the Depths of Despair

My back wasn’t turned on God, though. In fact, I prayed the bravest prayer I’d prayed in my life. Through the uncontrollable weeping, the sobs stopping me from taking a full breath, and the ache filling my body because of the pressure, I cried, “God, please. I need You to do something. I can’t do this. I literally cannot do this.” 

I grew up watching “Anne of Green Gables” with my cousins Carly Anne and Cameron. Carly and I loved that we both had Anne (spelled with an “e”, of course) in our names. She’s coming for a visit soon, and on the top of our list is to borrow the DVDs from my church library (because we only have the VHS versions but have no VHS player), and indulge ourselves in the wonderful world of Green Gables, Avonlea, and Prince Edward Island. I recently reread all of the books by borrowing a digital copy from the library and downloading them on my phone. I would screenshot pages that resounded with me, so I could save those words in my phone and look back at them whenever I like. 

If you’ve never seen Anne of Green Gables or read the books, it is about an orphaned girl being adopted by an elderly brother and sister who live with one another but have been single their entire lives. They request an orphan boy to help Matthew out around the house, but accidentally receive an 11 year old girl. Matthew is immediately smitten with this melodramatic girl who never stops talking and dreams of being a brunette instead of a redhead. But, sensible and stern Marilla is quite upset that they didn’t get the boy they were hoping for. The book goes on, but I’m not going to give more away because it really is most appreciated when just read. 

Anne’s love for romanticized drama, reading, and education, always inspired me. One of my favorite things she says towards the beginning of the book is, “the depths of despair”. She doesn’t have much of an appetite and attributes it to being in the depths of despair and asks Marilla if she loses her appetite when she’s in the depths of despair as well. Marilla responds by telling Anne that she wouldn’t know because she’s never been in the depths of despair. 

Marilla may not have been… but I have been, and I know exactly what Anne is talking about when she questions Marilla. 

The letter came just weeks after we separated. Inconspicuous and looking like many of the other letters I’d received from the county courthouse, I wasn’t in a hurry to open it. When I finally did my breath caught in my throat and I struggled to even breathe. I was being sued by a debt collector for a credit card loan that was never paid off. The problem was, I had been led to believe that it had been. I had no idea this debt existed. But it did. And it was in my name. Everything in my life was so heavy, that it seemed to push the weight of that letter down to the bottom of my chest, and it blended in with the weight of everything else. 

That is, until two weeks before my hearing was scheduled. 

I looked at the letter with my mom, realizing that I would be shadowing the courthouse doors yet again in just two weeks time. I had no idea what to do. I didn’t have the money. I simply didn’t have it. The idea of standing before a judge declaring, “I didn’t know this debt existed and I can’t afford to pay it off - at all.” shook me to my core. My girls and I were in between living spaces, slowly moving into a new apartment while staying at my parents’ house or some friends’ houses to try and stay safe and under the radar. I didn’t have a room or a bed to go to, but the life drained out of me and was replaced with nothing but darkness and heaviness and without saying a word, I turned and walked to the guest room, crumpled up into a ball on the bed, and wept. 

The depths of despair. 

The tears had only come like that two other times, but both times I still felt some sense of hope, I was still able to see a light at the end of the tunnel. This time, though, I couldn’t. I felt completely hopeless. 

In the movie version of “Anne of Green Gables”, when Anne asks Marilla if she can even imagine being in the depths of despair, Marilla responds, “No, I cannot. To despair is to turn your back on God.” 

My back wasn’t turned on God, though. In fact, I prayed the bravest prayer I’d prayed in my life. Through the uncontrollable weeping, the sobs stopping me from taking a full breath, and the ache filling my body because of the pressure, I cried, “God, please. I need You to do something. I can’t do this. I literally cannot do this.” 

I’d love to say I heard from the Lord in that moment, that His voice shook the room and I heard Him speak so clearly to me. No, that came at another time. I’d also love to say that someone rang the doorbell with a check for the amount I was being sued for. That didn’t happen this time (but it did happen another time). This time, the Holy Spirit did His job of comforting me and after a long time of weeping and praying, I had the energy to stand up and walk back to the living room where my mom was waiting for me. She asked if she could call the debt collector and explain my situation and I slowly nodded my head that she could.
-
The next time I felt that deep and desperate doom looming over me was over a year later. My sister had been gone for almost seven months. I’d survived the first eight months without her. I still awoke every morning and thought, “She’s gone. She’s really gone.” But it didn’t hurt quite like it had before. In fact, nothing was really hurting… because I wasn’t feeling much of anything. 

I sat in my therapist’s office in November of 2019 and shared that with him. I had recently found out that my trial for my divorce had been postponed due to unforeseen circumstances from the other party. I had been waiting for a trial for one year and to find out it was canceled made me feel stuck. From there, I just seemed to nose-dive into a pit of despair. When I looked in the mirror, I wasn’t happy with anything I saw. I got frustrated easily, my house was a constant disaster, I was weeks behind in laundry, and I felt like a failure in everything I tried to do. All of the weight I lost (but didn’t need to lose) when I was first separated, had found its way back on my hips, and I wasn’t comfortable in most of my clothes. I hadn’t worked out in a year. I didn’t have money for the upcoming Christmas season. 

It all rushed out of me as I looked at him with questioning eyes. What was happening to me? 

“Kendra,” he said. “I think you might have depression. Let’s find out.” 

