![]() ![]() Weaver made a life of studying the role of spirituality in patients of all types. While empathetic listening certainly has its place, let us be mindful that in some conversations, a connection to a clinical provider may also be in order.Īndrew J. Once we began looking, we found our congregation included several professionals who were happy to share information and wisdom.īe ready to refer. Professional mental health practitioners can guide us toward more helpful ways of supporting friends, family, parishioners and, yes, visitors. Reaching out to the therapeutic community is an excellent way to become educated on mental illness and its prevalence. How can we, as Christians who are striving to be as inclusive and loving as possible, create environments of safety for everyone? How mental health friendly are we? Since that Sunday with my friend, I have reached out to practitioners, parishioners and clergy with my concerns. This information certainly begs a few questions about our church programs, practices and facilities. One in 20 of us will experience major mental illness in our lifetime. The National Alliance on Mental Illness reports that one in every five of us will experience a mental health crisis this year. It was then that I knew our church had some thinking to do. She tried to explain why this was without hurting my feelings, but the burden of educating me was too difficult that day and only seemed to increase her frustration. The people I prized as open, accepting and friendly were overwhelming. The worship service I found exuberant, joyful and bold was, for her, exhausting. She also lives with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, anxiety and depression. She is a scholar, a gifted writer and a baking aficionado. My friend is a wonderful, beautiful person. “The worship service I found exuberant, joyful and bold was, for her, exhausting.” Is she crying? I joined her on the bench, sat down and remembered. My brain quickly attempted to register the situation at hand. If it weren’t for the rapid bouncing of her knee as her right heel tapped the crabgrass, I don’t know if I would have seen her. My friend was sitting on a small, slightly rusted iron bench in an embarrassingly unkempt area of our lovely church grounds. Then I stepped into the sunny glare of the now-abandoned back parking lot. Pivoting toward the Fellowship Hall, I found only a ragged box of doughnut parts to greet me. The lights were out, and each door was locked. ![]() Mildly concerned, I crossed the sanctuary and began my search in everyone’s favorite place of personal retreat, the restroom. ![]()
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