With your head in the sand, you are unable to open your mouth and speak life to your child. 

My son attended Sunday School at our mega church and made a delightful new friend. The boy was homeschooled, disturbing no one with his obvious tics. I took this child to Chuckie Cheese's and observed his struggle to transition between tasks, distractibility, hyperactivity, and obsessiveness. I tested the waters by casually mentioning that his playmate, my son, had Tourette's Syndrome and that's why he had certain unusual (aka identical) behaviors; think nothing of it. No lights went on, so I decided it just might be time to have a careful chat with his mom. I'm no doctor, and I don't diagnose, but certain symptoms are profoundly evident to the experienced eye. Response? Very little...

The message I couldn't speak to her son: "I see the shame on your face when you turn away to try to hide your tics. You need to understand that you're not crazy. I know you are not doing those things because you want to. There is a spot in your brain that sends errant signals. No big deal. It's just chemistry. That's all it is. It's why you struggle to transition from one task to another, why you perseverate, why you lose the battle to sit still even though you try so hard. If it bothers you so much that we need to explore treatments, just let me know. In the meantime, I want you to know that I understand how hard it is for you, and I am giving you full credit for efforts as well as for your successes. I see your heart, even though in other settings you may endure harsh corrections, know that I am on your side."

My alarm this morning was a phone call from a suicidal boy our son's age. 

He and his mother were trying to decide if he should be admitted to our local psychiatric hospital. There are two reasons for admittance. 1) You are a risk to others. You might actually hurt someone. 2) You are a risk to yourself. You might actually hurt yourself. That's it. Anything else and the ER will send you right back home. Those are the magic words that = admittance. Bear in mind, however, that there is a difference  between wanting to die and making plans having obtained what one needs to implement that plan. 

What will they do for you there? That depends somewhat on the quality of the institution. First of all, they will remove all strings and sharp objects from your possession. Then they will keep you under constant surveillance until no longer deemed a risk which typically happens through stabilization resultant from med changes. Lastly, hopefully, they may have counselors there to help you deal. 

So what's the down side? Those hospitalized with you may have come from families very different than yours, scary different. Mom and Dad can only come during visitation hours, very dissimilar from when you had tonsils or an appendix out. You can't leave until the doctor says so, days to weeks from now even if you change your mind. 

Even so, you'll live to tell about it. 

There was a time when I had two wee little girls. The eldest was perceptive, bright and very discerning. She decided what she wanted to do by weighing her options. The other was very much a free spirit, and unnervingly brilliant. She would laugh uproariously one second, and fly into a blind rage the next. There was a purity about her transparency of heart, warmth and genuine innate generosity that was irresistible. If my eldest took her crayons and colored the white linoleum squares of the kitchen floor, she would have decided that although retribution was guaranteed, the chosen canvas was ideal for her palette, overriding the voice of conscience. Not so with the other child. My littlest one would color her paper on the kitchen floor with obedient intentionality when noticing a stray scribble off the sheet and become enthralled at the beauty captured on this pristine surface. Going with the creative flow, perhaps ten squares might be fully covered in rainbows and flowers prior to the revelation of horror to hit her of what she had just done. Aghast, she would stand over her art in utter disbelief that she had so brazenly violated the sacred rule, “NO COLORING ON THE WALLS OR FLOOR!” 

So what’s fair? Both clearly broke a cardinal rule. My first born needed to understand authority and obedience. My younger child needed to understand impulse control, a completely different lesson. A mother’s intuition discerns the difference, but a child’s observation of differing consequences can build bitterness with the perception of disparate treatment. It’s tempting as a parent to even things out to appeal to the simplicity of fairness. Don’t do it. The goal is not to parent the behavior, but instead, parent the heart. It was never really about the floor. 

I’ve been there. I was convinced that my daughter needed to be home-schooled. She struggled with extreme volatility, excessive obsessive behaviors, sensory issues and incontinence as well as lacking the emotional maturity of her peers by several years. Additionally, although only in the second grade, she was already decoding words on an eleventh grade level cracking jokes with the sophistication of a young adult. She was horribly vulnerable, completely oblivious to the impact her behaviors had on others. She internalized the messages from the scowling faces not in light of her rages, but instead as a reflection of her own lack of worth or like-ability. I knew this, and hated myself for failing. I was about to mainstream her in our neighborhood school. 

What does failure look like for a Type A mother?  Anything that falls short of “the ideal”. The ideal was home-schooling. I had already home-schooled her for half of kindergarten, all of first grade, and now half of second. Meanwhile, I had a new baby, lived in a new town with next to no friends, and could not attend church functions or social events to create them. After all, who can babysit a newborn and a screaming volatile child at the same time? 

I made the right choice. I put her in school. I didn’t do it for her. I did it for my mental health. I did it for my other daughter with whom I continued to homeschool and build relationship for the next 5 years. I did it for my son. I did it for my husband. And it was the hardest thing I had ever done because it wasn’t what was best for her and I loved her just as desperately as I loved all the others. But it was right, and the Idol of Ideal came crashing down. 

I'm a Christian. Please don't hear that I am culturally part of the Judeo-Christian mindset adhering to standards of religious ethics. Rather, I am a passionate follower of Jesus Christ cultivating a reciprocal dynamic in relationship with the Most High God through the sacrifice and resurrection of His Son.  As such, I attend church and fellowship with others who do also. THAT I am much less passionate about. The problem with the church is that it is full of people, real live people who sometimes spiritualize their ignorance into dogma. A friend posted this short sermon on Facebook recently, and I couldn't help but contrast it against an article posted a few days earlier discounting ADHD as well as all mental health disorders as a ploy by pharmaceutical companies and unscrupulous doctors who desire to drug our children and reap the profits, preying on our gullibility. The article was scarfed up by well meaning church members and reposted as authoritative, after all, it ECHOS what is being taught either consciously or unconsciously in our churches: Failing mental health is a character defect, not a legitimate physiological medical condition. Christians moralize it, and scorn treatment.  I love this man's willingness to SAY what no one else in the church is saying. 

No, I do not suffer from depression. But my children have wrestled with it in its ugliest form. As parents, we cannot buy into the lie, no matter where it is espoused, that any condition not measurable via venipuncture lacks credibility. 

Published on May 8, 2012 by dallasseminary

Pastor Tommy Nelson, Senior Pastor of Denton Bible Church, shares his experience of depression.