I wore make-up to church last week for the first time in many years, since I first stepped out of the shower one day deciding to no longer consider this face created by God not good enough for the general public. I decided to stop adding my fingerpaints to his masterpiece.

But this particular Sunday, only ten days ago, I was not penciling in eyeliner to highlight my eyes, but to hide them. That mascara – the word that literally means “mask” – was my mask that day, my sad attempt to hide the redness of eyes that had spent the night weeping salty tears, that had opened on that Sunday morning with fresh tears to start the day.

I was tired. And I was tired of being tired.

My body that night had been spent, worn out, depleted, and yet my mind would not shut down long enough for the rest I so desperately needed and desired. And this was the cycle I was stuck in. Day after day of weariness, night after night of sleeplessness. And I was tired.

And if this was all life was – this endless string of tired – was it really worth it?

And as I stood sobbing, at 2am, at my medicine cabinet, grasping for melatonin, wishing it would make a difference, I imagined for a brief moment what it would be like to not wake up at all. The image came in my mind of my husband discovering me on that bathroom floor the next morning, when he should be getting ready for a shower, to be gripping a lifeless me instead.

And while on the one hand, there was relief at the thought of resting, of being in peace, there was anguish at the thought of his grief, and what that would mean for his future and the future of my children. I thought about how angry I’d been at my children that day – because of the tired and the weariness. A part of their precious little minds would always blame themselves. And it wouldn’t have been their fault at all. And I thought of my sweet husband, how he had been gone most of the weekend, enjoying time with friends, and how he would blame himself – thinking he should have been there with me. But it wouldn’t have been his fault either.

And because I couldn’t let any of them live in the guilt or the pain, I decided I would continue to do that instead.

The guilt. It’s always there. The pain of feeling I’m not doing enough, and what I’m doing, I’m not doing well. I’m keeping the kids alive, but my words are often so bitter, so biting. If they have a question, they don’t know if they will get a Mommy willing to help or a Mommy frustrated at their own helplessness. I don’t always know what Mommy they will get.

I sometimes try to take care of our home, but the efforts always feel small and washed away quickly, like a castle made of sand.

I try to be respectful and loving to my husband, but so often I leave him feeling cut down or belittled – because he doesn’t always do things the way I would do them, and I don’t always communicate that in the most loving of ways.

So many memories in my mind of what should be happy times – all tainted with memories of a temper lost – for one reason or another. Because there’s always a reason.

I try. And I fail. Over. And over.

And it’s exhausting. And it feels like it will never end.

And in that dark night I wanted it to. So badly. But instead, I curled up, soaked in my tears, and closed my eyes and was eventually washed into sleep. I knew that things always feel darker at night and that the morning might hold fresh hope.

But the morning didn’t. For the first time, the morning felt nothing but the same, the draining, sinking feeling. The same tears.

And I knew I shouldn’t cry, because I had to go to church. And I couldn’t let others see this face – this red, swollen face with a bright nose and red-rimmed eyes. So, I dug deep in my drawers, pulled out the paint and tried to cover it up. It was a flimsy mask, and I knew it. I knew if anyone even tried to speak to me, the floodgates would be opened. There wasn’t much I could do to hold it back.

And I didn’t want to be there.

But I didn’t want to stay home. Because despite all the emotions rolling over me, my head still knew the truth. That in the presence of God would be my only hope for peace. That hearing the scheduled sermon on spiritual warfare and the armor we bear against it would be what this soul desperately needed to hear.

So, I put on the dress. I put on the mask. And I went.

And some saw through it. Some without mentioning it, some with hugs and whispered promises of prayer. Because that’s what a church family is – a family – who sees and loves and holds you when you cry, even when they don’t know why. Even when you don’t know why.

And the tears came – throughout songs of worship and a sermon where we were given the mental image of a battle, with our commander, Jesus, positioned behind us, giving quiet, steady instruction, “Stand firm.”

Yes. Stand firm. That’s what I needed. I didn’t know why this battle was here. I didn’t want to be a part of it, but here I was. And I would stand. firm.

And then we went to Sunday School – where I’m actually supposed to help teach, but was thankfully allowed to be a quiet participant with the 3-4th grade precious ones we see weekly. And in a lesson about Hosea – the patient prophet – we were directed to 1 Corinthians, for a lesson on love – the love God has for us, and we have for others.

And that’s when the revelation broke.

Love.

The first verses of 1 Corinthians 13: “If I speak human or angelic tongues, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith so that I can move mountains but do not have love, I am nothing.”

Nothing.

That’s what I felt like. Nothing. And I read myself in all of those words – the me that loves languages and loves knowledge and has the spiritual gift of faith – but fails so regularly to just. love.

Because I am not patient. I am not kind. I envy, I boast, I am arrogant. I am rude. I am self-seeking. I am IRRITABLE. And I could show you the record of wrongs done against me. It’s quite extensive.

Love.

It’s my struggle. Because, in theory, I love people and I love my family. But in action, I don’t know that they can tell. Because even when I feel like I’m showing them love, I get upset and bothered when the response isn’t what I imagined.

And when I think of all the people I want to be and I wonder how they do all the things and still have a genuine smile on their faces – I know what it is. It’s love.

Love is a choice. But it’s also a fruit. The first listed in the harvest the Holy Spirit brings.

But the truth is, I had not been seeking first the kingdom of God in recent days, weeks. I had been so caught up in me and in life and in trying to get through that I had forsaken my first love. And my fruit had dried up. I had become a barren land.

After pouring all I had into actually writing about the Word of God, I stepped away and decided to give my brain a break. But giving my brain a break from the Word of God means putting down my sword. It means sitting in the middle of the battlefield, sword stuck in the dirt as I just decide to take a breather – in the middle of the fight. It’s no wonder, then, that the enemy was close enough to evade the shield and breathe heavy down my neck.

And on that Sunday, I took it back up. That sword and that shield. And I can’t say I began to fight with vigor. It still feels a feeble battle at times, but I am fighting to hide his word in my heart – 1 Corinthians 13 – and I’m seeking to allow his love to flow through me – overflowing on to others. Because when I love, my focus is on others, and not on me or my needs. Living an others-centered life takes the focus off my failures and the places where I lack. This life I live is not for me.

If you’re having a day like the night I had – or you’ve been washed under by a riptide of despair, please know you are not alone. You, too, have a commander, Jesus Christ, standing close, whispering in your ear, “Stand firm.” Please stand firm.

In learning about the spiritual armor we wield, we were taught that the Roman shield, large enough for a man to hide behind, was designed to work alongside the shields of fellow soldiers. In tight formation, the Roman soldiers could lock their shields together, side by side, but also one top of the other, and above their heads, to provide a protective barrier around the entire army. Your shield of faith is not meant to be held alone, but in fellowship, side by side with fellow warriors. Reach out. Allow others to hold their shields over your own head.

If you are weary, He is your strength. There are arms to hold you, ears to listen and hearts that will love more than yours can right now. You are loved. And you are not alone.

One final note, because I think it bears mentioning – as a Christian, battling with depression is not always, or even usually, a sign of a weak faith or heart or mind. It’s an actual illness caused by actual, physical imbalances. My battle that night/day may have actually been attributed to a medication I have since stopped. I don’t discount the thoughts or the lessons, because I feel the imbalances were a magnifying glass on real thoughts and real feelings that should not be ignored lest I risk them flaring back up. But know that your mind deserves to be treated just as any other portion of your body – if it’s not working properly, it needs to be addressed and not ignored. You are not a failure as a follower of Christ if your mind finds dark places. Again, you are loved. And you are not alone.