The Hope of Hopelessness
As the knowledge that your child has a mental illness sinks in, as you internalize it and accept it, is there room for hope? What does that hope look like?
When my child was diagnosed with high-functioning autism at the age of nine, I remember thinking to myself that I had to abandon my dreams for him. He wasn’t going to be the student I wanted him to be. He wasn’t going to have the profession I dreamed he’d have. He might not be able to have a friend his own age. (Even at nine, he “didn’t like children.”) He would only be what he was going to be—what God had made him to be. At the time I laughed at myself for thinking he would ever be anything but what God wanted him to be anyhow. Who did I think I was to ask for something different than God’s will? I thought I had my head in a good place.
When another child came down with a mystery illness that took away his ability to function physically and mentally, I was much less philosophical. This was the “healthy child”—the neurotypical one. This one was the one who was going to have a normal life. Even if he never became a pastor, a missionary, or a theoretical astrophysicist, he was going to become something. All of the sudden that was in doubt. It was a very real possibility that he was only going to be sick. I felt hopeless.
When another of my children was born, we knew she was non-neurotypical, but didn’t feel the need for her to have a label. She was healthy and happy, and we didn’t care if her brain worked differently. I was hopeful. Enter puberty. (Cue ominous music.) Four diagnoses later, we are still hoping for improvement.
When my final child, a very neurotypical child, developed long-covid (or long-something-else—we can’t be sure), it was the last straw. She sank into depression and anxiety. Four strikes and I’m out. We’re out. We’re all disordered. I was only hoping she would get well.
So many of my hopes rest on the hope of a cure, or even on the hope of improvement. But God hasn’t promised me (or them) a life of ease. He hasn’t promised that our illnesses will be cured, that our weak places will be made strong, or that our troubles will end before our lives do.
A plethora of Bible verses and stories illustrate this concept. As Job 5:7 says, “Yet man is born to trouble as surely as sparks fly upward.” (NIV) James doesn’t say “if you encounter various trials,” but “when” you do (James 1). Paul had a “thorn in the flesh.” (II Corinthians 12:9-10) God anointed David as King of Israel, but David spent years fighting for the right to be who God told him he was. Most of the apostles were martyred, along with countless others throughout the history of the church. The examples could go on and on.
Some of my children are doing well now, and others are still struggling. They may always struggle. They may not. Those of my children who are doing well now may falter in the future. I don’t know. I can’t know. My job is to cling fast to my faith and lead them to the feet of my Heavenly Father.
As Christians parenting the mentally ill, we have unique troubles, but we are by no means alone. No one is without troubles, without burdens, without difficulties. We who find ourselves in despair are among the fortunate. We have a firm understanding that hope is not rooted in this world and what it can give. We have been stripped of false hopes and left with one, solid abiding one. God is with us in our difficulties, and He will use them to build us up and bring us into His kingdom on the last day.
Are you a Christian parenting an individual with mental illness? Join the Eleventh Willow private Facebook support group to meet other parents who understand. Let’s help each other walk this path.
Image by Colin Behrens from Pixabay