It has been almost three years since I suffered from post partum depression. I recall the day it hit me and my life was taken with no warning. The research is correct that once a woman has experienced this never ending hell; it follows you. Every now and then I can remember the unspeakable pain, the shame but most of all the pride that this wasn't suppose to be me. No longer was I this strong mama bear of my sweet cubs; I was this feeble, silent, unrecognizable pathetic mother that couldn't hold her baby . And it wasn't because I couldn't physically hold him ; I did not want to hold him. I shamefully hid from family and friends. I would sit for hours at the bookstore fumbling through books like they were my friends. One of them was Emily Dickson and her poetry. "
I consoled in the arms of her writings particularly her views "Some keep the Sabbath going to Church – I keep it, staying at Home – With a Bobolink for a Chorister – And an Orchard, for a Dome –
How I dwelled in Emily and understood her. I found comfort in every place but church. Make no mistake that Jesus was not with me. He was sitting with me every week in that bookstore helping me fumble through books finding my way back. He sent new friends there that mothered me, gently reminding me I was not alone.
Three years later I turn back celebrating the suffering and experienced first hand how suffering brings salvation. Jesus suffered for his children and brought you, me , the most unimaginable gift. I am not Jesus . I was just a mother who suffered and was redeemed by an unimaginable grace. This grace had no walls, no decoration, no words , just grace. A grace that turned my pain into a joy that gleams at being the mother of my sweet three year old. My shame is now a transparent cry to all the other mothers who suffer and need to know they are not alone.My pride was transformed into humility reminding me that I was worthy to be saved.
