Easter and The Sufferings of this Present Time

1:30 AM, a silent stillness engulfs the world. 

It's transitioned from Holy Saturday to Easter Sunday.  Jesus would be finishing up his mission to Hades, where he preached the Gospel to those who were captive among the dead, there.  "The Harrowing of Hell" is what it has been called.  Not talked about much though it is in our Apostles' Creed.  The basic belief is that Christ, in between the time he died on the cross and was raised from the dead, descended to the place of the dead and shared the Good News with them.  Always an opportunity for Grace.

Meanwhile, on this side of death we await Easter morning.

Romans 8, a great Easter text, is speaking to me this morning:

18 I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. 19 For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God; 20 for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope 21 that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. 22 We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; 23 and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies.

 The sufferings of this present time.  It is the nature of suffering that though it is always somewhat transient, it seems in the moment to be almost eternal.  "Groaning in labor pains. . ."  What a perfect image of suffering.  Four times Karla went through labor.  From the first braxton hicks contractions through the final push it was always, an extended time.  In that moment, the suffering seemed as though it would never stop.  In hindsight, while compared with the life we've shared since then with our children, the suffering is rightfully seen as just a momentary affliction. 

I've been away from this blog.  I gave up writing this particular blog as I was busy with my Lenten preparations and needed the time to write my second sermon, each week. 

But there has been another factor in play.  I am well.  Well except for the fact that it is 1:30 in the morning and I'm up and at it writing.  Aside from that. . .

 we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies.

Easter.  Its about the redemption of our bodies.  The healing of our souls.  And not only us, but the whole creation.  Earth's own scars will heal.  I write those words and imagine the Berkeley Pit in Butte.  Healed.

There is no lack of images portraying the suffering and death of Christ.  His glorious resurrection and the redeemed body of the Risen Lord have escaped our imagination and representation. 

We've seen death and know its appearance.

We have not seen resurrection.

Perhaps that is what makes hope so difficult for those who suffer.  The sufferings of the present time are so real.  We understand that experience, as horrific as can be.  And yet while we dwell within our suffering, we have no concept of what resurrection and healing truly means because we have not yet experienced that.

Yet the early light creeps up over the horizon this Easter morning.  We are tickled by hope. 

I am aware that my life has likely entered the third trimester. The burdens will continue to increase as the time grows nearer.  But what is yet to come?  What does birth hold for us.  What will the redemption of our bodies look like?

 I write these words from the very spot my father died.  I have a sense he didn't look back. 

Grief or Hope.  That seems to be the only two possibilities with which to mark the passing of each day of our lives.  Grief reigns if we are consumed with a sense of the finality of death, and life's end.  Hope reigns when we believe the best is yet to come. 

And so I declare, this early morning before the light dissipates the darkness:

Christ is Risen!

He is Risen, Indeed!

Alleluia! 

Me Too

It's hard for me to fathom, and it was one of the hardest things for me to admit, that I was a victim.  The abusive relationship took place beginning the summer following fifth grade, and the relationship lasted through my sophomore year in college, though the abuse had waned sometime before that.  It took another twenty years for me to recognize those experiences as abusive.  Rape would have been easier.  So obvious.  Recognizable.  Help would have been sought out.  And received.  It wouldn't have lasted.  And I wouldn't have been as consensual.

I listen to music on my way to work.  Jesus Christ Superstar has been on my playlist this last week or so.  I love that musical.  I love the music.  And then I remembered that the original album that I had was a gift from Tony.

That summer, a year after we had arrived in Irene, SD I had become close friends with the next door neighbor boy, Jimmy F.  We were pushing the limits.  Some of the adventures I remember:  Accidentally breaking the flagpole at the city ball park and sneaking out at night to dispose of it on the roof of the gymnasium; attempting to break into the City Bar where we hoped we might get a six pack or two; and getting picked up for shoplifting at White Drug in Yankton.  This last episode caused the wrath of my parents to rain down on me, resulted in my terminating any further relationship with Jimmy, and resulted in my being emotionally isolated and alone.  (I remember the night following the arrest.  We returned home from the police station and my older brother was home from Augustana Academy where he attended high school with a couple of friends- Mary Harum and her brother.  Mary went on to become Miss South Dakota, and  eventually Mary Hart of TV fame.  That my moment was witnessed by others added to the shame.)

