"Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed." James 5:16 (NIV)
The Pepto-Bismol colored blanket draped my shoulders, my legs criss-crossed over the sterile hospital bed. My body racked with sobs of uncontrolled grief. Snot and tears ran down my face.
"Well, this is it. Ministry is over. No one will ever respect me as a leader again," I cried.
Depression got the best of me and threatened to take my life. Disappointment in who I’d become was suffocating. "Pastor’s wives aren’t supposed to go through this. In fact, Christians aren’t. We’re supposed to have the joy of the Lord," I naively told myself.
I’d hidden my pain and played my part: supportive spouse, nurturing mother, happy volunteer. My closest friends knew, and my husband knew, but their encouragement and advice didn’t help; it hurt. Well-meaning words and Scriptures made me feel worse. Only God could fix me, but where was He? I wondered.
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