Twenty-Four Inches to Choose Truth
It came on out of nowhere, a small thing turned big, a feeling– normally dismissed– now wielding supernatural strength. It claimed hold; it held tight.
First the anger, then the sadness, tired beyond tired, done.
My depression sprung up on Saturday, and it didn’t care that the next day I had to sing. And not just sing– lead.
Sunday’s alarm jolted at 6 a.m., and I took eleven minutes. Not to snooze, but to consider sending a text: Sorry. Sick. Can’t make it. The message would’ve been true.
But in those moments, in that bed where I had lain captive to depression the long night before, I saw for the first time in three-quarters of a day that I finally had a choice. And if you do not know depression, I have to impress upon you this: The choice to fight it is a rare and precious gift.
I laid there, and I thought of the pastor who prefaced his lesson with a confession that he was spiritually dry and then stepped out in faith to speak vibrant truth to 2000 of my fellow worship leaders and me. And I realized that between my bedtop and the floor was the space my feet would have to swing through to take my own faith step.
Twenty-four inches to choose truth.
I walked up to the quiet sanctuary and fell in line beside my friends. He carried her guitar, and his “How are you?” was sincere. I chanced that maybe they could carry my luggage, too.
“I almost didn’t make it here today.”
And I told them about the battle, that this morning I was fighting. They didn’t shrink back. They picked up my burden, and a little of me too, and we walked in to lead worship, broken, together.