Enter Tony.  Tony was a Sicilian from Long Island.  How he had ended up at Dakota Wesleyan University, nobody knows, including him.  But now he had been hired to be our new band director.  My desperate need for a friend found its fulfillment in him.  One of the first things that I had shared with him was my shame at what had happened the last summer.  He laughed.  My father had declared that I would forever be tainted with a criminal record.  Tony laughed it off.  It was an absolution.  And I knew right there and then that I had a friend.

"Laugh In" was the rage.  Tony invited me to watch it with him.  Every Monday night.  Lily Tomlin was his favorite.  He even went so far as to attempt to get her to come to Irene for our Pop Concert.  I'd sit at Tony's side during those episodes.  Shortly, the physical contact began.  He was Sicilian, he would explain.  Craved physical contact.  And so his hand would find its way to my belly, skin to skin.  I felt a bit like a puppy, getting petted.  It was a small price to pay for the friendship I so desperately needed.

We became inseparable.  One of the things Tony set out to do was fatten me up.  I had sprouted about 6 or 7 inches that summer between fifth and sixth grade, but hadn't added any weight.  Monday nights, after eating a full meal at home, we'd eat again.  Tony was obese.  And short.  I was neither.  And the T-bone steaks he fed me did little to add to my weight.  As a special treat, I would make Rhubarb Delight for us, a rich custard and meringue desert.  We'd finish off a 9 x 13 pan in an evening.  He'd gain weight, me, not so much.

He switched me from playing Baritone Horn to Tuba.  I just wanted to please.  So I took on the challenge.  He would take me to the neighboring town for lessons.  When everything was said and done, my efforts to please him resulted in my being selected for All State choir four times, Honors Choir my senior year, and All State Band three times.

On the weekends we would venture out to Sioux Falls where he often had to go to the music store.  Movies were the treat.  He took me to "Straw Dogs", "the Graduate", the "Exorcist", and "Clockwork Orange", to name a few.  I also was given a monthly copy of Playboy, and what more could an adolescent boy want.  It was 1969.  One of the pieces of pornography he gave me was titled simply '69', the content of which you can imagine.  He also "educated me" about sex, including what women like, etc..

I learned to drive his Pontiac Grand Prix, when that was a individual luxury car.  Leopold he had named it.

And we sat watching "Laugh In".  It was during one episode, after he had questioned me about whether or not I was circumcised, that his hand slid down my belly where it often was, into my pants to feel my genitals.  "Yup, you are!"  "You fag!  You Queer!  I'm telling my Dad and you'll lose your job!"  An apology and a defense.  I let it go, his friendship being so important to me.

When I later described my experiences with a psychologist, he classified much of what I experienced as 'grooming behavior'.  It would have escalated.  But Tony moved on.  I'd travel to his new home so that I could take Tuba lessons in Sioux Falls, which he had arranged.  Then came college, and a distancing.

I met Karla during the summer following my freshman year in  college.  Our romance flourished long distance, and I arranged to transfer from Augustana to Pacific Lutheran for my junior year.  At the end of my sophomore year I called Tony to let him know I was leaving.  He came to town, we went out for dinner.  I had grown my beard, a goatee at the time, quite scraggly, and he was not happy.  "It hides your cute face!"  I've never shaved since, and never will.

The last I heard of Tony was about 1990 when my sister had informed me that he had died from complications of his diabetes.  It was at that moment I realized that our relationship had not been healthy.  And yet at the same time, I had received so much affirmation and affection.  Abuse is the price those starved for intimacy are willing to pay.  What tipped me off to the abusive nature of the relationship was when I realized that I would kill anyone who did that to my children.  Well, at least press charges.

