Depression and Grief: The Four Letter Word Called Hope

Spring was in the air and so was hope. My mother-in-law had been turning darker shades of yellow since December. Now there was reason to believe she would improve: doctors were going to operate. We knew it was a long-shot, but nonetheless, we were hoping to keep our dear friend, mother, and wife if only for a little longer. With the scheduled surgery approaching, family and friends pulled together in prayer and fasting for this great woman of faith . Of course, my husband and I participated in the emotional, spiritual, and physical preparations.

“How is your mother-in-law?” a concerned woman asked at church.

“Not well,” I admitted, “but they are going to operate. We are fasting and praying; our hopes are high.”

After explaining the circumstances of the pending procedure, the obvious danger was foremost on my mind, but as our Scripture reading for today said, “But with God, all things are possible.” I was comforting myself.

With God, the potential for change, power, and healing is limitless. The disciples couldn’t fathom how a camel could go through the eye of a needle, but “Jesus looked at them and said, ‘With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible’” (Matthew 19:26). And so we know that what cannot be done through human wisdom or strength can be realized with God’s help.

This truth was easy for me to accept back in the days before I lost my mother-in-law, mother, father, unborn son, and nearly died myself, all in 30 months time while in my early 20s. In response to my mother-in-law’s and mother’s deaths, I just changed my interpretation of all those hope-inspiring verses: “Yes,” I told myself, “Everything is possible, but God might have a grand plan that makes my pain necessary.”

And while I felt comfortable wearing those sadomasochistic bandages, my scabs were about to burst open. The force of the bleeding loosened the adhesive glue, and my little world of pristine ideology was left lying in a puddle on the floor.

On the morning of November 17, 1999, I was hospitalized for complications following the removal of my gallbladder. I was 5 months pregnant and displaying the classic signs of internal bleeding. I had been re-admitted three days earlier after some severe symptoms at home. I felt as though my team of doctors had forgotten me when a nurse told me that my blood counts were severely off and that I was in need of a blood transfusion—and yet, I never got the transfusion nor did I see any doctor until the morning of the 17th.

My husband was attending Seminary during this time. I’d been sick throughout most of our marriage and was carrying a heavy load of guilty feelings about his continual sacrifice for me. I pretty much begged him to go to class that morning. “I’ll be fine,” I told him. “I’ll call if I need anything.” Somehow, my encouragement worked and he went.

Around 8:30 a.m. I received a call on my hospital room phone. It was my oldest sister. “Dad’s been killed in a car accident!” she cried in a panic stricken voice. I don’t know what I said in response because I had passed out. I was told several days later that I had “coded”: they couldn’t find a heartbeat or blood pressure on me.

Thankfully, a janitor had entered my room and found me unconscious. A team of doctors finally showed up. Our son’s heartbeat was fading as they prepared me for emergency surgery. He was dead by the time the operation was complete.

They called my survival a “miracle”, and yet, somehow, I didn’t feel fortunate. I felt like someone had tied me upside down and beaten me to within in an inch of my existence. The fact that I remained soon became a source of great pain. I wanted out! I was sick of sitting around waiting to see what God would cause or allow next. I felt hopeless. I lost a lot during those 30 months in which it seemed everything that could go wrong did. After traveling, speaking, and being interviewed about this subject, there can be no doubt: I’m the first person to have ever felt like God’s hand was against them.

I’ll never forget something the funeral home director said to us shortly before the visitation for my mother-in-law. He told us that grief is like the waves of an ocean. He said that at first, it would seem as those the waves come in without interruption, but that later than on, the waves would slow down. They wouldn’t show up as often and yet when that surge of water did arrive, the height of the waves (and the intensity of our grief ) could be just as painful as it had been in the first days after our loss. How right he was. When I hurt just as badly 6 months later, I remembered this analogy and was thankful for the warning. I was normal; grief is normal, and these matters simply take time.

And yet, there was a secondary loss that resulted from all these hardships. It was a side effect that no one had warned me of at all. Oh, I knew I should watch out for the pain associated with the anniversaries of the deaths. I wasn’t surprised when Christmas that first year was excruciating; I had anticipated that no one would be wrapping a gift for “Baby Brost.” These were dreaded and yet expected. The secondary loss that I never saw coming was the loss of hope. The loss of hope. The inability to see life through rose colored lenses. The inability to go back to sleep after waking with the horror foremost on my mind. The inability to pray and not inwardly doubt that the problem would be solved. The loss of hope…the new ability to see all that could go wrong and then be anxious in planning for the impending doom. Depression —that condition marked by hopelessness came like a wild fire and while I could beat it back when I had to, a low-level twinge of despair seemed to follow me no matter where I went.

