Here’s some photos from our recent visit to Jekyll Island.
It’s hard to explain. We call it a funk, or depression, or a million other things. And often times, we think we deserve it. We think it is a punishment. We are told it’s because our walk with God is weak, or because we are out from under authority.
Mental health is one of those things that’s not talked about, especially in the church community. But it is very real, and yes it affects Christians. If David, a man after God’s own heart, could write, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words of my roaring? O my God, I cry in the day time, but thou hearest not; and in the night season, and am not silent.” (Psalm 22:1-2), how are we to say that it is because we are out of fellowship?
It is a serious thing. It is a dark and lonely thing. But while you pour yourself into the scriptures, fill your heart with songs and spiritual songs, and pray without ceasing, it is still okay to ask for help.
So here it is. I am on medications for depression and anxiety. I meet with a therapist on a regular basis. I have a wife who is understanding and supportive. And I have friends that encourage me. And I encourage them as well. You see, we all experience it. It is a part of life. It is not something we should be ashamed about.
I’ve not been suicidal, but I’ve been close before. Most people assume it started with the cancer, but it’s been around for years before that. It just took me until recent years to get to the place where I would ask for help. And I am so glad I did.
It gets better. It may get worse again after that, but the hope of it getting better is what can keep you going. I have seen the Promised Land. There are two of them: one that will last for eternity and one mortal one that can be life after cancer, depression, whatever you’re going through. And I know that I will be there again one day. I decided long ago to keep pushing for the good days. There are good days and they are my (mortal) promised land. When the valley is deep and the shadows long, I remember the mountain and the beauty of the promised land. When I have an allergic reaction to the meds and my skin burns like fire, I think about the promised land. When I’m facing down a syringe that I know will cause my body to ache for days, I remember the mountain, and I think of the promised land.
We all work for something. A cure. Being able to go back to work. Being able to start a family. That vision is your promised land. Focus on your promised land. But like the civil rights movement from which I borrow the quote, you’re not going to get there overnight. It’s even more difficult alone. So if you need help, ask for it.
Talk to your doctor. Talk to your friends. Talk to your religious leader. Use the contact page and talk to me. As a friend posted earlier, “If you need help, look for it. It’s there. People want to help you, myself included. You ARE important. You DO matter. This time WILL pass. Depression isn’t a joke and shouldn’t be taken lightly.” You’re not alone. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.
The Cooking Gene. I don’t think I have it. But I have read the book by the same name by Michael W. Twitty, and I highly recommend it. While its subject matter requires a mature reader, as the Amazon summary says, “As he takes us through his ancestral culinary history, Twitty suggests that healing may come from embracing the discomfort of the Southern past. Along the way, he reveals a truth that is more than skin deep—the power that food has to bring the kin of the enslaved and their former slaveholders to the table, where they can discover the real America together.”
This is not a cook book by any means. And while it dives a bit too deeply into the food science for my taste, it is to provide a solid foundation for the more relevant discussions built upon it. In these times of racial strife, this book looks at what brings us together to a common table while also examining the deep hurts and atrocities that led to much of the discord which still festers nearly two centuries after the abolition of slavery in the United States.
Twitty focuses primarily on how southern cuisine is essentially African cuisine, a point which he argues quite effectively. In the preface, he states,
The Old South is a place where people use food to tell themselves who they are, to tell others who they are, and to tell stories about where they’ve been… It’s a place where arguments over how barbecue is prepared or chicken is served or whether sugar is used to sweeten cornbread can function as culinary shibboleths… I dare to believe all Southerners are a family. We are not merely Native, European, and African. We are Middle eastern and South Asian and East Asian and Latin American, now. We are a dysfunctional family, but we are a family. We are unwitting inheritors of a story with many sins that bears the fruit of the possibility of ten times the redemption. One way is through reconnection with the culinary culture of the enslaved, our common ancestors, and restoring their names on the roots of the Southern tree and the table those roots support.
Twitty walks the reader through the old south of Virginia and surrounding area and tells the story of how slavery spread through the deep south and westward. He details the differing experiences of slaves depending on where they were sold or traded. He connects how today’s “soul food” connects back to African traditions. How the tradition of fried chicken at funerals is tied to African religious practices. But more importantly, how these traditions are not siloed into one race or culture, but now serve the purpose of uniting us in a shared history.
“You must know your own past,” is as much a theme of the book as anything else. Twitty details his ancestor’s journey from Africa, to the auction block, to the plantations, and to where they are now. But those aren’t his only lines. Either through force or hushed attraction, his DNA also includes the slave owners and their families as well. As he discusses the conflict it causes him, he becomes a microcosm of the south itself. With its conflicted history, we like Twitty, must discover who we are, where we are going, and how to get there while moving our collective family from dysfunctional to united.
Twitty, M. (2017). The cooking gene : a journey through African American culinary history in the Old South. New York, NY: Amistad, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers.
The alphabet has twenty-five more letters. Which is a good thing, because I think we just hit Plan G? Anyway… We had an appointment with the Atlanta oncologist last Thursday. As if that wasn’t stressful enough, the traffic was worse getting up there and back than I’d ever seen for a doctor’s appointment. The news wasn’t unexpected, but it was far from what I wanted to hear.
So, I know I need to post an update, but there’s not really anything to update. It’s still a waiting game to see if the immunotherapy worked. I’m going for labs once or twice a week, and the results are fairly consistent. I’m needing a blood transfusion pretty much every week, and some weeks more than one. My platelets are slowly climbing, but still extremely low. And my neutrophils (my immune system) is still about as low as it can possibly go. Normal is between 2.0 and 8.0. Mine have been running around 0.1 or 0.0.