I set out on a crusade.  During our time in Gig Harbor my pastor confessed to sexual misconduct.  Though he had been my closest friend since Tony I saw to it that he was defrocked.  I was suspicious of my internship supervisor, merely red flags going off.  As a young pastor, the concern continued.  The most important sermon I preached during my first parish ended up opening the door for a woman to leave her abusive husband of twenty five years and become free.  Venturing into dangerous territory I hoped that I could save many more.  My manic side had started to kick in.

At one time I became convinced that healthy intimacy, with God, self, and others, was the key to freeing people from abuse.  When sex is used to achieve intimacy, as opposed to being the result of proper intimacy in an appropriate relationship, abuse is the potential.  I would write the definitive book.  In retrospect, my deepest fear in ministry was that my own brokenness might result in my doing harm to others.  Though I've never had sex with anyone but my wife, I've been concerned about my need for intimacy, and the potential that the quest itself might have been abusive.  I hope not.  But it is a fear.

I wonder about the long term impact of these experiences.  To what extent might they have shaped my psyche?  One clinical psychologist suggested that the harm caused by long term moderate but chronic abuse was potentially greater than that which results from more intense and acute but short lived abuse.  One of the reasons is that often the victim doesn't realize the abusive nature of what is being experienced, and so willingly accepts it, leading eventually to even greater shame.

I didn't deserve it.  No child does.  Recognizing this was important for healing.

But believe me I understand why gymnasts would tolerate the abuse of an Olympic doctor.  Small price to pay for the opportunity to wear gold around one's neck.

It is not good for the man to be alone.  Loneliness, deprivation of health intimacy, a deep need to connect, also pave the pathway to an abusive relationship.  Its one of the reasons so many victims are unable to leave.  The affection, even when accompanied by abuse, is better than the isolation, especially because at this point one is most often not at all at peace with one's self.

The one thing I continue to resist is having my life defined by the abuse I experienced.  I can affirm that I am more than a victim.  Yet, at the same time, those experiences are part of the fabric of my life.  One of the things I am most angry about, deep within, is that my father's stern warning that my shoplifting had permanently damaged my character had created within me the circumstance that made me ripe for an abusive relationship, and that, is what truly damaged my soul.

Those years of adolescence were formative years.  They impacted me.  Sometimes in the aftermath one can only hope for healing and resilience.

No referral needed

"I'll be retiring March 31st."  "You are doing just fine."

These were the words of my psychologist this month.  His retirement is welcome for him, though he admitted to some ambivalence.  He will miss the intimacy of his therapeutic relationships.  And it signals for me a milestone.  What he did not say was that we'd need to get me referred to another therapist.  He reflected on all his notes from the last year, and remarked how stable I'd been and affirmed that I'm in a healthy place.  No referral necessary.  I'm good to go.  It's time to fly solo.

I admit to some ambivalence.  The professional intimacy of a therapeutic relationship is a friendship of sorts that is rare.  It is not an overstatement to say that there is no one else on the face of this earth that knows more about me.  He has probed with me the depths of my soul and psyche and throughout it all has been an affirming, challenging, and healing presence.  But now there will be one more session, and closure.  It's time to fly solo.

I will continue seeing my psychiatrist.  This is necessary because of the medication regimen I am on.  So flying solo isn't totally alone.  And should I need it, I will trust her to refer me to another therapist.

For now though, no referral is needed.

I admit to feeling a bit like a kid, learning to ride a bike, who realizes that dad has let go and is no longer balancing the bike.  You know the feeling.  Simultaneously crying out "wait, don't let go!" but also being thrilled to realize that you are riding on your own.

When my disability benefits terminated I had similar emotions.  The process of termination was, in my opinion, cruel, without warning, and could have been handled much better.  And with the termination of benefits came the loss of the safety net that had sustained us through the tough times. But, there was also a positive.  Their evaluation was that I was no longer disabled.  You are good to return to the workforce.

