Jesus in the Storm: The Storm
A series about finding connection with Jesus in emotional storms caused by complex trauma, narcissistic family dynamics, scapegoating, and estrangement.
The Storm
15 years ago I became estranged from my loved ones after confronting abuse and being scapegoated in our narcissistic family system. I have weathered emotional storms ever since. Publicly, I have been fairly successful at staying afloat as a pastor, missionary, and nonprofit ministry leader while suffering privately with severe complex post traumatic stress, ambiguous loss, and complicated grief (also known as prolonged grief). Until, about a year ago, a close friend was struck by a drunk driver who was attempting to take his own life, and over the next seven months, the delicate balance between my public ministry life and my private suffering became entirely unmanageable.
During the collision with the drunk driver, my friend suffered traumatic brain injuries that were ultimately fatal. As the minister who also officiated his wedding ceremony, our friend’s wife and their families offered me the privilege of serving in a chaplaincy role in the ICU and funeral director for our friend’s memorial service and scattering of ashes ceremony. At the same time, the lease on our home and the two year start-up grant that was funding our nonprofit ministry, including my salary, was coming to an end.
I applied for another nonprofit grant and it was denied. Meetings with potential donors fell flat. I explored the idea of launching a fundraising campaign for my salary, but ultimately discerned the stress of managing grant money and donor relations would be at the expense of my time spent with God, my mental health, and a persistent desire to explore writing as part of my vocation.
Instead, I applied for part-time work outside of our nonprofit to keep us in our home. I heard nothing in response. With our income cut in half, we submitted our notice to terminate our lease and began to look for a smaller and more affordable place to live. I responded to at least 50 different listings, and every one was a closed door. We had no choice but to look outside of our competitive and very expensive rental market.
Coincidentally, the landlord that did end up responding to us had a home for rent in the desert—just down the street from our friend’s widow, near the intersection of his accident, and within view of the hospital where he died. With just a few weeks left in our home, we reluctantly signed the lease, and prepared to move 15 hours away.
We sold my camper van, our furniture, and most of our belongings. Then, we said our good-byes to our spiritual community, our friends, and our neighbors. We showed up in the desert with just two suitcases, our dog, and our car.
A week later, our car died, and there went the entirety of our savings. A month after that, the investment we made after the sale of our belongings dipped to an unprecedented low. The money we hoped to use as a downpayment on a house and a way back out of the desert became inaccessible for the foreseeable future.
I couldn’t believe what was happening to us. One week we were living near the ocean and the most lush scenic highway in the world, and the next we were surrounded by strip malls, liquor stores, and pawn shops. The desert was brown, hot, and dry. Everything around us seemed to reek of desolation, despair, and death.
As the shock wore off, I began to realize that my genuine love and concern for the widow of our friend far exceeded the strength I had left to care for her needs, let alone anyone else’s. I finally broke. I explained to my husband, “I have nothing left to give. I can’t pastor, parent, or perform for anyone anymore.”
We considered what we had ahead of us—not just as ministers, but as human beings grieving the death of our friend. In the coming months, there would be a trial for the sentencing of the drunk driver, the anniversary of the accident, the date we removed life support, the date he died, the date of his funeral, and the date we scattered his ashes. Our widowed friend needed us. My husband and I needed each other. Most of all, I needed Jesus. Our hearts were in triage. We had to reprioritize what was most important in our lives.
Together, my husband and I made the decision that I would write a letter to the Board of Directors of our nonprofit to inform them that we were canceling the ministry events on the calendar, closing applications for the programs we built with the start-up grant, and ceasing all digital marketing until further notice. Instead of building and promoting the work of our nonprofit, I would give myself fully to prayer, contemplation, writing, marriage counseling, and loving our literal neighbor—our widowed friend down the street.
That was when the sky went dark and the storm clouds rolled in. The grief of losing our friend, our home, our community, my income, the nonprofit I had spent years building—along with the complicated grief of losing my family—triggered a storm so violent not only did I fear I was going to drown, I actually wanted to.