Webster’s Dictionary defines hope as, “ … trust that what is wanted will happen.” Of hope the Bible says, “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life,” (Proverbs 13:12). The whole Bible was written that we might have this necessity called hope: “For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through endurance and the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope,” (Romans 15:4). Paul said that he “rest[s] on the hope of eternal life,” (Titus 1:2), and as our Scripture reading for today tells us, “If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men,” (1 Corinthians 15:19). If only, if merely, we have hope for today, then truly we are headed for disappointment.

And yet, hoping for a particular resolution is only natural. The child hopes she will receive a pony on her birthday. A parent hopes his child will decline the invitation to light up when a cigarette is offered. Doctors suggest medical procedures because they believe that the benefits outweigh the costs. Families consent to such measures because they are hoping to extend the life of the one they love. The Scriptures tell us that although we might reject hope, run from it, or even create problems so that we can avoid the fear of something going right, hope will always be with us. There is always hope. Although this earth and our bodies will pass away, “…these three remain: faith , hope, and love,” (1 Corinthians 13:13). And so the question is not if we will have hope, nor is it if we should have hope; rather what we all grapple with is what to do when that terrifying little four-letter word called hope starts welling up within our hearts and minds.

The phone rings. It is the man you were hoping would take an interest in you. You’ve applied for a new job. After three repetitive miscarriages, the pregnancy test reads positive again. Your estranged daughter wants to come over for a visit. The doctors have said that nothing can be done, but a friend mentions an alternative treatment.

Hurt before and refusing to be vulnerable again, it is not uncommon for the walking wounded to view the here- and-now as little more than Heaven’s waiting room. And while it is without a doubt true that in this life we will have trouble, I can’t help but look forward to some pleasure while still clothed in the flesh.

Reading the four Gospels keeps my faith from becoming a “pie in the sky” religion . In these records of the life and teachings of our Savior, we find much hope—most for tomorrow, but also some for today. For, if through His words and actions Jesus was trying to suggest that we reserve all hope for the next life, then He wasn’t the great teacher that so many have called Him. In fact, I’m hard pressed to find one “Life will Always Stink until you Get to Heaven Lesson” anywhere in the Scriptures. On the contrary, Jesus is on the record as having said, “…I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full,” (John 10:10). If what He meant was that good times are only for the next life, then He should have made people sick instead of healing them. If God’s grand plan is to torture us on earth so we are fitted for His kingdom in Heaven, then Jesus should have told at least one hurting person that their pain was “No Biggie.” We are to be “pitied above all men” if our hope is only for tomorrow. It is normal and necessary, I say, to have some dreams for today.

My mother-in-law died a few hours after the surgery. I’d like to say that I have all the answers as to why she is no longer with us. I once figured that our prayers hadn’t worked. Perhaps we had overlooked some detail. We hadn’t prayed correctly. Hadn’t fasted long enough. We didn’t anoint her with oil in the right location. Another theory soon arouse: God had a plan and the plan called for her departure. Yes, I thought, that has to be the ticket.

I don’t know what is up with me these days. I guess I’m just getting too old to run around acting as if I hold the key to solving the complexities God’s sovereignty and man’s authority. The truth is that the God who made the wager with Satan over His servant, Job’s allegiance (Job 1:8), is the same God who no longer calls us His servant/slaves (John 15:15). He’s the same loving Father whom Jesus explained doesn’t give us stones when we ask Him for bread (Matthew 7:9). He’s not bent on bringing us prosperity ; He just understands that what happens to us physically will affect us mentally and spiritually. Until we leave this life, our parts—our minds, our bodies and our souls act as one entity. We aren’t super-human, and there is nothing shameful about admitting our neediness. Despite our sophistication, we are weak, fragile, trembling with fear, and in desperate for the touch of our all-powerful and all-loving Heavenly Father.

I can hardly wait to see Jesus return in all His glory. I plan to dance on those streets of gold. I want to know what it means to have no need of a sun (Revelation 21:23). When all else fails, I look forward to an eternity without shame, without guilt, and without pain. As for today, I have much to map out. There’s a good chance something might go right.