And then there is a part of me that feels the need to cry out to the world "I'm OK!"

Part of the stigma of dealing with a mental illness diagnosis is that concerns linger.  So the insurance company determines I'm no longer disabled in any way.  My therapist determines that I'm healthy and do not need any further therapy.  But what about the world?  What about my family?  What about the Church?

For the last five years I've been out of the fire, so to speak.  For the purposes of my healing I've been sheltered in relatively low stress situations.  An unanswered question is whether the state of my health is such that I can engage again in more challenging situations without compromising everything that has been achieved.  Yet the fear of relapse can itself be disabling.  But it is only a fear.  And I hear the voice of Jesus say "Fear not, for I am with you."

Some clarity is emerging.  I know what I want.  I want to complete my years in my vocation serving to the full extent of my abilities.  I do not want to simply fade away.  I do not want to be restricted to semi-retirement until I can fully retire.  The bottom line is I'm probably healthier now than I've ever been, and I crave the opportunity to serve on that basis.

Yet there is another dimension.  To accept life on life's terms.  I do not know what life will offer me.  The fact is that even if I had been totally healthy up to now, I'm 61 years old.  There is age discrimination.  I may envision working till I'm 70, but many employers would view me as a shortimer.  It may be that my desire to reenter the workforce, that my hopes to cap off my career with a challenging and rewarding call, maybe thwarted by the two strikes against me, my age, and my history of mental illness.  That may be the reality.  I think that if it is so, its unfortunate.  But life is not always fair.

Confidence.  Health is one issue.  Confidence is another.  So my psychologist has determined that I'm in a healthy place.  He is confident in my ability.  Am I?  And have I been stable enough, long enough, that others are confident too?

If someone is cancer free for five years, or so, a degree of confidence emerges.  One might even dare say that one is 'cured'.  One may also stop thinking of oneself as a cancer patient and start thinking of oneself as a survivor.

I wonder if I'll ever experience that as one with a mental health diagnosis.

My official diagnosis regarding my chemical dependency is "in remission".  Is that a status the world will allow regarding being bipolar.

My son is a chemical engineer.  One of the things he points out is there is no difference chemically, between man made compounds and natural compounds.  Chemistry is chemistry.

So I am healthy today.  What that means is that the chemistry within my brain is balanced.  For me that is achieved through medication.  But chemistry is chemistry.  That I have the correct balance in chemicals in my brain is all that really matters.  What doesn't matter is whether that occurs 'naturally', or through medication.  Chemistry is chemistry.

I find hope in that.  And regardless what life throws at me, I know I'm in a better place to deal with it.  Yes, I wonder what the future holds for me, vocationally.  Too soon to tell for sure.  So I tend to the task at hand.  One of the things I do to find meaning and purpose is to write.  Many of you read this because of our friendship.  But I actually don't write for you.  I have received feedback from others who are bipolar, or who deal with other mental health issues, that has affirmed what I am doing as being genuinely helpful for them.  And so I see this as a calling.

Perhaps, writing from a place of health and wellbeing after having negotiated through the tough times of being mentally ill is the higher calling that I have.  I offer it up as hope for those still in the throws of the disease.  I didn't die.  It hasn't destroyed me.  And the fears associated with it were not real, they were just emotions.  Hope.

Good Grief

Dad died.  Unexpectedly.  Well, he was 94 years old and can one ever die unexpectedly at 94.  Probably not.  It's just that up until the last day he was doing fine for a man his age.  He was able to go for his walks.  His mind was as sharp as could be.

Dad came to live with us for the last month.  We'd hoped it might have been more.  He had shared that following Mom's death he was becoming increasingly lonely.  That's the problem of growing older.  One by one the companions of your life die, and you are left either seeking other companionship, or resolving to make the best of it alone.  I determined that the last thing I'd want would be is a lonely old man when I died, and so I invited Dad to make his home with us, surrounded by family.

