(This story was written by my mother, Beth Lofton, several years ago.)
Ordinarily, depression is foreign to me, but despite my determination to live life to the fullest, I felt myself give in to a lonely, helpless siege of depression. I went through the motions of working and taking care of business matters, but a dark cloud hung heavily over me. God was there with me. I know He was. I had given Him my life, and I knew He was there. But grief is not something I handle well.
It all began when my dad died. He was an important part of my life, an example of what dads should be. I miss him now that he’s gone, but the memory of his good life will always be a part of me. He taught me to deal honestly with everyone. He taught me kindness. He taught me how to bait a hook and how to count to one hundred.
During the year after his death, several other people connected to my family in some way also died. The last month of that year, I lost a friend who was, in many ways, the best friend I ever had. His homespun philosophy, his nonchalant methods of getting his way, and his endless arguments, in which he suddenly switched sides if he didn’t seem to be winning, were bright spots in my dreary days.
The following fall, a co-worker was diagnosed with cancer of the pancreas with no hope of recovery. This outstanding man, encourager of all, caring father and grandfather, devoted husband, doomed to die an early death.
I’ve been a Christian for 42 years and never had there been a time that I felt completely alone in the world. But at that moment, when my friend’s illness was diagnosed as incurable, I felt as though God reached up and pulled down a curtain between us. My experience as a Christian would not let my logic believe that God had withdrawn himself from me. I picked up my Bible for comfort but laid it down without opening it. I went to the piano and played for hours, seeking communication with God, but it did not appear. It was the most desolate feeling I had ever experienced, and it went on and on and on. I could not pray. I could only function from day to day on some sort of “remote control.”
A few months later, my husband had emergency eye surgery for a detached retina. I sat in the surgery waiting room alone, knowing that God was taking care of the matter and that Jim would be fine. I didn’t ask God to do that — I just knew that He would.
The following day Jim was allowed to go home. After driving him there and making sure he was comfortable, I made a quick trip to the grocery store. They had some plants for sale that day, and there was a beautiful Gerbera daisy. It was a deep, rust color, and the leaves were rich and lush. I bought it for Jim because I think all sick people should have flowers.
The daisy remained beautiful for at least two weeks, and then it began to fade and the leaves turned yellow. I took it to the back yard and planted it in a big, iron pot, not really believing that it had much chance to live. I watered it that day and remembered to do so another time or two. However, it continued to turn brown, and I forgot it, thinking it would not live.
One day several weeks later, I stood at the kitchen sink looking out into the back yard, when a little bit of color caught my eye. “No,” I thought, “it couldn’t be the daisy.” Quickly, I went to the site of the color, and there, in all its splendor, stood the most exquisite rust colored daisy I have ever seen, surrounded by perfect, luxuriant dark green leaves. At that moment it was as if God spoke to me audibly, for I heard as plainly as ever I have heard anything, “You see, I am here. I have been here all the time. I’m still in control of my world and all of my children!”
I sometimes lose touch with you, Dear Lord,
Your light I cannot see.
But you are faithful. You’re always there.
You never lose touch with me.
Pam Means
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