“I have depression.”

My father died ten years ago in Dallas at eighty-two-years old. He passed from this life after three months in the hospital, triggered by congenital heart failure. He suffered from a septic coma for the last few weeks, kept alive on a cacophony of machines. Even with his eyes open, he did not react to any sort of visual or vocal stimulation. When his eyes followed your movement, they were like a camera lens without film; vacant, expressionless. The doctors said that any of his mild movements were “likely” neurological responses only. After a lot of council, reflection and prayer, we agreed to move him into hospice and removed all the connections. I received the call from my brother two days later around two o’clock in the morning that he had passed. He said that his heart failed.

My father suffered from depression. His heart failed.

Two years after my father’s death, during a session with my counselor Jim, there I am ranting about an incident involving a client and their lack of appreciating the value I brought to their organization. “I am so damn frustrated with having to constantly explain what I do and why my process is essential to achieving their stated goals. And it always seems to happen just about the time when they are on the verge of breakthrough momentum.” Characteristically (and tremendously annoying), Jim sat there in his comfy tobacco leather chair nodding in rhythm with my staccato complaints.

“And the major thing is that I’m beginning to think that I am becoming my father; that everything I try turns to shit.”

Having stated my carefully rehearsed case, I caught my breath and eased back into the couch. I eagerly awaited some nugget of reassurance that I was fine and that, in fact, they were the ones not taking the time to fully embrace my special gifting and selfless commitment to their success. Their loss. Their stupidity.

After a long pause, sans nodding, Jim responded. “So Brian, am I right that you recently committed your life to faith; that you have broadened your Hebraic roots and are embracing Christianity?”

“Well, umm, yes I have. Why do you ask?”

Without further clarification, he continued. “And would you say that you are a blessed man?”

“Absolutely. Yes, I am.”

Jim nodded like a relief pitcher acknowledging the catcher’s signal for the “3 and 2” pitch to close out the game, and sent the hardball screaming across home plate. “So, how does a bless man behave?”

I responded elegantly with, “Huh?”

Expressionless, and with increased emphasis he repeated the question, “How does a blessed man behave?”

STRIKE THREE; YOU’RE OUT!

If you have ever wondered what it must feel like to be a deer caught in the headlights of an approaching car, wonder no more. Not only now paralyzed from his comment, Jim actually aimed the car directly towards me, sped up and sent me into orbit upon impact.

“If you were really a blessed man you would likely find another way to deal with this situation other than whining, complaining and acting like a spoiled teenager who just got teased by some other kids.”

Nice, huh? But, he was only getting warmed up.

“Here’s the deal. Your father had depression. He wasn’t depression. It’s one of the many ambiguities in life. Like diabetes, you have it; you have the choice whether to “partner” with it and treat it, or you can let it devastate you. Your father chose to let his depression define him, it ultimately destroyed him. Does that make sense to you?”

“Yes.”

Leaning forward slightly he continued. “You are not your father. God gave you a gift of depression. Given this ambiguity, you now have the choice to partner with it or you can let it define you. What do you choose?”

My mind swirled and I suddenly pictured myself as a shabby horse on a carousel; chipped paint, nicked and scarred from countless riders but going round and round nonetheless.

“Brian, one of the challenges being a man of faith is surrendering to God’s will for your life, or choosing to believe that you are victim to the circumstances that are laid in your path…and that somehow if you’ll just complain enough you can have power over the outcome. Your behavior does not sound like that of a blessed man. So, I ask you again, what do you choose?”

________________________________________

It is now eight years since my meeting with Jim. I chose to partner with my depression that day, and that decision characterizes how my life is playing out; serving others by giving away my gifts, so that I can give my gifts a way to really matter. All it took was a little shock therapy from Jim, and a lot of faith in God.

Given the choice of being upbeat or depressed, I’ll choose depression every time.

In the embrace of the brackets - (b)