I think the last few months were the best one could hope for.  This summer he had spent most of time at the lake place, having the opportunity to see all of  his children there.  And then he was with us.  In the end, all was well with Dad.  Is all well with me?

I find myself wondering how my grief will play out when coupled with being bipolar.

I am deeply grateful for the last evening with Dad.  Thanks in part to his hearing aids being cleaned up and checked out, he was able to converse normally.  The opportunity was not lost.  Prior to my going to bed he came out and asked if we could talk.  What is your favorite Bible verse?  As the conversation progressed Dad did something unusual.  He made the effort to get up out of his chair and come over and sit next to me on the couch.  There was a closeness we had not experienced together, perhaps ever.  We were at one and the same time father and son, and colleagues in ministry.  "I hope we can have many more conversations like this, Dave."  "Me too, Dad."

I only wish I'd said "I love you" or gave him a hug then.  I didn't.

And so the next morning the grieving began.  I was able to sit with him following his death.  Now, too late, the "I love you" was spoken.  A kiss goodbye.

And I wrote the sermon for his  funeral, based on the conversation we had shared.  Next came the fulfilling of a promise I made to him, which was to make an urn for him and mom.  Mom's urn was too small to contain both their ashes, too large to allow room for a second urn in the niche, so the urn I turned above is large enough for both of them.  As I began the process of building it, tears flowed.

I'd spent the summer remodeling the house in preparation for his moving in.  This was different.  So final.  And a goodbye.  And yet one more way to say "I love you, Dad."

One of the thoughts that came to me, with the death of the last of our parents, was that I might be next.  I am at the very least part of the 'oldest generation' in the family.  Other thoughts as well have been stirred.  Might this be the last time all of the siblings are together at one time?  Oh, we'll see each other individually, but will it be possible in the future to all be together?

Dad's hat and coat still hang in the hallway.  I want them there.  For a while at least.

There had been a distance between us that needn't have been there between a Father and Son.  One would think that my having followed him into the ministry would have changed that, but the distance remained.  Part of that distance was simply a symptom of being Norwegian Americans.  We're not known for being overly affectionate.

But if I'm totally honest, the distance between us goes way back to my childhood.  I was arrested for  shoplifting.  Dad came down hard on me and declared that I'd permanently damaged my character, that I'd always be a criminal from that time forth and forever more.  I turned elsewhere for affection ever since.

Part of the grief I experience now is concerning not his death, but the missed opportunity to have a better and richer relationship with him throughout his life.  It could have been better.  But sometimes the emotional scars of childhood are difficult to overcome.  Part of the challenge for me is that when I turned elsewhere for affection, the first person to offer it was a band director who subsequently sexually abused me.  I had so longed for affection that I was unable to recognize the abuse for what it was until over 20 years later.  It was not until my own children were the age I was when  I was abused, that my eyes were opened.  What if someone treated my children the way I'd been treated.  "I'd kill them!" was the thought that came to mind.  Well, at least press charges.

Part of the distance between my Dad and I was because the stern judgment Dad made of my character after being arrested for shoplifting set me up for the abuse that was to follow.  Father's are supposed to protect their children.  I think I've forgiven him.  But that's easier said than done.  There is something to be said for years of psychological therapy.

Now there is just grief.  Both for the Dad I lost, and the Dad I never had.  I wonder what affect Dad's losing his own mother during his childhood had on his emotional development.  Alice had contracted tuberculosis, spent time in a sanitarium, and then subsequently died when he was about 12, curiously enough, about the same time in his life as the abuse occurred in my life.  Two wounded souls.

And we both found ourselves called into the ministry to care for other wounded souls.

There's something fearful about grief when one is bipolar.  Will it trigger something far worse.  I've achieved functional stability, but grief can destabilize.  Will the medications I'm on prevent a relapse?  Will I be offered the opportunity to experience 'good grief'?  Or will circumstances rage out of control.  Thankfully, I've maintained therapeutic relationships.  There is some comfort in that.

