The Blues and the Amish

Depression.

There are studies out there that show depression among the Amish folk is rare. And, well, we don’t need fancy research to know that millions of regular American folk are plagued with some degree of depression—from having a continual case of the Mondays to the inability to cope and committing suicide. I know this topic. At times, it's plagued me like stink bugs. I was on meds for a few years back in the day and have weaned off them.

So, back to the Amish. What's up with their lack of depression? I gotta start by saying I have been fascinated with this community since I was a little kid. I think my parents may have had us visit Lancaster when we were younger to point out how lazy, unappreciative, and spoiled us kids were in comparison to the Amish children who wore starchy clothes, milked cows at 4am, and broiled under the summer sun doing manual labor. Also, those children had no TV. And no electricity. We had it all.

See, my parents came to the States from South America in their twenties, so they always made sure us first generation American kids valued hard work and a hard-earned dollar. And they did everything they could to make sure we never fell victim to the debilitating disease of entitlement. We were taught to work. Work. Work. Work. Work hard…but what about everything else? Not so important.

This is why I admire the Amish so much. The Amish are more than hard-working people who refuse to have electricity. The Amish are a community who focus on faith, simplicity, humility, communalism and, yes, work ethic. Mainstream society? Umm. Let’s do a little comparison.

Faith? Talking about religion in today’s culture is usually taboo unless it’s something hip that some A-list celebrity just blabbed about in some tabloid. We often associate simplicity with boring or old-fashioned. Humility? Reminds me of the character Stuart on Mad TV who constantly blurted out “Look what I can do! Look what I can do!” right before he showed off a ridiculous dance move; there is no doubt our society is a look-at-me breed. And yes, communalism. Our community usually revolves around whoever fits in our special little circle. Oh yeah, but we’ll still manage to talk about them behind their backs. And hard work. So many people work to have. It’ s a bill-paying channel. But we’ll be damned we're going to pout and whine and be miserable between the hours of 9 to 5...and while we're stuck in traffic on the way there and back.

It’s no wonder so many of us are depressed. Before you start chucking bottles of Zoloft at me, listen to what I’m saying. I struggle with depression. I understand what it feels like to repeat a hundred positive mantras and Bible verses only to feel the same way as when you started. I understand the fight to pluck off, one by one, the negative tapeworms that squirm through your mind. I know.

I’m also not trying to condemn our culture or focus on all the negative things, but let’s be honest. So many of us have our priorities a little (or a lot) screwed up. I am as guilty as you might be. The Amish are committed to getting rid of whatever they believe will lessen, damage, or influence in some bad way their foundational truths. What kind of foundational truths do we have? Maybe the lack thereof is what is making us mentally and emotionally as sick as we are.

Let’s get back to basics. I know I have more peace when I remember to keep it simple. It eases my soul when I remind myself…

• That life is not a rat race and I’m not going to be shoved under a bus because I never become a NY Times best-selling author
• That I am not going to get behind in work if I don’t have the newest edition of the crackberry or Mac something or other
• That I’m not going to have a lower quality of life if I’m not the skinniest chick in the room with the fanciest shoes
• That I’m not going to die if I don’t go on my dream vacation, or have a Mcmansion, or go out to eat all the time, or get facials and massages every month

I, just like you I hope, simply crave peace of mind. I pray for that every day. And I find if I hold on to my faith in God and put my attention on the stuff that really matters—like family, friends, my wonderful beau, blessing my clients with my hard work and prayers—the depression is more apt to scurry off to a dark corner, far away from me.

If you struggle with depression, I feel for you. I really do. And I wish there was a magic wand to make you feel better. Sometimes that weighty veil can be lifted with medication, by a God-ordained miracle, or by shifting our focus. Either way, there are probably many of us who could stand to live by some of the core values that are a part of the Amish community. I love what they say, “Adopt the pace of nature; her secret is patience.” And there I remind myself, “One step at a time, AJ. One step at a time.”

Check out the fabulous book Amish Peace by Suzanne Woods Fisher. It’ll help you on the journey to keep life simple.

Sometimes You Just Gotta Ask

About a year ago, a woman named Debbie from the church I used to attend passed away. If I remember correctly, she had died in her home and no one knew about it until a while later.

I learned something from this woman once. She was a peculiar character, this Debbie. She always wore a blue bandana around her head and a brown leather bomber jacket every Sunday I saw her. She had on this bulky leather coat all the time, even when the temperature rose to a muggy 95 degrees in August. Just looking at her made me sweat. Maybe she was cold-blooded. Or immune to sweating. I don’t know. Just thought it was weird.

I liked Debbie. I didn’t mind that she smelled like a used up carton of Marlboro Reds or she had a toothless grin. Her smile reminded me of a baby’s. Simple. Unfettered. I didn’t know her story. I didn’t think it was in my place to ask. I just knew she went to almost every service on the weekends (we had three). I think she fell asleep during some of the services. Oh well, neither here nor there.

Debbie always made an effort to say hi to me every weekend. I’d like to think it had to do with my charm and winning personality but, frankly, she had a particular penchant for expensive Italian handbags. And I do have quite a collection. So every time she flashed her cavernous grin, her eyes would immediately dart to the bag resting on my shoulder. And because I frequently switched bags, she paid extra attention to me.