My heart began to pound. Depression? Not me. I’ve made it this far without depression. Anxiety had been like a constant, unwanted, companion for years and I was just learning how to control it, so I couldn’t possibly be depressed. Could I? 

He gave me a series of statements and I ranked them from one to five, based on how accurate that statement felt for me, one meaning it didn’t at all, and five meaning it was spot on. My stomach twisted and turned as I knew the numbers were adding up. 

Then he said, “I hate myself.” And I lost it. Through tears that had been pent up for months, and probably with some slobber coming out of my mouth (I’m not a pretty cryer), I forced myself to say the word. “Five”.  My therapist keeps a box of tissues right next to my spot on the couch, and I usually set a cup of coffee next to it so I can take a sip when I feel tears bubbling up. Like I’ve said, I’m not a cryer. The two places I feel the safest crying: my therapist’s office and church. Church because no one knows why I’m crying. Am I moved by the Spirit? Am I being reminded of how much Jesus loves me? Am I literally walking through hell and giving my last $20 to Jesus right now? Nobody knows. 

In therapy, it’s just me and Clint, and he knows all of my junk and he’ll probably notice if I’m purposely holding back tears and there we’ll have one more thing to work on, so I don’t shy away from the tears with him. 

He got done adding up the numbers and said, “Kendra, based on these numbers, you’ve got moderate depression.” 

I felt flattened. Completely taken out. I can vocally speak out as an advocate for mental health. I can share with people that I struggle with anxiety, that I have panic attacks when an unknown number calls my phone and leaves a voicemail. I can say that there is nothing wrong with therapy and advocate for therapy all day long. 

But I cannot admit that while I’ve taken twenty steps forward in healing from an abusive and traumatic marriage and separation, and while I’ve worked on healing from the trauma of losing my sister, I just took ten steps back. At least, that’s what it felt like. 

“I’m honestly surprised it took this long to happen,” he said. “You’ve been through a lot in the last six years. Premature twins who spent time in the NICU, moving around, another pregnancy, fostering kiddos with traumatic pasts, and all of the trauma you’ve endured yourself. It was bound to happen, I’ve just been waiting.” 

I got into my car and drove home in complete silence. 

I said nothing to anyone for several days. 

Then I told my mom. I told my sweet friend, Cassidy. I told just a few more people. 

But one day, it all came crashing in. The combination of my home being messier because I was just too weary to do anything about it, my kids being louder because they were cooped up inside in the winter and really the trauma was getting to them, too, and my head and heart not functioning like it normally does, I found myself weeping in my daughters’ room. I was exhausted. I felt completely hopeless. Maybe this divorce would go on forever. Maybe I’d never see the sun shining again. Maybe we were in just another eternal winter. Through tears, I called my mom and said, “I need help. Please.” In a moment my family surrounded me, just as we’d done in the hospital waiting room several months before. My mom, dad, and brother wrapped their arms around me and told me to breathe deeply. Then they sent me to rest and they took over caring for my girls. 

That night, in between Hallmark Christmas movies and dozing in and out, my brother and dad brought me sushi and chocolate and I breathed in deeply. The next day, I slept as late as I could, then got ready for the day and went to one of my favorite places in Kansas City - The Plaza. The Plaza at Christmas time is magical. It is spectacular. I went and walked through luxurious stores I rarely purchase anything from, and breathed in the crisp winter air. I allowed myself to feel the cold weather and savor the Christmas decorations. I had to force it, even. But I did it. Then I ate some Mediterranean food and while the sun slipped away, I slipped into a worship service at a local church and cried my way through the entire service.  

A miracle didn’t happen that day - but it happened a few months later when the world began looking colorful again. As the rest of the world began shutting down because of the Covid-19 pandemic, my world began to open back up and seemed to fill with life again. 
- 
After my mom called the debt collectors and explained what was happening in my world, how everything was caving in all around me and how I didn’t even know that debt existed, she was met with not one, but two incredibly kind and understanding debt collectors who prayed for me. I think debt collectors often get the same rap as tax collectors in Jesus’ day. I can understand how people in Matthew’s and Zaccheus’ lives must have felt when they saw their transformed and softened hearts because I was met with the soft, compassionate hearts of two debt collectors. 

They gently explained that there was nothing they could do because once a court date is set, it must be kept. They were careful not to give legal advice while also doing their best to assist me and I awaited my trial for this debt with the same judge who was overseeing so many of the other legal cases I was dealing with. 

The day before my trial arrived just a few weeks before Christmas. My mom and I were driving around downtown Kansas City with my girls in the back of the car just trying to pass the time. I was nauseous as I thought of having to walk back into the courthouse tomorrow. Then my phone rang. It was an unknown number, which I usually ignore, but for some reason, I didn’t. 

“Hello?” 

“Hello, Kendra?” was the response. It was one of the debt collectors we had spoken to on the phone. “I just want you to know that we have decided to not press charges for the debt and not pursue you for the debt, either. We want you to have a fresh start at life and a Merry Christmas. We’re even covering the court fees.” 

“Thank you,” were the only words I could slip out. I was too shocked to cry in that moment, but I handed the phone to my mom so he could tell her, too. 

A miracle. 

I had prayed my bravest prayer. When I laid on the bed weeping, I had asked God to somehow just remove the debt completely. 

And He did. 

God meets us, even in the depths of despair. Even in the deepest depths, He’s still there. He’s still present. He’ll never leave us. Even in the depths - He is there. As our comfort, as our miracle worker, as our strength, as our light when the darkness has closed in so much there really is no more light except Jesus.