Laying in bed at night, wave after wave, the thoughts of despair crashed over me—Maybe all this is my fault. Maybe I gave too much to others when I should have been more focused on taking care of my own life. Maybe God never called me to minister in the ways that I have, and this whole thing was a massive codependent misjudgment on my part. Maybe we ended up in the desert because I didn’t have the courage to “be seen” as a leader in ministry. Maybe my decision to “prioritize my relationship with God” was really just me hiding.
The thoughts hit from every side, tempting me to second guess the decisions we had made and to frame my circumstances with failure, shame, and abandonment. After each wave battered against my soul, I found my footing on the truth of what I heard God speak to me in my private times of prayer.
No, I thought, I’m not afraid to be seen as a leader in ministry. I thrived as a leader in ministry for years. I do not have to conform to a business model that causes disorder and disconnection in my life. I chose to do ministry the Jesus Way. I heard Jesus call me to be “wild” over and over again. He said, “this is how the wildflowers grow—they do not labor or spin.”, “only one thing is needed”, and “give up your possessions and follow me”. I believe “pure religion is this—to take care of the widow”. I choose to trust God with the outcomes of my choices whether they measure against the world’s standards of success or not.
However, after days…weeks…months of this, my resolve weakened, and I drifted further and further out to sea where I could no longer reach bottom. Instinctively, my mind reached for memories with my estranged loved ones. How it felt to hold my godchildren in my arms, to hear my sibling’s voice on the other end of the phone, or to share chicken wings and pizza with my aunt and uncle. For a brief moment, I buoyed to the surface and caught my breath, but the feelings of connection were quickly consumed by overwhelming grief.
Thoughts from deep beneath the surface threatened to pull me under—Maybe if I never would have said anything I wouldn’t be without them now. Maybe they were right. Maybe I am “difficult”. Maybe I am “the one that’s mentally ill”, “a tortured soul”, and “unstable”. Maybe I am the problem.
I recalled the long list of therapists, pastors and priests, spiritual directors, and Al-Anon 12-Step sponsors who assured me I did the best I could to stay connected to my loved ones. I could hear their voices reminding me that what I experienced and was told is just what family systems like mine do as they function in denial. I knew that, if anything, I was delaying my recovery by clinging to fantasy bonds with family members with whom I have never shared real reciprocal relationships. I also understood that I was effectively strengthening trauma bonds by introjecting self-blame and false responsibility just to maintain an illusion of connection with others who have refused accountability and responsibility for the harm they have caused in my life.
Yet, despite everything I knew to be true, these bonds were simply more powerful than what I knew, and the flashbacks of memories with my loved ones that triggered ruminating thought loops and painful emotions were beyond my control. For 15 years, I cried, prayed, and spiritually practiced in every way I knew how, but when I was caught in storms like these, I always ended up collapsing in despair just before dawn. Then, I’d wake up a few hours later to pray, read my Bible, journal, and reflect on what happened the night before. It was an endless search for some way to reconnect with my loved ones and to belong in our family system as my authentic self.
As I shared in my introduction to this series, a month after I arrived in the desert, I began an 8-week retreat through the Ignatian Spiritual Exercises with a group at a Jesuit Retreat Center. In the third week of our retreat, we were asked to spend a day contemplating the passage of scripture where Jesus was led into the desert to be tempted by Satan for 40 days. The following week we were asked to contemplate the stories of Jesus feeding the 5,000 and walking on water in the storm. Then, we took a three month break for the holidays before beginning the second half of our retreat.
It was during our break that the story of Jesus walking on water in the storm came to life in my imagination. The timing was uncanny. While I contemplated the disciples in the boat in the middle of the storm, I was facing my own storm each night—for months. Over time, it became clear to me that God had led me by way of the desert to face my storm head-on.
Although, this time, I was finally ready to admit that I couldn’t (more importantly—didn’t have to) manage the storm on my own. I had become willing to accept “a power greater than myself” to rescue me from the flashbacks of my loved ones, to rewire my brain to stop ruminating on self-blame, and to guide me towards God’s purpose for my life. I went from grasping for control and resisting acceptance by asking the questions, “Where are you, God? Why is this happening? How do I make it stop?” to simply praying, “Jesus, save me.”