When Trouble Comes

“I live to show his power, who once did bring my joys to weep, and now my griefs to sing.” – preacher George Herbert

“For it is you who light my lamp; the Lord my God lightens my darkness.” – Psalm 18:28

For three months earlier this year, I went through a period of emotional depression. I have always had a perennially optimistic disposition, and I am not only not very emotional, but tend to be easily critical of people who are. Dave is equally optimistic and even less moody (he is in a bad mood maybe once a year). Needless to say, this was quite a novel experience for both of us.

The whole thing happened very gradually. Without really knowing how it happened, I came unquestionably to a place where I found myself living with constant sadness and depressed feelings I could not shake. At heart I was lonely and homesick. I think we had strategized for this move for so long, then been so caught up in the logistics of settling in, that I had never really allowed myself to say that I was sad. I missed my parents, my friends. I missed the culture back East. I missed my old sense of self. 

It all sounds kind of inane, almost childish, but it was very real in my feelings, whatever my head thought, and for once in my life my feelings would not be overruled. I cried every day. I never felt like eating much. It felt like a big effort to connect with anyone. I didn’t feel like talking. It was hard to receive advice. I felt insecure about how people perceived me. I recall standing off to one side at a school party one morning, next to the stroller with the younger two, feeling like here I am yet I don’t belong and I don’t feel anyone cares. I remember Ellie coming up to me and giving me a hug while I struggled not to cry. 

I remember Dave asking what he could do one night, while I was lying in bed crying. I asked him to hold my hand and not say anything, and that helped more than anything. I didn’t want any words; I just wanted to feel I wasn’t alone. The fact was, I had lost a part of my life and myself, forever. No rightness of decision or future promise could change that, and no one on either coast could really understand how it felt. And it was something I had to feel, not analyze. It was something I had to walk through in an acutely solitary way, yet it helped to hold someone’s hand.

The most helpful practical advice came from my sister, who sent me an excerpt of When Trouble Comes by Philip Ryken. He talks about how it helped him to keep up outward routines when he was feeling down—to exercise, eat something healthy, be present with his kids, go to worship, share with close friends, ask for prayer, and pray himself. I did those things and in retrospect it undoubtedly helped.

But the main thing that helped was pressing into God. Maybe some people feel at these times like God is distant, but I never felt him closer. Who else truly understood me? Who else had been there through every other change in my life? Who else saw every tear? Only God. 

God showed up for me in the most unexpected of places. One time it was in Leviticus 8. I was reading in a café during lunch break at work, and suddenly I felt like every word about Aaron was about me—being washed with water, clothed carefully, set about with precious stones and a holy crown and anointing oil—it was all some love poem from God, to me. I could have done some inductive analysis about how the office of high priest pointed towards and was fulfilled by Christ who then imputed that to me—but what came through wasn’t cerebral at all. It was just a feeling, a feeling speaking into my feelings, and there I was, crying in public over Leviticus (a first).

Another unexpected place was in a sensory deprivation pod during a balance float (another first). I was praying, which those days meant praying my feelings because I didn’t have much else to say, and I felt filled with an unmistakable sense of security, that my identity was both fully seen by and deeply secure in Christ. I hadn’t even wholly realized until then how insecure I felt about who I was here. Again, it wasn’t some kind of self-generated rationalization: it was a conviction of feeling being given to me, and more than anything, it felt like a release. Coming out of that period happened as gradually as it started, but that moment was as much a turning point as any.

I don’t know if I will ever go through a period like that again—I sort of hope not—but part of what I take away is that emotional low points, sometimes beyond one’s ability to outthink or control, can be a normative part of the Christian life. I will also take away small kindnesses, from close friends and family, Dave and the kids. A God that can speak over and into feelings. The comfort of wordless presence. 

Having It All, Part 2

“For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ.” – Philippians 3:8

Every so often I think through the matter of career versus family again. I posted about this six years ago when leaving academia to enter what became a relatively ideal private practice gig, where I was able to work short days, maintain good surgical volume, and have my own cohort of patients. All while working two days per week with a good salary. Benefits of working in a non-competitive, high-need area.

Needless to say, the career landscape is different here—intentionally finding jobs that allow us to prioritize marriage and family has involved taking a lot more career hits. Dave, who was a rising state-wide superstar in public health, only considered jobs that did not involve a long commute, which seriously restricted his options in a relatively specialized field. He’s had to step out of the limelight in some ways and maintain flexibility with job changes. I have found two part-time gigs with amazing flexibility, but have lost surgical volume, autonomy, and having my own patient cohort to varying degrees.

The decisions to take these hits feels different this time around. Six years ago, it felt like a watershed moment. Looking back, the elite academic environment I habituated prior to that was a bubble in which pushing myself to do everything I could to excel was simply assumed. I was constantly surrounded by the ultra-intelligent and insecure about my own abilities, haunted by anxiety and driven by the need to prove myself, to everyone else but also to myself. Coming out of that was nothing less than transformative.

I’ve since realized that ultimately, the answer to how one balances career and family is one with no clear, practical right or wrongs. You can work for the right and wrong reasons, just like you can stay at home for the right and wrong reasons. 

For me, the process has been a progressive realization that the time I spend with the kids while they are young makes a real difference; that the physical, mental and emotional energy I have when I work less releases me to invest in my marriage, my health, in friends and ministry in a way that feels eternally-purposed and personally fulfilling. Somewhere along the line, it stopped feeling like I was giving something up to stay at home, and more like I was giving something up to go to work.

It’s not a process that is totally without angst. When we don’t have great childcare, it’s really hard to work, to be one of many ophthalmologists my patients could be seeing, instead of the only mom that my kids have. Working itself is a walk in conscious humility—not being as immersed in the field as my full-time colleagues sometimes feels like a functional handicap. I have to be willing to ask for help, to not have the same status or office space. Being a part-time surgeon carries its own dilemmas and difficulties.

But overall, considering this question of whether one can “have it all” feels different than it did six years ago. It seems even more fundamentally like the wrong question to ask. For one thing, it’s a query without comparable outcome measures—maybe career success can be measured by publications, promotions, grants, committee and talk invitations—but how does one measure success as a mother? Churning out obedient kids who go to Harvard? Or who go into ministry or missions? Feeling less guilty when you leave the house? Being able to breastfeed, or make school parties?

Parenting, of course, isn’t about achieving self-oriented outcome measures, just as career shouldn’t primarily be about that either I suppose, and so this question actually misses the point. As a believer, life is not about getting what I want, or what I feel I am due, or what compares well to someone else. My desire is not to have it all, but to follow faithfully; my hope is not in career or family achievements, but in the person of Jesus; my decisions are not born of calculation, but of my relationship with Him. And in that relationship, every decision I make for Him is a privilege and joy.

I think this is why Paul can say what he does in Philippians 3. He rattles off a perfect resume—like the Jewish version of “owner of a startup valued for billions” or “all my kids got into Stanford”—and has the gall to say, I count all of that as literally excrement, compared to gaining Christ, compared to knowing and becoming like him. Did that mean he never leveraged his education, eloquence, or pedigree for God? No. Did that mean he never worked in his field of training to earn a salary? No. But he was clear on what life was about. He was clear on what mattered in the end. Be like me, he says. If you’re going to calculate, do it this way. Keep your eyes on what matters.

Family Mission, Vision and Values

“7 in 10 parents say they have an explicit set of values for their family, but less than 3 in 10 have written out that purpose or mission statement.” – Andy Crouch, The Tech-Wise Family

One thing that has been important to our family is coming up with mission, vision and values statements. The idea came up about seven years into our marriage, when Dave mentioned having recently walked his department at work through formulating their mission, vision and values; I had recently listened to a Focus on the Family podcast about doing one for families, and we decided to give it a shot.

The first time we did it, four years ago, it took about half a day. We drove down to the Outer Banks and sat at the Wright Brothers Memorial. To formulate our mission statement, we asked: what is our purpose, what do we want to accomplish in our lives together, for the next five years? For our vision statement, we asked: what is our long-term goal over the next several decades? For our values statement, we asked: what are the shared core beliefs that we’ll always try to reflect while in pursuit of our mission and vision?

For each question, we brainstormed a list of ideas separately and together, then developed or eliminated various ideas until we arrived at the most concise statement possible that encapsulated everything we felt was important. Values often involved a little more give-and-take in finding the ones we both agreed were important, and we tried to keep the list to just a few. 

