Tag Archives: seasonal affective disorder

People Who Go To Church Are Happier

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Every year, about this time, I write something about summer’s departure. The folks here at Our Savior, the people who know me best, have come to expect it, if only because I know I can tell them such things. I keep very little hidden from them. They’re family. And it’s right around this time of year that I start to feel something they’re already expecting me to re-explain.

In one sense, I suppose people do certain things because the calendar says it’s time to do them. For example, when summer ends, you cover the patio furniture, maybe bringing a few deck items into the garage. While you’re in there, you may do a little cleaning. You notice the sun going down earlier. Maybe you start prepping your gardens. Or you finally decide to give the snowblower the lawn mower’s parking space.

If you’re me, you begin writing what amounts to a eulogy for June, July, and August.

I was talking with Jennifer about it on Wednesday. We were sitting on the front porch together watching the sunset. I confessed I’m starting to feel it. And by “it,” I mean the dread.

I tried to explain why the transition from summer to autumn is so difficult for me, even though I know the person I’m confessing to absolutely adores autumn. Yes, she’s one of the sensible people. The sensible people can look at the changing season and say Autumn is beautiful. Because it is. The trees are magnificent. The air is crisp. It means warm fireplaces, favorite blankets, cider and doughnuts, sweaters, and evening bonfires.

Yes. I know. But none of that helps.

Trying to explain the sensation to Jennifer, the closest comparison I could think of was being told by someone you love that she doesn’t love you anymore. I told her it feels like summer has sat across the table from me and said she’s leaving. But there was no fight. There was no scandal. I didn’t mistreat her. If anything, I showered her with devoted affection every single day. And yet, there she is, looking at me with that terrible calmness people sometimes have when they’ve already made up their mind before any substantive conversation could begin. She’s packed her things. She already has another place to go. And although I keep pointing out all the reasons she should stay, she’s not even listening anymore. In fact, even as I’m still pleading, she’s already gotten up from the table and is gathering the last of her things.

And here’s the worst part. I’m a sucker for her abuse. She’s going to come back to me. She does every year. And when she does, she’ll embrace me, and I’ll fall in love with her all over again. But then August will come, and once again, she’ll push me away.

For the record, I’m a relatively even-keeled guy. But this is my personal crazy. And just know, I do what I can to fight it. Indeed, I’m committed to resisting the seasonal sadness. I’ve tried sun lamps. Although to no avail. I have a fake palm tree in my office that somewhat helps. I’m looking at it right now. But notice I said it somewhat helps. Because there it is— pretending. Its green plastic leaves and its tropical ambition—all a manufactured defiance against Michigan’s very real autumn.

Jennifer bought it for me for Christmas a few years ago. It’s supposed to make the room feel more like summer. And, to a point, it works. Until I remember it’s fake.

Now, I’ve probably said enough on the topic already. But you need to know that what’s coming this Tuesday will make matters worse. Tuesday is when our church’s school begins its academic year. Most schools have already started, but ours hasn’t, which means I’m still living in a kind of disputed territory. Summer has filed for separation, but the decree isn’t final yet.

Tuesday is when the arbiter arrives. He’ll bring a bunch of papers issuing formal decrees that divide the property and mandate schedules and locations and times and so many other things. He’ll set the documents before me, and I’ll read them. The morning’s easier pace goes with summer. High-speed mornings and crowded, inflexible schedules, those come to me. The longer, unaccounted-for evenings, those go with summer. So do bare feet on the deck, open windows, and laugh-filled strolls up and down the hill in my side yard with my grandson in the wagon. Summer also gets custody of the fireflies and the croaking bullfrogs in the pond. She also gets to keep the strange freedom of stepping outside, even after a long day of visitations and meetings and whatever, and discovering by the sun’s position that there’s still an entire day waiting for you. The arbiter grants me darkness when I wake up and darkness before I leave the office.

The next thing you know, there I am, standing in the driveway while summer drives away with more than half of everything.

I know this all sounds so overly dramatic. But seasonal melancholy has never cared much about proportionality. And I warned you what to expect. Every August, my heart folds its arms and says, “I want July.”

But now, something else you should expect from me: the Gospel.

There’s a Christian difference between sorrow and despair. Christians are allowed to grieve departures. We are allowed to miss what’s good. We’re even allowed to cry about it. Jesus Himself wept at a tomb, even as He knew He was about to reverse the reason for sadness.

What I’m saying is that the answer to all of this is by no means that I just need to convince myself that I secretly love November. I don’t. And I likely never will. I’m built for summer. I’m wired for hot, sunny days. The answer is to remember “the earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness thereof” (Psalm 24:1). In other words, August belongs to Him. He also owns November. He owns the shortening days. The long ones belong to Him, too.

But there’s still more.

