It’s time for another #guestblog, and it’s an honor to bring you this one from Sherilyn Sweeney. We met the Sweeney family when we moved to Sequim, WA in the summer of 2014. My time with Sherilyn was short and sweet, but I am forever grateful for her friendship. I have such fond memories of coffee and chats with Sherilyn, from laughing to crying and everything in-between. I praise God that He crossed our paths at just the right time, and that we’ve stayed in touch (thanks to social media) since my family moved to the east coast. I pray that you pause and reflect on Sherilyn’s raw and real story, and that together we answer the call to be like Jesus and bind up the broken hearted.

Binding Up The Broken Hearted by Sherilyn Sweeney

Over the past month, I have to admit that I have sat down an embarrassing number of times to write this blog only to jump back up again or busy myself with another task. I actually managed a sentence or two a few times, but after looking at the screen lamely for an hour or so, I erased everything completely and closed the computer. Maybe quarantine has made me a bit cynical, I mean who really wants all this unfettered time to contemplate life? I think I’d rather organize my sock drawers!

I am pretty sure if we were to sit down and have coffee together tomorrow morning, each one of you could tell me about a life experience that still catches your breath or immediately brings tears to your eyes. Some of us have lived through things we have never spoken out loud to another human being. Some of us are living through those things right now. Perhaps, like me, you have an appropriate answer for each person you bump into. The well-meaning church member, “We are doing well… God is so good!”; the kind next-door neighbor, “Thank you so much for checking in on us… We loved the casserole!”; the loving friend or family member who you are pretty sure can’t handle your ugly cry or raw, honest emotions, “I know God has a plan for this.” Truly, there are too many things to even begin to write down.

In my own life, nothing leaves me feeling more helpless than when one of my own children are in pain. I organize my days caring for my girls and my nights praying for them and dreaming of their futures. When they were little I spent countless hours awake, tending to fevers, reading stories and kissing owies. Our children’s pain causes us pain, doesn’t it? Watching mine grow into fun, amazing people has brought me so much joy, along with a substantial dose of worry and an overwhelming sense of pride.

Truthfully, I can’t quite remember when I started to notice that something was a tad off. Sure, she looked a little tired, we all were. We had been living in a foreign country for a few months and the transition had been challenging. The language was new, the people were different. Everything took longer and we often went for weeks without a good connection to speak with our loved ones back home. There was tremendous beauty. There were things that we couldn’t hope to understand. We accepted this new life at face value.

My girl was born independent and inquisitive. She loved experiencing new things and was always up for an adventure. However, she has never admitted her inner struggles easily. Her dislikes have always been clear; her inner thoughts, not so much. She is so much like me. She’s always processing something. I remember the specific day she began to have intense stomach pain and she confided in me that she hadn’t been sleeping. After taking her temperature and giving her the typical mothering my girls are used to, we prayed, popped a few vitamins, and talked about God’s protection. Although we were going through the strain of assimilating into a different culture, there was something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. After all, she was a teenager going through a difficult transition, surely that was what this was?

One morning, I noticed her school uniform was hanging from her hips. I watched her closely while she pushed her food around on her plate and pretended to take a bite. During the months that followed, I would find uneaten lunches and food in her backpack. We’d talk about the importance of nutrition and she’d promise to eat. The next meal she would make an excuse why she wasn’t hungry or something about eating a big snack or having a lot of homework. Being in a foreign country, we did not know where to go or who could help us. We begged her to eat, bargained with her, threatened her. She stopped going to school and spent all day in her room. She lost 50lbs in 3 months and panic attacks and screaming fits began to torture her almost daily. I had a constant barrage of thoughts swirling around in my head, “What did we do wrong to create this problem?” “This must be Satan attacking her,” “My faith must be weak.” Then one morning, she told me she had thoughts of hurting herself and stopped eating everything but fluids. We made arrangements, packed our house and flew back to the States.

Over the next year our girl endured intensive hospitalization, feeding tubes, emergency room visits, and medical complications. Although we were pretty certain that she had an eating disorder, hearing her primary diagnosis of Anorexia Nervosa sent me into a deep downward spiral. Anorexia Nervosa is the most deadly of all psychiatric illness, with 1 out of 5 deaths resulting from suicide. We felt completely blindsided, not only because of the prospects of what could happen to our precious girl, but because of the complete isolation and inability to express our pain to those watching from the outside.

When Kaitlyn first got sick, I tried talking to people about it. Some of them would attempt to make me feel better, “All girls have self-image issues. This will pass.” (Anorexia, I later discovered, is a brain disorder and is not caused by a poor self-image). I learned to avoid these discussions and got pretty good at deflecting questions. I learned to be quiet. We live in a society where the stigma around mental illness can stop us in our tracks. Instead of talking about what your child is going through, you talk about the weather and ask people what they have been watching on television. Usually, people are quick to comply.