In so many ways Dad lived a remarkable life.  Much of what I am is a reflection of the gifts he and Mom gave us throughout the years.  I've joked that I inherited my Mom's bad knees, and my Dad's bad heart (we've both had mitral valve surgery, a genetic condition).  But there is much good I've received, as well.  My resourcefulness and independence are gifts of my parents.  I'm a builder like my Dad.  And faith.  In the midst of all the hurt in life, I have faith.  Dad's gift.  And that is sufficient.

An Easter Faith in a Bipolar World

It was four years ago on Easter that I wrote my letter of resignation from First Lutheran in Sandpoint, ID.  It was an exhilarating experience, actually, as I shed the weight of the burden that my ministry there had become.  It was as if I had died, and now was made alive.

My life changed course.  What I determined was that I would now apply myself wholeheartedly to my next enterprise, Olsons WoodWorks.  Optimism overflowed.  I  had been in business before, back in the 80's in Gig Harbor, WA.  Only this time would be different.  I would have the courage to make the investments needed to be successful.  I immediately set out to purchase a CNC router, at a cost of over $50,000, as well as upgrading some of my other equipment.  Furthermore, I invited my son to enter the business with me.  Together we'd make a killing.

I had not yet been diagnosed as being bipolar.  That would come shortly.

And what I certainly didn't realize was that the resurgence of my activity, and renewal of my spirit was not a 'resurrection' experience, where one who was once in the grip of death, in my case having nearly died, was now made alive.  I was simply cycling into a full blown manic phase.  Depression set back in in short order, though.  First some neighbors complained about the noise being generated by my CNC.  And second, the phone didn't ring off the hook with orders.

The depression and lack of work became debilitating.  There were days I could do little else than lay on the couch.  My productivity in the shop was greatly compromised.  The business in the end was a failure, though I was able to create some great pieces.  We simply couldn't generate enough income to pay wages, let alone realize a profit.  Thankfully, at that time I remained on disability so that we had enough to survive on.  

Another Easter dawns this morning.  And life has changed.

There was not a resounding clap of thunder, and a wild swing from the depths of depression into a manic high that marked my regaining my life.  Rather, having been medicated with Lamictal, my climb out of depression was a long and arduous journey, one day at a time.  I had my disability benefits abruptly terminated, and that forced me to seek employment which I found in a cabinet shop.  At times the work was shear drudgery.  But that discipline, combined with plenty of therapy and medication resulted in the end with achieving a balanced mood, not too high, not too low.

I'm now able to resume my ministry.  A highlight for me these last two weeks was being able once again to preach extemporaneously.  No notes.  No 'safety net'.  Just me and the Word, guided by the Spirit.  And with it a feeling that "I'm Back!"

Such is my Easter Faith in this Bipolar World.  The powers of death have been defeated.  Life is victorious.  Faith is restored.

Its not just about keeping the manic and depressed cycles at bay, it is that these powers of darkness and death have been overcome by the gift of life.

For this I am deeply grateful.  

Christ is Risen, he is risen indeed!  Alleluia!

And we whose lives are hidden in Christ in God, are also raised with him.  Alleluia.  Amen.

Being Me, And Only Me

Having gone through as much psychotherapy as I have, I'd like to think that I've established better personal boundaries.  I am growing in my understanding about who I am and who I am not.  Even more so, I like to believe that I've become much more comfortable just being me, and only me.

Over the years I've spent in ministry I've struggled with being torn between simply being me, and attempting to be that which will please others, specifically my parishioners who often seemed to have some quite explicit expectations about who I should be.  For better or for worse, I am who I am and there is little to be gained and much to be lost in trying to be anything else.

Case in point.  Throughout much of my career I kept my political inclinations strictly to myself, and with the exception of those who worked at the polling places, no one knew whether I was a registered Democrat or Republican.  Living in Idaho, a very Republican part of the country, populated with some very conservative, right wing Republicans, I often felt it was a matter of professional survival to keep my Democratic inclinations under wrap.

