Come All Who Are Weary

jesus statue.jpg I’m reposting this blog entry today because I’m discussing it on the Catholic Channel of Sirius Satellite Radio. If you’re up at 6:40 am EST, listen to what Gus Lloyd has to say about moments of hope like this one. Or, if you want to sleep in, read some of the comments on the combox. They are inspiring.

Awhile back I asked readers to tell me what helps them to keep going when they’ve hit a road block, when getting out of bed in the morning feels like completing an Ironman. Beyond Blue reader Larry Parker (who is now engaged, by the way, to his soul mate whom he met on Beliefnet!) said that he will look backwards, to all the successes in his life. He will remind himself of what he already has endured.

On a discussion thread at Group Beyond Blue, Larry wrote: “Underneath my mental illness are simply enormous, even incalculable, mental reserves. And if my illness strikes again, I need to remember those reserves are there, even if I can’t get to them right now.”

I had an opportunity to do that yesterday.

I journeyed back to the exact spot where I felt a calming hope when I was so desperately seeking a solution to my severe depression three and a half years ago: to the 10-foot statue of Jesus in the lobby of Johns Hopkins’s Billing Administrative Building, where Eric and I stopped on our way to my psychiatric evaluation in March, 2006.

I remember that moment so clearly.

I looked around at all the students with their backpacks and wondered if I’d ever be able to use my brain again. I peered skeptically at the doctors–wondering if they were thieves wanting to steal any creativity or passion or zest I had left in me with the toxic drugs they would pump into me.

I was so afraid.

Of everything.

Until I saw that statue. And read the inscription, written in capital letters on the pedestal: “Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

Suddenly I felt lighter. As if Jesus really did relieve me of the backpack of rocks I had been carrying for a good year. I began to cry, to release all the fear inside of me. I couldn’t stop crying until we arrived at the consultation.

Now, of course, I can see it in perspective.

That moment at the statue was, indeed, the beginning of my miracle. It was thirty minutes before I would meet the psychiatrist who would be able to successfully treat my bipolar disorder. It was the first step on the track to healing and wholeness and a life of using my mind and heart to do good things.

Not to say that I don’t still have heavy days … when I wish I were 80 years old or had a terminal illness so that I would have less life ahead of me … when I have to slog through the days, literally placing one foot in front of another, trying not to think about anything else but that.

I’ve been having quite a few of those lately.

In fact, I didn’t realize how hopeless I’ve been feeling until I saw the statue again – and witnessed all the professionals coming through that building who touched the foot of Jesus, needing an ounce of hope themselves. Some of them said a prayer or made the sign of the cross; a few of them left flowers on the pedestal. But they all needed to read: “Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

Thank you, Jesus. Because I really need some rest.

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