We’d known it for some time.
Our beloved son is ill.
More ill than we realized at first; more ill than he realizes himself yet.
His illness affects his whole life … and ours, too.
His illness affects the dreams and hopes our son had for his life – good friends and good success at school, a good job, a good life.
His illness affects the dreams and hopes we had for our son – success at school, graduations, a job, a future family of his own, a good relationship with us, his parents.
Our beloved son is ill.
Our beloved son is mentally ill.
Or better stated: Our beloved son has a mental illness. That’s one of the problems, you see, with mental illness. We would never say, “My wife is cancer,” or “My brother is muscular dystrophy.” But the mentally ill become defined by their disease. And their disease often defines how they are treated by others.
Our beloved son. We knew that something was wrong from his elementary school years. We tried many things: we worked with teachers and tutors, paid for supplemental learning courses, saw counsellors, got our son involved in extra-curricular activities and our church youth group. We sent him to our church camp and larger youth events. But the problems persisted. Behaviour problems, like lying and stealing, difficulty with friendships, with “fitting in.” Our son wasn’t invited to birthday parties much; and as he grew older, the problems grew larger and more difficult. He struggled in school, and grew more angry at home. There was risky behaviour, running away, police at our door, violence in our home.
We read the best parenting books, attended courses and seminars, wept and prayed. We worried when he was at home; we worried when we didn’t know where our son was, sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks. It broke our hearts to watch his broken spirit and sense of self. It broke our peace, with his wild ways of getting attention and his hurtful ways of getting back. Relationships with girls were always a challenge – it would start off well, grew serious far too quickly, and end more dramatically every time.
The community and the congregation we attended knew something was wrong. No doubt, there was talk going on about him, and about us. Some of that talk was, I’m sure, judgmental; some of it compassionate and concerned. As the problems became more obvious and more public, people gradually stopped asking much about our son. That was easier to do as he lived at home less, and rarely attended church.
Our family’s stress level increased; our other children suffered from the energy that we had to expend on their brother; our marriage felt the strain as we wondered what to do next, when the next episode would explode, what the short-term and long-term future would hold for the son we love. My wife and I are Christians; we believed God had entrusted this son to our care, the precious son we had held in our arms as a newborn babe, the infant son we gave to the Lord at baptism, the son we had waited for and prayed over. We brought our boy to church week by week; we prayed at home, read the Bible as a family at suppertimes, made sure he had everything, including loving parents and a good home.
For years we carried a heavy burden of guilt – that somehow, our son’s struggles were our fault. That we had made too many mistakes, had not parented the right way – had been too strict or too lenient, too Christian or not faithful enough. We asked “Why?” many times – asked our son, asked ourselves, asked God.
It has been a long journey, and the path is long and steep and rugged. The end is not in sight yet. But along the way, we have learned many things. Perhaps some of what our family has learned will help our churches learn about mental illness – because those who suffer from this disease need to find the acceptance and support of a faith community too.
We likely don’t realize that present in our pews or chairs on Sunday mornings are people who themselves struggle with mental illness: those who have depression or bipolar disorder, and who do their best to hide their illness because of the stigma attached. They hear the jokes about “crazy people” and “being off your meds” and so don’t feel safe in sharing their truth. In your congregation there may be a wife whose husband never comes to church or church events because he’s self-medicating his obsessive-compulsive disorder with alcohol. She would like to come to choir or attend the women’s luncheon, but things at home sap her energy, and Sunday mornings are about the only time she can slip away. She doesn’t have a marriage partner to bring to the couples’ retreat; she has a dependant to care for, and aches for his loss and her own.
The other truth, of course, is that absent from our pews or chairs are those with mental illness, and their families. They don’t feel they could fit in, measure up, or cope with the service or the fellowship potluck. People are often afraid of those with a mental illness, afraid of what they might do or say; people, good caring people, are often at a loss for words when talking with someone who has a mental illness or has a loved one who suffers from this devastating disease. Most have a greater comfort level with other debilitating illnesses, whether Parkinson’s disease or melanoma. Mental illness is a strange world, a frightening place, and people don’t know what to say or do.
Our family has heard this silence … we know what it is to be brushed off by others, including church folk, who don’t know what to say or do … or who simply don’t want to know, and found it easier to teach the Sunday school class or lead the youth group when our son was not involved. We understand. But it still hurts.
My wife and I didn’t know what to say or do either. But because mental illness became part of our family experience, we have learned.
We have learned that mental illness is a brain disorder, not a character flaw, not the result of bad parenting or lack of effort on the part of the mentally ill person. Yes, even Christians can have a mental illness, and can still seek to be faithful, to have a relationship with God, and find wholeness in their lives.
We have learned that diagnosis of a mental illness is usually a long process. An accurate diagnosis may take a decade or more to obtain; proper medical and pharmaceutical help longer still, as the waiting list for mental health care professionals is long, the treatment takes time and persistence and can be very costly. If a disability pension is warranted, that too can take a long time, endless paperwork, interviews, and phone calls, all in the effort to receive a small monthly cheque that would leave our son very little to live on.
We have learned that we are not alone, and that support groups like those offered by the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill offer both help and hope for families like ours.
We have learned how to advocate for our son, how to support him and stay focused on achievable goals and be thankful for good days.
We have learned that it’s okay for people to ask about our son; to ask how he is and how we are. We can choose how much to share, and appreciate the care shown when people ask. Our son is ill, he is not a monster.
We have learned that to help our son, we also need to care for ourselves, our marriage and our family. Sometimes that means making hard choices about where our son lives and how he is incorporated into our home life.
We have learned that there is hope; that those with a mental illness can live productive, helpful, meaningful lives and make wonderful contributions to family and society – and yes, even the church.
We have learned how important a caring congregation can be; that prayer support and yes, even a casserole at the door or a gift certificate to go out for a meal is a welcome help during stressful times.
We have learned that grieving is important – to grieve what our son has lost and may yet lose, in relationships and experiences and milestones and success. We also need to grieve what we have lost and may well yet lose – that our son may never hold down a good job, support a family, bring grandchildren to visit us, advocate for us when we’re in the hospital or nursing home, be able or available to participate in our funeral service. That our other children may face bearing burdens for their brother in the years ahead saddens us now.
We have learned about being more compassionate and less judgmental, and about being sensitive as folks share their excitement and joy over successful children and wonderful marriages and happy families. We have a great deal of empathy for other wounded ones who listen to these good stories and have nothing to add – because their daughter has had another episode, their marriage is struggling, their family is fractured.
We have learned that God is big enough to love our son as he is, and to love us as we are, and to walk with us through the valleys of dark shadows, when the pastures are not green and the waters are not quiet.
Yes, our son is ill. He is our beloved son, and we have learned that our love for him is only a taste, a glimpse, of our Lord’s love for us and all His children.
