The Good Portion

(You may read Part 2 in this series here .) Becoming Thought's Captor Lady Macbeth - Elisabeth Ney image via popartmachine.com   Macbeth :  How does your patient, doctor? Doctor :  Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, that keep her from her rest. Macbeth :  Cure [her] of that. Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart? But Lady Macbeth could not, or perhaps would not minister to herself.  For in order to be healed it would be necessary for her to face the terror of the fanged serpent within.  She would have to admit her guilt and face the shame and consequences her actions deserved. Finding herself trapped between two intolerables, she went mad.   Refusing to contemplate her wicked acts while awake, she suffered the somnambulant lunacy of a cons...

(You may read Part One in this series here .) During those first tragic and glorious October days in 2004, my devastated heart, overwhelmed by grief, finally trusted Christ and embraced hope. At first, in some ways, my hope was misdirected. I thought that because I trusted Him, He would erase the tragedy, undo all the pain, and make everything just like it was before, only better. It would take some time before I would understand that hoping in Him did not mean things would turn out the way I wished they would, and more time still before I learned that hoping in Him will, eventually, change the things I wish for. In the meantime, hope was the tiny candle I huddled against in the vast, gaping cavern of grief. Upon learning the first details of the loss I'd suffered, my stomach heaved and I began to wretch. It would be a week before I could keep down food, much longer before I would feel hunger again. For the first time in my life I found I couldn't sleep, or if I did, I woul...

A dozen or so years ago I was diagnosed with depression. Out of respect for those with whom I was closely involved at the time, I will spare the details. Suffice it to say that I realized that some of my critical life-decisions had been dreadful mistakes. Some of them were very foolish; some were very sinful; some were made by others, but whichever the case, my life was never going to be what I had dreamed it might be.  When the diagnosis came, I had very recently made a huge life-change that I hoped would finally bring me happiness, stability, and security. Instead, it became quickly evident that it had only made things worse and there was no turning back.  With my last hope dead, I began to wish myself dead. Some days were better than others. Sometimes there would be small things to look forward to, to keep me going. Sometimes I could function as if everything was okay. Sometimes  there were fun plans, or fun purchases. But when things would get difficult again the ...