This essay is a product of the Collegeville Institute’s Emerging Writers Mentorship Program, a 9-month program for writers who address matters of faith in their work. Each participant has the opportunity to publish their work at Bearings Online. Click here to read more essays from the Emerging Writers Program.
Content Warning: this essay deals with suicide.
Slowly I slip off my shoes, hoping that the cool bricks will cool my body. Anxiety has taken hold. The abbey church is hot, stultifying. It is not air conditioned, and the fans mounted on the monks’ choir stalls do nothing for the congregation in the
cavernous church. I focus on my breath: inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. I count the bricks on the floor, trying to give my mind something to do besides worrying about fainting in the heat. The summer air suffocates, and this weekly hour of church-going has become a test of my will. I grit my teeth and just want to get through it.
And I do. Somehow, I do.
Such worry is deeply connected to traumas we’ve experienced.
It is the summer of 2010, and I am wading in grief. My uncle Shaun died by suicide on May 25. His death kickstarted my journey of anxiety management. My mom has called me “a worrier” for much of my life, with the acknowledgment that I come from “a long line of worriers.” It’s true. But what I know now is that, most likely, such worry is deeply connected to traumas we’ve experienced. Another uncle, Kevin, drowned when I was a baby; my dad died of colon cancer when I was five; seven years after Shaun’s death, my uncle Ryan will also die by suicide. When your loves die unexpectedly, quickly, and tragically, you are confronted with uncertainty. Your inability to control circumstances, life and death, and outcomes is undeniable. Anxiety is a logical response. You start thinking in terms of what if. You run through any and all possible scenarios in your head, trying to plan for the worst. Because the worst has happened, and it might just happen again.
The phone rang at 1:44 a.m. that May night. “Are you alone?” my mom asked. I thought it was funny. Of course, I was alone. I wasn’t dating anyone or married. Who would be there?
“Are you alone?”
And then it wasn’t funny anymore. Middle-of-the-night phone calls never are. “Are you alone?” Those are the only exact words I remember her saying. The rest is a rush of information: my uncle Shaun dead, suicide, gun, rest of the family alive, Shaun dead, Shaun dead, Shaun dead.
My breath suspended, caught. The pressure on my chest, in my ears. The swooping need to be anywhere but in my bed. I got up and fumbled with the sliding door that led to the screened-in porch of my apartment. A wave of fresh air hit my face. It was that glorious air that tells you spring is right around the corner: cool and crisp, a hint of mud, earth doing the hard work of growing things that will burst forth in a few weeks’ time. That air, every year after 2010, catches me off guard. Some years it causes panic attacks, and I take a surprisingly long time to figure out why. Until I sniff the air and remember: Ah, yes, this is the smell of my world crumbling. Our bodies remember things, and mine remembers that air, that call, that utter devastation.
Protect us in our anxiety.
When Shaun died, I was regularly attending Mass at Saint John’s Abbey. The monk priests rotate presiding at Sunday Mass; this provides a wide variety of preaching and presiding styles. One of my favorite presiders was Fr. Rene McGraw, a philosophy and peace studies professor. He was somber, gentle, and a mite dour. But he had a radiant smile, a quiet warmth. I do not know how many times he presided between Shaun’s death and the implementation of the third edition of the Roman Missal in Advent 2011. I do not know if I heard this tidbit once or multiple times from him. But at some point, he made a little change to the embolism, the short prayer after the Lord’s Prayer, that gave comfort as I learned how to process and manage my anxiety.
In the text of the Mass prior to the revised translation of 2011, the embolism was as follows:
Deliver us, Lord, from every evil, and grant us peace in our day. In your mercy keep us free from sin and protect us from all anxiety as we wait in joyful hope for the coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ.
Fr. Rene, however, prayed:
Deliver us, Lord, from every evil, and grant us peace in our day. In your mercy keep us free from sin and protect us in our anxiety as we wait in joyful hope for the coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ.
In our anxiety? In? Yes, in. A subtle shift, but a profound one. People who struggle with their mental health are often told to pray more, trust more, have more faith. “Let go and let God.” It is a slap in the face to anyone managing a crisis, struggling with depression or anxiety, trying to find a way forward. Mental illness is not a lack of faith. In fact, I’d argue that it displays an abundance of faith: we still show up, we muddle through, we problem solve, we anticipate relief. We are not faithless. We’re counting the bricks and hoping to God they won’t fall down around, or on, us.
In Fr. Rene’s revision of the embolism, I found a home for my fear: I don’t need to wish it away or pray it away. Anxiety doesn’t work like that. Rather than being protected from all anxiety, what I need is to be protected in my anxiety. Protected as I sit shaking in my bed—overheated yet somehow with cold sweats, heart racing, dizzy—because of a panic attack. Protected as I worry about who will fall victim to crisis and calamity next. Protected as I navigate the very murky waters of mingling grief and anxiety. Protected as I try to put the pieces that have shattered around me back together. Protected.
Twelve years later, I still pray that I am protected in my anxiety. Because what I know is that sometimes the air still suffocates and I have to count bricks. Because what I know is that someday the bricks will crumble again. Because what I know is that I will gasp that sweet spring air and someday it might not hurt as much.
If you are struggling with your mental health, please call the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline at 988. Another great resource for people struggling with suicidal ideation and thoughts or for those who have lost loved ones to suicide is the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, www.asfp.org. You are not alone.
This essay is dedicated to Fr. Rene McGraw, OSB (1935–2022). May perpetual light shine upon him.
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“In fact, I’d argue that it displays an abundance of faith: we still show up, we muddle through, we problem solve, we anticipate relief.” – Yes. Yes, yes, yes.
Thank you so much for sharing so beautifully from such a deep place. I recall a saying I’ve heard that “words create worlds.” In this case, one small word creates a new world where anxiety is acknowledged and named, freeing it to become a source of new life. May God bless you.
Thank you. This really makes a huge difference. I wish someone had said it to me earlier.