And then there was the day that I shared with a trusted parishioner, "Gee, I wonder how they would react if they knew I was a Democrat?"  The response was straight forward.  "Oh, we've all figured that out long ago."

One encounters some risks with being honest about one's identity.  Especially in this highly polarized climate that we live in.  "I've never understood how one can be both a Christian and a Democrat, especially a pastor."  Actual quote from a parishioner.  Part of my mission, I've decided is to challenge such presumptions.  

Other areas of my life also have found me drawn to being very open and forthright about who I am.  I write this blog about being Bipolar.  There is a lot of stigma about being mentally ill, even when one is well treated.  And yet if people like me are not open about our struggles how will other people ever come to appreciate that mental illness is not some grave condition that is to be feared.  I live a quite normal life now.  I'm bipolar but functioning.  Its good for people to know that.

Neither am I ashamed to admit I'm a recovering alcoholic.  I should have been ashamed, perhaps, when I was drinking like a fish.  But, I wasn't.  I'll always remember the words of an alcoholic that led an AA Meeting in my congregation in Baker.  I was expressing my concern about maintaining their privacy and anonymity as they met, and he responded, "The whole world saw me when I was drunk, why would I care if they see me now that I'm sober."

There is a risk about being honest about who you are.  You might experience rejection.  But if people never know who you are you will never experience true acceptance either.  Perhaps you will be able to create a public image of yourself that is 'acceptable', but to the extent that image is not who you really are, they are not accepting the real you.  

And so I've resolved to rise or fall on the basis of who I am, and only who I am.  People who have read this blog over the years have a pretty good idea of who I am.  Although there is a lot I have not included here just because its not part of the focus of the blog.  But of that material that is included, know this, that I've sought to be as honest as I can be.

In the end, we only have one life to live.  Given that one shot at life, I believe it is better to live our own life, than pretending to be someone other than who we are.  That would be a waste of everything.

Where can I flee from your presence?

Psalm 139:7-12

Where can I go from your spirit?

Or where can I flee from your presence?

If I ascend to heaven, you are there;

if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.

If I take the wings of the morning

and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,

even there your hand shall lead me,

and your right hand shall hold me fast.

If I say, "Surely the darkness shall cover me,

and the light around me become night,"

even the darkness is not dark to you;

the night is as bright as the day,

for darkness is as light to you.

Would that we might always have the perspective that time's passage affords.  There would be less despair, little doubt, more comfort, and the assurance that God is there.  Yet such an awareness awaits the morning sun.  When one is in the thick of it, one's perspective is obscured.

As one who is bipolar one learns to loathe both the height and the depth  of our experience.  Soaring with a manic euphoria is to be feared.  And the descent into the depths brings despair and a sense of abandonment.  In the name of a healthy balance these are shunned as an aberration of a disease.

And in doing so major segments of our lives are dismissed as symptoms.  Successful treatment is measured in the degree to which one maintains the healthy balance of the center.  Yet I would not be who I am were it not for the highs and the lows that have defined my existence.  This is the other balancing act.  On the one hand we yearn for that blessed normalcy that health brings.  Yet on the other, there is a recognition of the presence of God in both the heights and depths of life's experiences.

When I have been in the midst of a manic phase the presence of God was palpable.  Too much.  A delusion?  Neurons misfiring in the old noggin.  

And as darkness covered me like the night a powerful sense of being forsaken by God took over.  Where was he?  And how could he just let me descend to such depths?  And how long could I endure the awful silence of God?

It is only with time that the Psalmist sings of God's ever present love.

As those who have come out of the abyss, who have ascended to the heights and leaned over the precipice, yet survived, there is a holy calling to bear witness to the loving hand of God that sustained them.  And so, today, I'm at a place that I can sing the song.

And perhaps it will be that song that sustains a fellow traveler on this  bipolar journey until they too, can hum the melody.

It's not just that God brought us through the heights and the depths of our existence, it is that God was present in those experiences.  Would that we could only see it at the time.