend more time reading your Bible. Just have faith.

Often this advice, even if well-intentioned, causes more pain than good. Instead of hearing our story and keeping company with us in the midst of our pain, such advice tries to shout it away. It assumes that depression (or any other ailment) can be cured with a silver bullet approach instead of acknowledging its complexity. It also places a burden of guilt on the person who is suffering—implying that their lingering sorrow is a sign they’re doing something wrong or simply not trying hard enough.

But sometimes such harmful advice does carry seeds of truth. For example, for many people, exercise does help to manage depression. I know many also find being outdoors in a natural setting to be helpful. But we acknowledge that these lifestyle elements are not the only agents in our movement toward healing. They’re important, but they are not a one-stop-shop for mental and emotional wellness. They come in balance with other practices as well—like going to therapy, taking medication, or getting good sleep. When it comes to living with mental illness, I see spiritual practices in a similar way.

To put it simply: Reading the Bible will not cure my depression. I believe those who have reduced mental health to a consistent Bible study plan are severely misguided. Bible study will not prevent me from getting cancer or being in an accident—and it will not provide a guaranteed preventative strategy against mental illness either.

There are some people, I know, who would take issue with this. Some people seem to think that saying the Bible won’t cure depression calls into question the Bible’s authority or effectiveness. They think that if I say we shouldn’t suggest the Bible (or prayer or any other host of practices) as the cure, that I don’t think depressed people should read the Bible. Far from it. But we cannot reduce the hope of the Bible to a how-to-cure manual or a book-sized pain reliever. It’s not what the Bible is meant to be, and treating it as such does it a great disservice.

Let’s go back to the example of cancer. When someone receives a cancer diagnosis, I would imagine you are unlikely to suggest that a more vigorous spiritual life would cure them. In such situations, we encourage them in their relationships with medical professionals and in their suggested treatments. We support them with lifestyle changes they may need to make. We eagerly step in to meet pressing physical needs, like providing rides or meals or child-minding services.

But I would imagine that you would still believe the Bible would offer them comfort during a painful and uncertain season. In fact, if you are a Christian, you would probably see the Bible as an essential piece of navigating that journey—but you wouldn’t claim it as the cure for cancer. We can draw similar parallels about the Bible’s role when we face the death of a loved one, the loss of a job, or any host of physical illnesses or personal tragedies. Mental illness is no different.

I believe the Bible is incredibly helpful when we’re depressed—and I think Christians who struggle with depression will benefit from its truths. But it is beneficial in the same way that it is beneficial to the cancer patient wrestling with physical fragility, the new widow awash with grief, or the mom wondering how she’ll make ends meet. I do not believe that the “benefit” the Bible offers is about instantaneously removing us from pain—but about providing us with hope and truth and comfort to sustain us in the midst of that pain.

In the midst of my depression, as I turn to the Bible, I find a God who promises to be near to the brokenhearted and suffering, even if I can’t “feel” his presence. I find a God who consistently uses people who struggle like me—so I know that depression does not mean I’m disqualified from being an effective part of his kingdom. I find a Savior who himself suffered and wept and bled—so I know He understands my agony. I find a Spirit who intercedes for me when I don’t have words—so I know that God is still near me and hearing me, even when my words run out.

In the Bible I find a God who makes it his work to create beauty out of ashes in the most unexpected and miraculous ways. I find a God who gives me permission to bring my doubt and fear and anger and utter weariness before him. I find a God who refused to relinquish the world to sin and all its effects—and who set in motion a grand redemption of not only my soul but also my broken body and broken brain chemistry. I find a God who has promised to make all things new.

This is a hope robust enough to sustain me when I have no strength left to hope. It is an anchor when all seems lost and when darkness seems to have won. It will not cure me—but it will give me a reason to take one more breath. And that is enough.

Breath Prayer: A Prayer to Quiet My Anxious Heart

When I am deeply stressed or anxious or experiencing an overwhelming emotion like grief, I can feel it in my body. My muscles are tense, and my shoulders rise towards my ears as they tighten. I can feel my heartbeat elevated and can nearly hear my blood pulsing. I feel jittery and restless, sometimes to the point my fingers tremble. My stomach churns. And my thoughts—they surge and shift, taking me down too many rabbit trails, reluctant to quiet and still.

I know I’m not the only one who has felt this way. I would dare say all of us have at some time or another. Some of us, who live more chronically with anxiety or who walk through a prolonged season of grief or trauma, feel it more often than we would care to admit.

When I feel like this, I want to bring myself to God and put my anxious, hurting heart before him, but the physical and emotional strain of my body in the moment seems to rise and suffocate the words as I try to form them. Sometimes I don’t even know what words to pray. In moments such as these, I have found a particular model of prayer to be helpful: breath prayer.

Breath prayer has been a practice of Christians for centuries. It is a simple, one sentence prayer paired to the rhythm of your breath. As you inhale, call on a name or characteristic of God, and as you exhale, express the desire or need of your heart. For example, (inhale) God of all comfort, (exhale) bring your peace. Continue to breathe deeply and repeat your prayer. Come back to it for as long and as often as you need to throughout the day.

I find in moments when my emotions and stress response run high, a breath prayer can calm my body, my mind, and my spirit. It invites me to stop, to quiet my beating heart and frantic thoughts in God’s presence. It also focuses my heart on God—on who he is, on what he offers, on his nearness to me. As my breath deepens, and my mind continues to meditate on the Lord, I find myself quieting. It doesn’t solve all my problems or permanently fix my emotional state, but it does invite me into a moment of quiet. It helps me recenter on the God who hears, on the God who is with me.

We live in a tumultuous and chaotic world. Stress and anxiety will come. And when they do, when you feel your thoughts and your body becoming overwhelmed and paralyzed, pause, breathe, and pray. Carry your breath prayer with you into those moments. And rest in the fact that you are loved, seen, and heard as his beloved child.

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I would encourage you to choose your own breath prayer, based on what the needs and desires of your heart are in this moment. But here are a few examples to help you.

• Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me.

• Breath of Life, breathe on me.

• Father, let me feel your presence.

• Good Shepherd, show me your way.

• Lord Jesus, let your Kingdom come.

• Lord, in your mercy, bring your healing.

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Do you pray using a breath prayer? What breath prayer has been helpful or meaningful to you?