There was a particular red bag I wore that I just know made her drool. I know because it made me drool and feel warm and fuzzy all over. I can’t remember what brand it was, but it was pricey. And one of my favorites. The leather was incredibly supple and butter-soft. You could have used it as a pillow. Or gone on a date with it, it was so stunning.

Debbie walked over to me the third Sunday I wore it. I was happy to see her and gave her a cheery smile. Of course, I admired her good taste. As she groped my fire engine red, fine leather specimen, she asked me a bold question. “If you are done wearing it, can I have it?” I didn’t hesitate, not even for a millisecond. Nothing crossed my mind—not even subconsciously—other than, “Sure.”

Let me be clear about something. Before I pride myself on being the most generous person in the world, I suppose that if I didn’t have a billion other bags, or if I had just bought it only hours earlier, or if Debbie was a snot-nosed, punk teenager who felt entitled to anything of quality, or if I was feeling particularly selfish or was sick or tired or had real bad cramps, I probably would have balked at her request or maybe even said no. But I swear to it, it didn’t cross my mind.

Anyway, a few weeks passed and I honestly forgot about her request until I saw her in church and she commented on the new mustard colored bag from Milan I sported. I felt like an idiot for forgetting to give her the red bag and made sure to bring it with me to church the following Sunday. And I did. I wrapped in a pretty pink bag with a bow, kissed her on the cheek, gave it to her, and told her I hoped she would enjoy it. Debbie beamed with joy. Her grateful attitude was unmistakable.

As I walked away, I saw two people volley gazes from me to Debbie to the bright red purse. One woman in particular glared at me like I had committed the unpardonable sin. Like I had just offered Debbie a bag of weed and a forty ounce. Honestly, I didn’t what they were thinking, but I know it wasn’t good. Nothing good can possibly come from a beady-eyed glare. Whatever.

Almost immediately, some words came to my mind which I believe was one of those God moments. The kind where he brushes your hair out of your eyes so you can see the twinkle in his. The kind where he cups his hands over your hard-of-hearing ears and whispers something brief but poignant. These are holy hushes of wisdom so quiet, you’ll likely miss them if you’re not paying careful attention.

In the depths of my heart I heard, "Sometimes you just have to ask."

I got the understanding that’s how our relationship is with God. That while the quality of our lives depends on the sometimes crazy combination of faith, decent living, prayer, meditation, happenstance, the influence of the spirit realm, we can’t forget that we are also a part of that equation. God can’t give us anything we don’t ask for.

Maybe you need healing. Or a restored relationship. Or some miraculous intervention. Or an answered prayer for a friend. Or for your teenager to find the right path again. Or for your cravings to stop. Whatever it is…however big or trivial. Sometimes there is just no space for the miraculous to take place if we don’t ask for them and create some wiggle room.

I think it's time for some of you out there to get ready to recieve whatever it is you've been asking for:)

Letting Go (again and again)

Bob Newhart appeared on the comedy show Mad TV years ago and performed a skit with the actress Mo Collins. Mo plays a woman who had a first time visit with a psychiatrist, played by Newhart. In this meeting, she gives him a litany of complaints about what is ailing her—her fear of being buried alive in a box, her regular panic attacks, her claustrophobia, her eating disorder, and her tendency to have self-destruction relationships with men. He responds the same way every time she pauses to let him drop in his two cents. He looks at her incredulously and barks, “Stop it! Just stop it!” She is, of course, taken back by his ridiculous and offensive advice, and retorts that she can’t just stop it. The doctor continues to respond by telling her she is silly and to “Just stop it!”

It’s a hilarious skit that reminds me of the Christianese phrase I often hear. “Let go and let God.” As if it is so easy. Or as if it is a one-time deal. There are many things we need to let go of in life, and this advice relates mostly to worry and anxiety. We are supposed to stop worrying and let God worry for us. The reality, of course, is that it’s not so easy.

What does it feel like to let go? It’s usually not an altar experience, that’s for sure. Well, maybe it can start of with something like that. But the teary Sunday night church service comes and goes and Monday through Saturday tail right behind it. Typically by Tuesday (at best), whatever we have let go of is back and, perhaps it’s even worse. (If you know how to surrender your stuff to God without remembering or even reminding yourself of it the next day, perhaps you can show me how.)

The things I hold on to—my desperate need to know or to control, my worry, my fears—seem to be crazy glued in my clenched fists. What I’m realizing is that if I allow God the pleasure of intervening in this sometimes gut-wrenching journey, He begins to ever so slowly and gently (but sometimes painfully in my heart) pry my fingers off of the things I’m defensively holding onto.

Jesus once said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy to bear, and the burden I give you is light (Matthew 11:28-30).”

