There is no silence as quiet or darkness as deep as the silent darkness you experience when you’re depressed. It’s a numbing experience that can make even breathing as difficult a task as climbing the Eiffel Tower with your bare hands.

A Quiet Challenge

A few months ago, I felt the Holy Spirit leading me to read Job. I was hesitant, I admit, because though I had a good feeling I’d find a mutual connection, a comrade in suffering, I was apprehensive that reading about Job’s suffering would potentially make me depressed (or at the very least worsen what I was already feeling).

I was right.

In reading Job, I found a friend nestled between the Biblical pages who understood my silent pain of trying to function while your body repeatedly betrays you daily. Over and over and over. I found myself wanting to punch his friends for their “toxic Christian positivity” (i.e. “you must have done something wrong…you need to repent and pray more…”).

My pain even found its way into my coding:

Additionally, God’s been challenging me to be more honest with Him. “Stop performing,” He says. “Just come to Me.”

It’s getting harder to stop performing, harder to surrender because, from my vantage point, nothing’s changing. No open doors for additional employment. No healing. I’m still chronically puking. Doctors claim the underlying cause is stress and anxiety. They don’t have an explanation yet. My family tends to agree since I typically get sick during the work week, less on the weekends (but it does happen; I got sick this weekend). They encourage me to pray for God’s wisdom and direction for my life, put more effort into finding a job in my field, and tell me that I need to “have faith” for my healing. Their encouragement feels like accusation.

I don’t even think I know how to have faith anymore. I mean, I can say, “God, I trust You. I know You have a plan for me,” but when medical bills don’t stop, when other people’s expectations aren’t met, when job rejection emails come every week, when decision paralysis becomes my reality— when the anxiety of puking water before work, or chips on my lunch break, prevents me from doing basic stuff like eating or taking care of myself—I can’t help wonder if this—actively trying to practice faith in the midst of suffering—is just a cognitive behavioral exercise I’m forcing myself to do (and failing) or if it’s an intellectual discipline or… if I’m missing something?

An Honest Response

“Yahweh, is there purpose in this pain or are You just sitting in Heaven watching me suffer? Do You shake Your head when, after puking breakfast and lunch for the 4th time this week, I choose unhealthy coping mechanisms as pseudo-comforts? Do You care? You could stop this—heal me, open a door for another job—but You’re obviously choosing not to; it’s hard to believe You are for me.

“I feel incapable of doing anything good. I’ve squandered the purpose You had for me—whatever that is. I keep asking for guidance and wisdom, and I’m repeatedly met with silence. This pain-filled season is too much for me to bear and faith feels foreign. Are You still here or have You abandoned me?

“If You are, at all, merciful like they say You are, like I know You to be, please snatch the breath from my body. I know You have the power to do it. You have the power to sustain the entire world so this would be easy for You… Please?”

I have prayed variations of this prayer for months for various reasons.

El Roi (God who sees me) hasn’t responded, not audibly anyway. Not a “no,” “wait,” or even a “not yet.” I think it’s because He knows me; we’ve been through this before over the years…

But that doesn’t make any of this easier.

Telling myself the truth is vital right now, even, or especially, when my soul doesn’t feel encouraged or energized, when I feel closed in on every side—vocationally, health-wise, relationally, psychologically, and spiritually—but I know it’s as necessary as eating food every day (even if it’s beginning to feel like a chore).

my soul is bereft of peace; I have forgotten what happiness is

Lamentations 3:17, ESV

It’s hard to see Yahweh through the darkness. Lamentations 3:17 has been my heart’s cry this week, past 2 months, and today.

A Reluctant Surrender

I used to write out prayers and send them to my friends and family. They seemed to be blessed by them.

While going through old text messages, I found a prayer that, on a random Monday, I texted to a friend who was going through a dark time. I had to pray that same prayer myself before starting work this morning.

The irony is not lost on me. Even now, I feel like crying.

The prayer I texted (and subsequently prayed) is as follows:

El Roi,

You are the God who sees all; You see me. You know my plight. Be with me now, in this weary hour, and remind me of You and the truth of who You are.

You are the God of the downtrodden; You are the seeker of those who are in Despair’s pit so deep they yearn for the sweet reprieve of death. But You, Jehovah-shammah, are sweeter, more comforting, and closer to us than our next breaths, nearer than our own thoughts. Please hold me in Your arms and do not release Your grip. Hide me from the enemy even as I doubt and fight You. Even if I bend or scream (silently or otherwise), or lie in one spot all the day and night long, praying some variation of “God please come get me” or wonder why You’ve seemingly abandoned me, do not remove Your hand from me, Lord.

Remind me that You are the Conductor of my orchestrated life and even in these elongated requiem moments, You will make a reprise.

In the meantime, be gentle with me in this darkness. And help me not hide my face from Your light when it comes.

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit I pray,

Amen