Last August, Rick had a horrendous week—maybe even the worst week in a very long time. What made it so bad? We were still deep in the remodeling trenches and living in complete chaos. Each family member had a bed to sleep in, but that was the only consistency. We combined the features of two bathrooms to make one working bathroom. Our kitchen appliances were on backorder, so our meals came from the microwave, Instant Pot, or Crock-Pot. Our refrigerator was in the garage, and our microwave was in the living room. We didn’t have a dishwasher or a kitchen sink. We hand-washed cooking utensils in the garage sink and used many paper products. We had been living like this for about a month when Rick took a trip with Brooklyn to a BYU sports camp. I imagined him gleefully exclaiming, “See you, Suckers,” as they drove to New York for their flight. Unfortunately, his respite only lasted long enough for him to let his guard down and contract a horrible cold. This was bad news because the day after he and Brooklyn came home, Makayla and I flew to Provo to help Emily move apartments.
And so began the week of torture for Rick. He was so sick.
He was the lone adult amid a sea of kids, teenagers, and remodeling messes. The
new semester at Penn State would start in two weeks, and he had yet to submit a
syllabus and generate course material for a class he hadn’t taught before. And
then Ricky and Andrew were in a car accident, totaling our beloved Honda Odyssey.
The boys were okay, but now Rick had to deal with an insurance claim and adjust
his schedule to accommodate one less car and driver.
Then, a member of the stake presidency scheduled an
interview with us. Since I was out of town, we held the meeting over Zoom. On
the video call, Rick looked like he wanted to disappear into a cold-medicine-induced
coma. But he just kept doing all the things, including not crying or barfing or
screaming when he was asked if he could support me as a seminary teacher.
Maybe some of you don’t know what seminary is. Our church
runs a religious education program for high schoolers called seminary. In
places where our church has a denser concentration of members, seminary
teachers are employed by the church, and students attend seminary as part of
their school day. Here in Pennsylvania and most other areas of the world,
seminary teachers serve as volunteers, and students attend early in the morning
before school.
If I served as a seminary teacher, I would be away from home
from 7 a.m. to about 8:40 a.m., Monday through Friday. This would mean that
Rick would oversee getting Gavin, Brooklyn, and Sean to school each morning.
This would also mean that much of my “free time” during the day would be
dedicated to preparing religious lessons for teenagers. It was a big
ask—especially considering our chaos at home.
I accepted the call, and Rick said he would support me. Did
he cry when he left the Zoom meeting? I don’t think so, but he did continue his
most awful week ever by accidentally throwing away the car keys with a picnic
lunch at Gavin’s birthday celebration at Hershey Park. This little mishap left
him marooned with the kids in a parking lot 2 hours away from home, working
desperately with a locksmith to override the car’s security system into the wee
hours of the morning.
We wondered how we would manage this new demand on our time and resources. On the other hand, I wasn’t completely surprised by the call. I had a sense over the past months that I needed to prepare for something. This something was the source of a lot of contentious conversations between Rick and me. Because I didn’t know what the something was, I struggled to explain my desires. I felt I needed to push myself academically and that I should arrange my schedule to allow more personal time. I have always known that my work as a stay-at-home parent is vital and important, and, when I was honest with myself, I had done the role justice, but I couldn’t get past this nagging feeling that I needed to develop my talents and be prepared to serve in a unique way. I felt I needed to stretch myself educationally and experientially, but I wasn’t sure what that would look like. I thought that maybe I was being pushed to pursue graduate work in writing or editing.
Why, if
we were barely surviving the chaos, would I think another demanding
commitment would not be detrimental to our family life? What would be the
purpose of this degree? Not a career, right? Because Rick’s Job provides well
for our family. I couldn’t see myself attending classes in person with several
children still at home in need of my attention at all hours of the day for
appointments, illnesses, rides, etc., so I investigated online programs, but would
those programs provide the value? Doubtful. Most online programs are simply money-makers
and side projects for universities. Nothing seemed right.
The call to be a seminary teacher, though challenging, felt
validating. See, God knows you can do something more. You can set aside a
couple of hours a day to prepare lessons and teach, and your kids will still be
okay. You can develop your talents and continue to do all the work your family
requires.
The semester started out well. I prepared lessons with
contractors banging, drilling, and walking back and forth behind me as I
previewed church videos. I learned how to gather material and structure it in a
way that would connect to the teenagers. I learned how to balance my time—when
to say the lesson was good enough and focus on laundry, or when to let the
laundry go to keep preparing a lesson. Rick was doing well too. I’d come home
from seminary to a tidy kitchen. The dishwasher was unloaded and everything in order, so I felt no guilt about going straight to my computer to prepare for my
next lesson. We were doing a hard thing and doing it well.
But as the weeks went on, our trajectory dipped. The days
got shorter; the weather got colder. I began to feel a heaviness that I
couldn’t shake. In September, the contractors said they’d be finished in
October. In October, they pushed their completion date to November. Unforeseen
problems like failed septic and well pumps, black mold, dry rot, damaged
appliances, and miscommunications about countertop selections plagued our
everyday life. Our children continued to struggle with mental illness. I would
come home from seminary each day to a wrecked kitchen or an email from the
school about Brooklyn and Gavin exceeding the threshold for unexcused tardies.
My best friend’s dad died. Emily experienced a difficult breakup. At each turn, another heavy stone was dropped onto my already heavy heart.
Each day felt colder and darker—literally and physically. I wasn’t showing up for my family how I
wanted to. The compound stress of the past months, even years, created a
hopeless pattern in my thoughts. Shouldn’t we be settled by now? Would we never
experience a respite? I wished to fade away.
In November, I talked to my doctor about my unusual back
pain and fatigue. Was it my new blood pressure medication? “No,” she said, “That
would be an unusual response, but your blood pressure is low." She prescribed a lower strength medicine and scheduled a follow-up. In
January, I felt worse rather than better. Was it seasonal? Was it my feminine
mystique? What could I do?
Dr. Goto suggested a Happy Light for my office and increased
Vitamin D. We scheduled another follow-up for May to see if my mood
changed with these suggestions and warmer, sunnier weather.
And I kept teaching seminary. Sometimes, the lessons came
easy. I felt inspired. Other times, I’d try to study the material and fall
asleep or cry because I felt so low. Even though I couldn’t concentrate or felt
little uplift about the topic, I would push through to prepare SOMETHING.
Teenagers do not let you fake it.
In that way, seminary might have saved me. When I wanted to
hide in my closet, I had to intentionally seek inspiration—if not for
me, for them. I knew these kids were experiencing all kinds of challenges and
doubts, but they trusted that God would help them. They paid the price by
getting up every morning and coming to seminary. If they could do it, I would
do it too.
At the beginning of the year, my teaching partner asked,
“Are you a good teacher?” I answered, “I don’t know. I have never done it
before. I have no Sunday School experience and have never taught this age
group. Most of my church service has been with younger children if you don’t
count my years as camp director.” I think my response made her a little
nervous, but guess what? I’m a pretty good seminary teacher. God has blessed me
with specific spiritual gifts and supportive people around me to help me thrive
in the calling despite personal and circumstantial shortcomings.
Some people have said I have been an answer to their prayers
for the teens in our stake, but they don’t know the other side of it. I needed
seminary. It saved me. It was an answer to a prayer that I didn’t know to offer.
It has taken me some time to recognize my symptoms as depression because I don’t behave like the stereotypical, closed-off, lay-in-bed, droopy-face depressed person. I get up early. I follow through with commitments. I smile and laugh. I serve other people. But even though I’m showing up to my responsibilities on the outside, I am extremely unsteady on the inside. My emotional resilience feels like the elastic waistband on decades-old swim trunks. I’m weighted down and fragile. I have nightmares about moving and remodeling, packing for trips, losing things, losing people, not being where I’m supposed to be, or not doing what I’m supposed to do.
In the past, I had a
“can-do” attitude. I believed I could accomplish any inspired task because God
had prepared me, and He would help me bridge the gap between my abilities and my
potential. Now, no matter how minor, I feel dread instead of confidence when a challenge is presented to me. I am not excited about things I should be excited
about, like Ricky preparing for a mission or other big family events. I don’t
want to write stories, play games, or learn new facts. I’m going
through the motions—checking tasks with little sense of fulfillment.
The sunny weather and longer days have not cured me. I am
seeking medical care, though, as anybody who has tried to procure the services
of a mental health professional knows, the wait will be long. But I’m proud of
myself for admitting the problem and seeking help. I have felt this way before.
I had postpartum depression after our fifth, sixth, and seventh babies. I knew what
it was. I recognized the symptoms, but I lied about how I felt on all the
screening forms because I didn’t have the time or space for extra appointments,
and I guessed I would recover after a few months.
I need more help this time, and I’m glad that teaching
seminary has been a part of that help. In the meantime, I show up for swim
practice and meets, unpack boxes, drive kids places, buy fast food for hungry
teens, and host swim parties. I’m the summer Primary singing time leader which
means I show up to church every Sunday with a smile even if my face is puffy
from crying myself to sleep. I continue to slog through with the hope that I’ll
find my resilience again.
(Photo of a sunrise I caught while brushing my teeth before dashing to seminary)
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