Many of us are tired. Our burdens weigh more than we do. Our yokes are too oppressive to just shake off. So Jesus offers us an invitation to get rid of those things. To give Him our baggage and, in turn, receive His rest. For those of us who find this command, which is what I really think it is, hard to live out, let me remind you that you don’t just come to Jesus once or twice. It has to be a recurring event. Don’t feel bad if you can stop worrying after two or ten “Please, God, help me not to worry about this.” Keep praying. Our letting go of stuff, our surrendering, our giving up is required Sunday through Saturday; morning, noon, and night; sometimes even every hour or minute, especially for the worrywarts and control freaks (I speak for myself).

Remember, Jesus said He would teach us how to do this. He knows the majority of us aren’t spiritual rocket scientists, but human beings living in a fallen world. The great part of this Christly offering is that our reward is rest. Peace. A night of sleep without tossing and turning. A day without the falling of anxious tears. An afternoon without the restless double-time beating of an impatient heart.

We’ve all got better things to do than to worry, than to hold on to bothersome and weighty stuff, than to be chained by anxiety wondering how everything is going to turn out. Let go and let God? Sure...for some tonight. For others, eventually. In any case, better than never.

Update

Last night, I wrote the blog that I posted early this morning. It was so early, I was half asleep and didn’t put together the fact that I was posting on 9/11. When I realized what I did, I just about kicked myself in the arse and let out a Homer Simpson "Doi!" It's so petty to talk about remembering my life on a day we need to remember others who are not with us any longer and who are somehow connected to the tragic event. So just keep in mind, I didn’t mean to post my ramblings on such a day. It was a fluke. That being said, today is a very emotional day for many people and we should take some time to remember them and mourn for those we lost.

Detours

Nine years ago I left a cushy job at Accenture to pursue my dreams in the music business. I packed up everything I owned (thankfully not much) in my 1992 Mitsubishi Eclipse I called “Shabazz” (my beau’s name is Jabazz, isn’t that weird?), and drove down to Music City USA.

Hello Nashville, TN.

I didn’t have a plan, really. I had grown up with music—played the violin since I was four (it’s now huddled in the corner of my living room sadly collecting dust), took years of music lessons in a smorgasbord of instruments (mandolin included and no, I don’t do bluegrass), wrote lyrics to over 300 songs (way too wordy, I should have known I wasn’t cut out to be a songwriter), was on my church’s worship team as a peppy alto, blah-blah-blah.

My mindset was pretty simple. Optimistic. Naïve. Unstructured. Definitely simple. I was going to be a star. You know how embarrassing it is to admit that? Well, maybe it’s sorta funny, too. Armed with music in my blood and a dream embedded in my soul, I drove Shabazz into Nashville and expected an entourage of music biz folks to greet me, the “next big star,” at the border with champagne and a recording contract. Yeah. Not so much.

You know what happened? My dream didn’t work out. What a shocker. It took all of a few weeks for reality to punch me in the face. I didn’t have what it takes to make it in music. In hindsight, there were glimpses of that truth here and there. I didn’t know what the heck I was doing. Maybe I had some talent, but I didn’t have the confidence, the know-how, the connections, and the list goes on and on. Kudos to me, I have to say, for actually trying. I jumped a fence mostly on chance. Over the years I’ve lost some of that edge and am praying to find at least a piece of that chutzpah to keep with me.

In the two or three years I spent in Music City, my inner life shifted. In slow motion. I got real depressed, my eating disorder spun disastrously out of control, and though I was seeking God with a reckless abandon to help me find my purpose and live my dream (whatever he wanted it to be), I was met not with answers, but with the blasts of wind from slammed doors.

All my life I asked God to lead me wherever he wanted. I prayed I would do anything, if he could only just tell me what he wanted me to do. Didn’t hear a peep from him. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. I was disappointed, felt let down, and didn’t have much to believe in. And out of this void, I began writing bits and pieces of a book, Silent Savior, which has now made its way in publication.

Nine years ago I traded comfort for the unknown. I believed in a fairytale with an envious confidence. Nine years ago the haze of wishful thinking dissipated to expose my empty life. And nine years ago, the genesis of a book that would take almost a decade to complete and get published was birthed. Silent Savior is the dream I never knew I had. I really believe those are the best kinds. Sweet surprises that bear the handprint of the divine. My desires got rerouted in a better direction and I’m doing something today I never imagined I could do.

Don’t get me wrong. This is not a look-at-me-I’m-so-great-my-dream-came-true self aggrandizing moment. I am just amazed that God’s orchestration of our lives includes different paths, detours, intersecting highways, and even closed roads. Yes, all of the above. But all of it takes you where you need to go.

There are desire we have and choices we make and the divine is at work in the midst of these things. Sometimes things work out. Sometimes they don’t. But all along the roads we walk or stumble on, littered with stone or smooth as silk, we just need to trust that Someone up there is holding on to our hand and leading us in a connect-the-dots way. I mean, come on, I wanted a stage with lights and a microphone. I got a world of books and solitude instead. Guess what? I couldn’t be happier or more grateful.

Nine years from today? Who knows? I can say I kinda like the feeling I have now—the marriage of mild fear and excited jitters. So much can happen. To me. To you. Let’s just trust that God knows what He’s doing and may we learn to live to enjoy the ride.

Vroom, vroom, baby, vroom, vroom.