Three years later, as we faced a move to California and our kids entering a slightly different stage of life, we went through the process again (this time it just took a few hours at the local Barnes & Noble). We incorporated anticipated cultural challenges, our vision for making the move, and individual and family changes in what we valued. Maybe because there has been so much change since the move, we have actually looked back to what we wrote more than ever before, to help us make decisions about how we spend our time, energy and money; what we persevere in praying for; and big and little details of how we live our day. Here is that latest version, which is up on our wall:

Mission

To live counter-culturally and missionally by deepening in unity and enjoyment in our marriage, providing a stable foundation for and investing in the character growth of our children, and intentionally building a committed and genuine community.

Vision

Our home is a place of strength and health that brings hope and blessing to those around us.

Values

Growth: being aware of changing needs and development as individuals and as a family; investing intentionally in inward growth over outward appearances.

Simplicity: maintaining space and margin; being fully present and content

Joy: having a home full of light, fun and hope; enjoyment of our environment and friends

Generosity: giving our time, money and resources; practicing hospitality; engaging in community

Long Days and Short Years

The last few weeks have been a revolving door of serial viral maladies—pretty much the lot of anyone with kids during some period of the year. On the East Coast this usually happened during the (what I now feel was bitterly cold) winters; this year, we’ve managed to escape being sick until being hit now with a double round. Just as the fourth kid is recovering from what’s been passed through the three previous kids, the first kid gets sick again, this time even worse, and down we go through the line again.

So this afternoon found me again holding lethargic, clingy, feverish kids and figuring out creative ways to get a two year-old to drink medicine she hates, while still dealing with the bickering and appetites of the healthy kids. And trying to somehow sort out germy and non-germy things on behalf of my public-health husband who believes we should have been able to contain spread of this contagion (he may be right).

By the time Dave got home, I didn’t feel like sitting through forty-five minutes of bay-area traffic to make some doctor’s meeting I had signed up for, but the best part ended up being the traffic, because I turned on some Focus on the Family podcasts like I used to during commutes in Virginia. Gary Thomas was sharing as an empty nester. He said one time when he was in the mall he saw a toddler run in front of her daddy to say, “hold me; my legs are tired!” The dad didn’t look too happy, but he shifted his bags to one hand and picked her up. And suddenly he was struck by the fact that he would never again hold one of his kids while walking through the mall (his youngest was twelve). These changes happen so subtly, he said. He wished someone could have gone back and told him, “this is the last time you will hold your kid while walking in the mall!” and he would have been more present.

I thought about how just today, I was feeling frustrated about having to hold Esme while walking into school for pick-up. But thinking back now I remember how the wind blew her wispy, sticky hair in my face; how her little chubby arm crooked around mine; how she kept talking on despite her fever about how there were letters on the road! And there was a dog! And she wasn’t wearing any shoes! (always a score in her book)

I remember Ellie exclaiming how nice it is to read a good book when you’re sitting sick on the couch. How she burrowed in my bed when she got chills. That moment when Eric was mad-faced and teary but agreed to be held and then jumped up to hug me hard when I hefted him up. The sleepy way Elijah rolled himself into his special blanket on the couch after waking up from a long nap.

The danger of my present, I suppose, is that it is so engulfing. It is hard to retain perspective or true presence. And I suppose part of wisdom is realizing that there is something in all of it, the good and bad, the healthy and sick, that I will one day wish I could retain but cannot. There is a part of my every day that God has portioned for me not just to function through, but to notice, to be aware in and even treasure, because it will not come back. I don’t want to be so consumed that my gratitude, focus, or curiosity has been sucked up by impatience, efficiency, or tasks. I don’t want to be so worn down by the consuming repetition of caregiving that I write off wonder in the common things.

Quote

"Faith is a refusal to panic. Do you like that sort of definition of faith? Does that seem to be too earthly and not sufficiently spiritual? It is of the very essence of faith. Faith is a refusal to panic, come what may. 

"It says, 'All right, I see the waves and billows but'--it always puts up this 'but'. That is faith, it holds on to truth and reasons from what it knows to be fact. That is the way to apply faith...It is inevitable logic, and faith argues like that. Faith reminds itself of what the Scripture calls the 'exceeding great and precious promises. ...Whatever your circumstances at this moment, bring all you know to be true of your relationship to God to bear upon it. 'All things work together for good to them that love God.' Not a hair of your head shall be harmed, He loves you with an everlasting love.'" 

– Martin Lloyd-Jones, Spiritual Depression, 1965: 143-145