As we battled for the life of our daughter, I often reflected over past conversations I had with dear friends struggling to find a space where they could fully unload their painful experiences. I remember at times being surprised how many had depression or who were struggling with children battling drugs , anxiety, OCD or self-harm. I am ashamed to say that I would often give them advice without truly understanding the immense vulnerability they were allowing me to step into. Fast forward a few years as I watch my own daughter fighting each day to engage and be seen for who she is and not for her illness, I know that I have not been able to protect her from the stigma that surrounds her. Just as I once did not understand the enormity of what was being shared with me, I see myself continue to side step conversations and limp along with unhealed wounds because, if I am being honest, people want our family back to who we were before my girl got sick—we make them uncomfortable. And I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the truth: mental illness has changed us.

Is it the job of everyone around me to accommodate me? No. As a follower of Jesus, I know that my identity, strength and hope are in Him. However, I realize now what my dear friends needed all those conversations ago, and what I have desperately needed— simply a place to BE. Our family needed a place to struggle through the excruciating mental illness that was killing my daughter. We longed for a space to grieve what was lost where we didn’t have to clean ourselves up first or pretend. No platitudes. No advice. It’s hard. Believe me, I know it is. And, that’s what Christ did for us, isn’t it? He met people where they were; allowed them to come to Him in their brokenness. Not only did He allow brokenness, He said that brokenness was the way to Him. He walked with the outcasts, the women, the not-quite as-religious-as-they-should-be’s.

One of my favorite passages in the Bible is the story about the Samaritan woman at the well. Although the narrative records quite an extensive conversation, I am left feeling a little in the dark as to why this encounter was so powerful until I understand more about who this woman was and how she was viewed in her culture. It is only until we know the background of this woman do we realize the beauty of the Savior intentionally inserting Himself into her life. He saw her and spoke directly to her need. He was not concerned that she was an outcast. He loved her and she left that well changed – “Come and see a man who told me everything I ever did! Could he possibly be the Messiah?” (John 4:29). This story is a model for us as we watch Jesus draw this woman in and hold a space for her to encounter the freedom of new life that only comes in the presence of a Holy God.

The Body of Christ is God’s instrument of restoration to a broken world. “The LORD has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners” (Isaiah 61:1). At the beginning of His ministry, Jesus quoted this passage proclaiming that He was the ONE who God had sent to bind up the broken hearted and proclaim freedom to the captives! As the Church, we are the hands and feet of Jesus. We are uniquely positioned to speak into the lives of people in a way that the world cannot.

“When people understand they’re embraced and welcomed with their brokenness, with their illness in the church then they’re personhood is resurrected and nobody can do that better than the church.” – Kay Warren

Often we may unknowingly hinder our mission to bind up the broken hearted because we don’t know what to do with them once we encounter them. Especially in regards to a person with mental illness, it is common to feel uncomfortable, give quick advice, and move on. This is incredibly damaging to a person who is already desperately hurting. People with cancer are not only expected to seek out doctors and medications, they are encouraged to do so. People with mental illness are often ignored or seen as spiritual failures who need to “fix something” and psychiatric medications have been historically viewed in a negative light. God has created us to be spiritual, physical and emotional. We eat, love, laugh, work, pray, and grieve. When one aspect is unbalanced or ill, the rest of our being is also affected.

I find in my own life, I sometimes forget that I am the one who is broken. We’re all desperately broken, aren’t we? No, our brokenness is not all the same. Some things are easier to hide. Sometimes we convince ourselves that our “stuff” is not as bad as our neighbor’s. Until we see that we are all equally in need of a Savior, we will not be able to speak redemption into the lives of those around us. It is in brokenness and pain that Christ enters and offers to restore us. The Gospel of Luke records a story of a woman and, although we are not told exactly what her sin was, we are told that in a beautiful act of worship and gratitude, she literally poured herself out to Jesus. Of course there were pious men criticizing her, but Jesus quickly silenced them saying “Her many sins have been forgiven as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little, loves little” (Luke 7:47). Sometimes I need to be reminded that I am the one who has been forgiven a tremendous debt.

In this painful season, I have been blessed to have people walk alongside of me in all of my sadness and unloveliness. I have seen the restoring power of Jesus at work in my family and although each day continues to be a battle for my girl, we are deeply loved. I pray that as the Body of Christ we will grow deeper in love and awareness for people with mental illness and be able to offer them the redemption of the One who knows “everything they ever did.”