Screaming In Faith

There was a parking lot on the edge of campus right along the main bike and walking paths, across from the Student Resource Building (SRB), that my friends and I used to skate down. We’d take the elevator to the top, longboards in hand, and see how much speed we could get coming down. My last year at school I found another really great use for the structure.

When I came back from my final trip to Turkey (I had gone four times throughout college), several things happened all at once that sunk me into a depression. For the longest time I didn’t realize it was depression, I just felt numb, and sad, and lonely, and my heart just kind of ached. It was actually really confusing, especially since I’m such a fixer and I couldn’t figure out what to do to fix it.

A guy I knew was going through depression, and we were talking one day with a couple other people, and as he talked about it I thought, “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me. Maybe I’m depressed.” So I listened to the ways he was processing it and existing through it, and I began doing some of those things.

They included writing and conversations with others and long walks and going to the gym, but one of the most conflicting things I did happened on the top level of the SRB parking lot.

It started with a walk by myself, which took me all over campus and on the beach, and I stopped at the parking lot before I headed home. I didn’t know why, but I just wanted some space and at least a few minutes where I probably wouldn’t run into other people.

I sat up there and started talking to God, laying out all of my feelings and frustrations and hurts and confusion. At the core of me I had some really big doubts about my faith and my relationship with God and what he actually thought about me, and these things were eating away at me. Not only was it hard to feel so out of control, but it was also scary not knowing if everything I had given my life to was going to be upended by the answers I got (or didn’t get) from God.

I was so worked up and feeling so many painful emotions that I ended up screaming a cuss word at the top of my lungs. Tears began running down my face, and with every intention of being heard by someone somewhere, whether it was God or not, I let the profanities fly.

They weren’t personally directed at God, but I wanted him to hear it. I wanted him to know the level of pain and despair I felt. I wanted him to know I felt lost and alone. I wanted him to know I was angry, knowing he could fix it all with a flick of his wrist and yet there I was, suffering. I wanted him to see my tears and feel the heat in my face and wrestle with the strain in my vocal cords.

Once I had totally exhausted myself I fell into a heap on the ground, curled up and wiping snot and salty tears from my face. And I realized my heart felt a little emptier, which was so welcome because it was constantly full of uncomfortable emotions. My shoulders relaxed a bit, and I walked home with a little bit of breathing room.

I did this again a couple more times, appreciating the cathartic quality of the experience, while also continuing those other practices to try and move forward out of the fog of depression. And I did make it out, after a time.

I’ve become convinced that those rage sessions on the top of the SRB parking lot probably showed, far more than any easy or light or productive season, the most faith I’ve ever had. I tested my faith that God already knew what was in my heart and could handle the audible expression of it. I tested my faith that I could be honest, not perfect, with God. I tested my faith that stubbornly put my emotions in front of God and pleaded with him to deal with them. I tested my faith that I couldn’t scare him off by misbehaving. I tested my faith that he could not only hear me, but was listening.

He was.