We are drifting on the downside of August; a subtle shift of seasons is happening. Nights are a bit cooler; days, too. Students of all ages are beginning school again. Adults of all ages are wondering what kind of world the young will inherit. Finally able to share her pain, one woman writes this:

It has been a very difficult five years. Just before starting college, my son, Z, had his first psychotic break. Doctors eventually diagnosed him with schizoaffective disorder, a variant of schizophrenia. Schizophrenia is a devastating illness. Hallucinations, delusions, disordered speech, emotional flatness, apathy—it’s all part of the suffering. Not surprisingly, people with schizophrenia have trouble living independently. They find it difficult to make friends, hold jobs, and even change their clothes on a regular schedule.

Five years ago, we had high hopes for Z. He was entering college on a full academic scholarship at the age of 17. He auditioned and placed first clarinet in the school band. And Z had recently been baptized as a Christian and seemed to have a heart for children’s ministry. While Z had always been quirky and introverted, he made several close friends in high school. We had no doubt his college years would be successful. Suddenly, everything changed.

At that time, a man came up to Jesus and, kneeling before him, said, “Lord, have mercy on my son, for he is an epileptic and he suffers terribly. For often he falls into the fire and often into the water, and I brought him to thy disciples, and they could not heal him.

Z was hospitalized five times in four years, taking multiple medical leaves from school. His behavior was strange, alienating, frustrating, sometimes frightening. He burned through all the common medications. Some meds came with a steep price tag and no benefit, while others ushered in terrible side effects including nightmares and panic.

After the last hospitalization, our dear doctor told us Z’s frontal lobe was fried and implied that we should be looking at institutions. Even Z’s Christian faith was splintered. As his mother (she writes), I spent five years crying and praying and struggling to understand what had happened. Believers in Christ are called to rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances—but how could I fight my way to gratitude? Would I ever find joy again?

“And I brought him to thy disciples and they could not heal him.” And Jesus answered, “O faithless generation, how long am I to be with you? How long am I to bear with you? Bring him here to me.” And Jesus rebuked him, and the demon came out of him, and the boy was cured instantly. Then the disciples came to Jesus privately and said, “Why could we not cast it out?” Jesus said to them,  “Because you have no faith. For truly I say to you: If you have faith as a grain as a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain: Move from here to there; and it will move. And nothing will be impossible to you.”

Here are four blessings I have experienced as a direct result of Z’s affliction. Camaraderie. We could not hide the fact that our family was in crisis. We were physically incapable of pretending that everything was okay. This was a blessing, though painful and embarrassing. We were forced to open up to our friends and to rely on our church family. Lasting bonds formed in the trenches.

After camaraderie, another blessing is compassion. At first encounter, mental illness can be incomprehensible, shameful, repellent. It is natural to avoid those who are afflicted. I learned mental illness does not change our essential humanity. My child is still my child, deserving of love and respect. I received new eyes to see the suffering around me, especially parents with adult children who do not or cannot meet social expectations. When others speak of anxiety and depression or changes in medication, I now have ears to hear.

With camaraderie and compassion, another blessing I have learned is communion. As one writer said, “God shouts in our pains.” When my world fell apart, where could I turn but to our God? My prayers increased in frequency and urgency. At church I clung to every prayer with tears. I poured through the book of Job, wondering together with the patriarch whether God had abandoned me. Year after year I searched for the hand of God in the life of my child, in my own life. It was only after my hopes were completely dashed that I learned to hope in God alone. Miraculously and mysteriously, I found God walking with me every step of the way.

And finally, I have learned the blessing of contentment. Job famously said, “Naked I came from my mother’s womb and naked shall I return. The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” That was not my first response to suffering. I could not understand why a good and all-powerful God would allow the destruction of Z’s beautiful mind. That’s not how God is supposed to treat his faithful followers. But, slowly, I came to realize that suffering is an embedded feature of our fallen world. God does not promise health and wealth on this earth. The meaning of my life, the meaning of Z’s life, does not depend on our productivity, our achievements, our Instagram-worthy moments. God only asks that we remain faithful in the situation to which he calls us, day by day. I am thankful for this hard-fought lesson, although I wish I had learned it earlier and easier.

We are drifting on the downside of August. A subtle shift of seasons is happening. Nights are a bit cooler; days, too. Students of all ages are beginning school again. Adults of all ages are wondering what kind of world the young will inherit. The world gives many joys, many simple pleasures. The world gives much sorrow, much complicated suffering. The joy and pleasure are readily available if we just have eyes to see and hearts to feel. The sorrow and suffering are here, too. Sometimes they come through mental anguish like Z and his illness; sometimes they come through physical breakdown, like the epileptic son who shook uncontrollably. Sometimes we let our guard down, and our trouble really is because of unclean spirits manifesting as emotional or psychological distress; and sometimes our trouble is just emotional or psychological distress.

But in both stories—Z and his mom; the epileptic son and his dad—every option was stripped away until all that remained was Christ. This is a scary place to get to, this complete surrendering. But there is a special kind of daylight, a special kind of awakening, found only in this kind of suffering, that cannot be gained any other way. So the sooner we humble ourselves and surrender maybe the better.

One child, the epileptic son, Christ healed instantly; the other child, Z, Christ appears to be healing over time. With mustard-seed faith, sometimes the mountain moves suddenly, and sometimes the mountain moves over time. Either way, Christ is accomplishing within us what we cannot accomplish within ourselves. So when our life does not go according to our plan, know that something far greater than our plan is happening. As we pray in the psalms:

Rescue me from mine enemies, O Lord;
unto thee have I fled for refuge.
Teach me to do thy will, for thou art my God.
Thy good Spirit shall lead me into the land of uprightness.
For thy name’s sake, O Lord, shalt thou quicken me.
In thy righteousness shall thou bring my soul out of affliction,
and in thy mercy shalt thou utterly destroy mine enemies,
and thou shalt cut off all them that afflict my soul,
for I am thy servant.