When I was growing up, the Sunday school children who were celebrating their birthdays in the upcoming week knelt at the altar rail for a special blessing by the priest. The priest would lay his warm, big hands on my head and ask God to “bless and guide me as my days increase; to strengthen me when I stand; comfort me when discouraged or sorrowful and raise me up when I fall.” What an amazing request: that God would pick me up if I fell down. Boy, that would help matters! I was so hopeful that God really would pick me up if I fell down. I hoped my brother and sisters would be there when it happened so they could see how much God loved me. I hoped I’d remember to say “Thank You” afterward and to be charming and memorable when we finally met.
Then I wondered why God hadn’t picked me up off the ground up to this point in my life if that’s what gods were supposed to do. I wondered if I had to fall in a terrible manner before God would take time out of (his) busy day to help me to my feet. Maybe I had to fall down a cliff and get snagged in a crag or something equally dramatic dramatic to warrant such extraordinary divine attention. After all, I had seen the picture of God’s son taking care of that lamb. I wondered if lambs were more worthy of God’s help than little girls like me who usually fell down because I was doing something stupid. Like running around the pool deck when I had been told many times that it was dangerous. Or falling out of a tree because I grabbed a limb that only a novice tree-climber would think could hold them. Or I was reading a library book while walking in line back to homeroom and tripped over a break in the sidewalk. I figured little girls fell and hurt their knee, elbows, and bottoms or their pride because they weren’t good girls. Lambs, on the other hand, seemed like innocent victims of circumstance. They just put their heads down and focused obediently on the task of munching grass when the ground suddenly disappeared beneath them. In my understanding, the lamb was in this precarious position because the shepherd had been negligent and not adequately supervised snack-time. God chose to intervene then because it was a matter of justice; a matter of restoring the balance. 
God never did pick me up like I wanted. And I fell a lot. Although mostly, other than scraped skin, the only thing that got hurt was my pride. That got bruised a lot. The only thing that helped my bruised pride was time and that didn’t work all the time. I still feel my face get warm remembering when I rode my bicycle straight into the back bumper of a car parked on the street curb. I had been looking intently to to the side at the tennis courts of the Pierremont Oaks to see if the love of my childhood was teaching a class. Unfortunately, he was. And my stomach still gets tight when I drive over the Horace Wilkinson Bridge to Baton Rouge. That’s the location of my first big-girl fall.
I had to drop out of college in October of my junior year because of clinical depression. For weeks I had been able to do nothing but lie in my bed and cry while my friends looked on in confusion and frustration. Eventually, the school authorities called my mother who had to drive the four hours from Shreveport to get me and my stuff and to help me officially withdraw from the university due to medical disability – sub-categorized “mental health issues.” I was told I wouldn’t be able to return within a certain time frame without a psychiatric evaluation. As Mom and I were driving over that bridge, the shame of it all filled my stomach. I was crazy! I was certifiable! I was a loser! I had failed. And everyone would now know that I couldn’t manage what was expected. Where the hell was God now I wondered? Surely God could expend a little divine energy to set things right for me. Because, frankly, it did seem to me a matter of justice.
Prior to this depression I had become a fanatic of (His) Son. I had prayed the prayer of salvation. I had been re-baptized to get the immersion experience. I had prayed the Prayer of Salvation and followed the Roman Road. I had studied the Four Spiritual Laws and led numerous people to Christ. And now, when I’m in this much pain, couldn’t God bother to show up and pick me up? Really? What more did I have to do or be to be considered worth His time? 
I am so human. And I hate that. But, I’m trying to learn to manage that disappointment. I’ve been trying to learn that since that day driving over the Horace Wilkinson bridge. The day I exposed my human-ness to my sorority sisters. It’s been over twenty-five years now. A lot more people have found out I am human. When I’m not trying to keep that a secret, I feel free. Free to be me. I eventually went back to college and did real well. I think I made A’s in part because I was free to fail since I knew I could survive it. God still hasn’t ever picked me up like I’ve always wanted — but I do get up. It just isn’t with ease or with grace or very quick. Have you ever seen a middle-aged, out-of-shape, never-ever snow skier try to right herself on a slope for the first time? Then you get the picture. It’s not a divine look if you’ll pardon the saying. Next time you have an opportunity, watch the adult never-evers on a bunny slope. And then ponder this: “God came down and was incarnate and made man” – just like that flailing fool in the powder blue parka. That makes me ROTFLMAO.
I feel free to laugh with my foibles because I take my freedom to be me very seriously. I take my freedom from depression with tremendous gratitude. I don’t always love my process but it is my process. It is a process that has taken me to where faith was not an experienced reality; to a place where I could do nothing but wait to see if God would pick me up. 
“Free To Be Me,” Francesca Battistelli
Reflection based on Center for Action and Contemplation series “Freedom”
- How has grace brought me freedom?
- How does one trust God’s process?
- What is free will to me?
- What experiences of love have set you free?
Recent Comments Made By: