Thirty-five years ago I found myself in the basement of despair. If you’ve ever battled clinical depression, you can identify. It took every resource I could muster to find the energy to get out of bed. I lacked focus. I lacked feeling. I lacked a reason to live.

There I was. I was a husband, the father of three young girls and the pastor of a dynamic church. Looking back, I can identify factors that resulted in my emotional burnout. My life was out of balance. I had workaholic tendencies and the rate at which our congregation was growing only fed my obsession. Add to that, I was a self-acknowledged people-pleaser. And in a church where new visitors appeared each Sunday, there was a non-stop flow of people to please.

A growing church meant a growing staff. And with more and more people on staff, there were growing demands and expectations… and conflicts. At the same time my dad was struggling with a near-fatal disease that triggered fear and worry. 

In the midst of it all, I didn’t realize that my internal emotional and spiritual reserves were not limitless. And then without notice. Bam! I hit the wall! Upon impact I discovered an unavoidable truth. Caring for others without caring for yourself is careless!

During that dark season of being chased by “the black dog” of depression, I found some comfort in realizing I wasn’t alone. I learned that Abraham Lincoln and Winston Churchill had known that despicable canine’s bite.  Additionally, I found comfort in the care of a Christian therapist. I was also helped by a reduced schedule at work, increased exercise at home and adequate sleep at night. Going for long walks listening to worship music nourished my soul.

But I found the greatest comfort knowing that my church family and my devoted wife were lifting me into the Lord’s presence on the wings of prayer. My paralyzed plight was the focus of their intercession. They were praying for me. What is more, when I lacked the desire or the words to pray, they were actually praying for me (since I couldn’t pray myself).

Gratefully, my season of depression lasted less than a year. Eventually, I was able to escape the basement of despair. The dark clouds gave way to the warmth and brilliance of the sun. I felt alive again. Praise God!

One of the tools my therapist gave me was journaling. He encouraged me to put pen to paper and process what I was feeling (or not feeling). And that became a real gift to me. I began to journal my fears and doubts as well as my hopes and my dreams. I began to write poetry and in the process I discovered it to be my love language. I also began to write my prayers. It was like writing letters to God.

Fast-forward thirty-five years. I am a more balanced and contented person. But, having survived the frontlines of clinical depression, I still have some scars. I periodically struggle with down days. I have come to terms with the fact that I have a personality that is prone to emotional highs and lows. I have learned to recognize emotional triggers. Through trial-and-error, I have learned how to keep the door to the basement locked.

But let me also admit that even now, as healthy as I am, there are times when I lack the words to pray. I know I need to cast my cares on the Lord, but words fall short. I want to give Him my concerns, but I am not quite sure what to say. Ever been there? At times like this I employ a one-word prayer. I just speak the name of Jesus.

I just breathe the name of Jesus
when my heart is filled with fear.
And though I cannot see His face,
I know that He is near.

I pray “Jesus” when I’m worried
or those times when I’m depressed.
I say “Jesus” when my mind’s confused
or when I’m feeling stressed.

It’s a one-word prayer I whisper
when I’m not sure what to pray.
And by calling out to Jesus
I find help to face each day.