Into Dark Depths

There was no air in the basement guest room. My heart was pounding. I was dripping with sweat. The room was spinning at warp speed, and I was clutching the bed lest I be flung helplessly across the room.

I managed to get my feet on the floor and sit on the edge of the bed. Whatever was happening, it seemed like I would have more control sitting up than lying down. Control was important. It was still dark. I turned on the light ... four in the morning.

My wife and I were a thousand miles from home. We had left the day before to participate in a missions conference in Illinois, at one of our former churches. The days were crammed full—four days of conference activities and every meal scheduled with close friends and financial supporters. We were eagerly looking forward to reconnecting with many of the special people in our lives. And yet here I was, scared like I had never been in my life.

Elbows on my knees, head in my hands, I sat fighting for control. Tears were rolling down my checks. Then it happened: Overwhelming feelings of dread I never knew existed washed over me in debilitating waves, each one filling me with greater fear and confusion.

In a few hours the Sunday morning I had been anticipating would dawn—a day filled with magnificent worship and overflowing with dear friends. It was supposed to be a good day. Now all that was to be good in the coming day morphed into fear-filled encounters. The thought of being with people was more than I could handle. I couldn't do it.

By this time Sue was awake and aware that something was wrong. The only thing I could say was, "I can't. I can't do it." This became my recurring reply for the next ten months.

Sue went to church by herself that morning and canceled all our appointments for the day. I stayed behind to rebuild my reserves so I could go to the evening service. People were expecting my presence there; I was a long-time missionary of the church, a vice president of The Navigators with responsibility for our student ministries across the country. I needed to show up. A day by myself should replenish whatever it was that had drained out of me.

Yet as we left for the evening service, I was filled with anxiety and a sense that being in a friend-filled public was beyond my ability. Yet it seemed reasonable I could dredge up enough adrenaline and will power to do it. There had always been reserves to draw on. And after all, I was a leader and ought to be there. And so we went.

For a small wall of protection, I sat with Sue in the very last row in one of my favorite sanctuaries— one filled with wonderful memories. But tonight, the organ I loved to listen to was harsh and way too loud. The congregational singing sounded like the raucous crowd at a hockey game. It was awful. The conference speaker seemed to be constantly yelling at me in the back row. After the service, friends surrounded us, and with each handshake and hug I felt something draining out of me. I returned to our hosts' home worse than when I had left, emptier than had I ever felt in my life. My reserves that had always been there were gone. At least tonight I had lived up to people's expectations and performed like a leader ... or so I thought. Each next event at the conference seemed more demanding than I could handle. For four days I would hide during the day from the endless encounters that would take more than I had to give, then show up in the evening with a smile and try to give what I didn't have.

Sue and I knew something was very wrong. I called home to my doctor, a wonderful Christian brother, and shared what I was experiencing— the feelings of fear and anxiety, the dread of meeting with people and of being in public, the panic attacks. He assured me that I was not going to die. I needed to hear that; I was beginning to wonder. He asked me to journal my feelings. This would be new for me, and yet I felt it would be easy—my feelings overwhelmed me. I couldn't miss them.

After the conference we drove to St. Louis to visit our son Jeff, who was in seminary. It was more than I could handle. I needed to hide and be alone. I climbed into bed in the early afternoon. I couldn't do this.

The next day Sue and I were hosting a reception for a significant number of seminarians with backgrounds in The Navigators. All were dear friends and co-laborers. We wanted to communicate our love and affirm their calling to be pastors. The reception was both wonderful and horribly hard. It was good to affirm their callings. It was good to bless them. But with every blessing I was giving what I did not have. "It is one thing to be empty," Macrina Wiederkehr writes, "but when you are asked to feed someone out of your emptiness it can be terrifying."

The thought of traveling home the next day filled me with fear. Returning the rental car, maneuvering through a large congested airport, cramming my 6'2" frame into a cramped airplane filled with people sitting way too close to me—I wasn't sure I could do it. Knowing I was returning to the solitude and safety of our home in the Colorado forest, however, infused me with enough tooth-clenching determination to press through the anxiety.

Home. A visit to the doctor to share my journal, a little rest after an unusually busy summer and fall, and all should be well. But it wasn't. I got worse—much worse. The panic attacks continued. They seemed like heart attacks. Fear and anxiety were my constant companions. All my thoughts became dark and negative. Every one. I knew I was going to die. I knew I had a brain tumor. I knew I had cancer. And heart trouble. The sense of impending doom was inescapable.

Sue is an extrovert and has a huge circle of friends that often call on the phone. I couldn't deal with it. It was like they were all in our house and crushing in on me. There was no way I could dredge up the courage or resources to talk on the phone. If a visitor came to our door, I hid in the bedroom. It was all way too much.

I couldn't watch TV. A video was unthinkable, requiring emotional responses I did not have. I couldn't read; the newspaper was far too stressful, and even my favorite Louis L'Amour cowboy novels were too much. The Bible? No...