Christ, who is God in the flesh, is “the same yesterday and today and forever” (Hebrews 13:8). No matter the season, He doesn’t pack His things when the leaves start falling. He doesn’t somehow love me in June and lose interest in October. Or maybe better said (because I know plenty of folks who struggle with the kind of depression that extends well beyond any seasonal boundaries), my emotional condition at any given moment does not determine God’s feelings for me. In other words, when my corrupted and sinful heart tells me that everything is getting darker, colder, and farther away, the Holy Spirit works in me the knowledge that God’s promises remain exactly where He put them. In fact, He labors in ways to point me outside of myself to what’s actually true. He points me to Christ crucified and risen. He points me to my baptism. He points me to His Word. He points me to His wonderful supper. There, His verdict on everything has already been rendered. I am forgiven, redeemed, beloved, and most importantly, His. My sadness doesn’t make Him any less faithful. His promises remain true when the sun is shining at nine o’clock at night, and they remain true when it sets at 4:30 PM.

By the way, did you know studies have shown that people who go to church are happier? I wonder why that is. Oh wait. Could it be that the One who made us actually knows what we need?

I just looked back at some peripheral research I did for my doctorate. Believe it or not, I looked into this stuff. And the numbers are pretty remarkable. Gallup conducted a study on happiness levels among churchgoers and those who attend infrequently or not at all. They discovered that 67% of Americans who attend worship weekly describe themselves as “very satisfied” with their personal lives. If you remove the qualifier “very,” interestingly, the number jumps to 92%. In other words, nearly everyone who attends worship weekly reports being happier with life. Even better, more than two-thirds are willing to add the word “very.”

And by the way, it goes beyond simply asking people whether they’re happy. Harvard did a more generic survey a few years ago concerning long-term health data. They found there was 30% less depression in the church-going population. There’ve been a few other longitudinal studies that have found faithful church attendance equals less anxiety, hopelessness, and loneliness, while also being associated with a stronger sense of purpose and the ability to explain why that is.

Of course, statistics are not the Gospel. Not to mention, I know full well that Christians get depressed. I just spent the first half of this morning’s write-up telling you about how hard autumn is for me. Besides, I’m a pastor. I know darn well that Christians suffer terribly. I know darn well that Christians sit in pews with tears in their eyes and sometimes cannot explain why they hurt.

Now, I know correlation, as statistical science rightly reminds us, does not by itself prove causation. Still, I have to smile a little at the numbers. That’s because I know God’s heart. He loves me. And so, He gathers me to Himself in worship. A very important byproduct is that He puts me beside other sinners who need His merciful love just as much as I do. We receive His Word together. Even better, He gives us brothers and sisters who notice when we’re missing. In the liturgy, He gives us words to confess, prayers to pray, hymns to sing—all sentences we can speak when we simply cannot find the right words on our own. And in the middle of all of it, Christ is present. That’s the promise.

And so, the researchers come along with clipboards and spreadsheets and discover that, strangely enough, people immersed in all of this seem to fare better. Go figure.

So, to wrap this up, yes, summer is leaving me again. And yes, I’ll likely write another article next year that sounds an awful lot like this one. I’ll complain that the sun is setting too early. I’ll bristle at the thought of Michigan’s forthcoming cold. I’ll probably say something reminiscent of the arbiter who arrives every year to divide the possessions, and I’ll remember I’m getting the shorter end of the custody stick.

But am I really? Because I am keeping Christ. Or more accurately, Christ is keeping me. And unlike summer, He has promised never to leave me nor forsake me (Hebrews 13:5).

So, yeah, summer may leave. But she does so beneath a promise far superior to the season, which is that Christ doesn’t leave. With that, Ecclesiastes 3:11 makes a little more sense to me: “He has made everything beautiful in its time.” That includes Michigan’s autumn. And why? Because Christ is the beauty in every season.

Summary and Summery are Kin

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A couple of weeks ago, before venturing into Michigan’s dreadful mid-winter cold to retrieve our daughter, Evelyn, from basketball practice, Jennifer called to me, asking, “How do I look?” I came around the corner from the living room to see she looked the winter part. Hat, gloves, and coat—all were in place, as they should be. All except for one detail. She was sockless and wearing her summer flip-flops.

“You look summery,” I said, implying a momentary sense of a far better season’s intrusion.

“It’ll be a quick trip,” she replied, “and I won’t be getting out of the car.”

“Good idea,” I said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she replied, the door closing behind her.

Returning to what I was doing before, I thought how “summery,” a made-up word used to infer summer’s fresh, bright, and relaxed feeling, bore no audible difference to the noun “summary,” which is a word tinged with brevity. In other words, a summary is short. It’s a fuller portion of information distilled into its essential parts, ultimately telling us in brief only what we need to know.

Unfortunately, my mind, already suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), followed my disorder’s doldrums down into a moment of frustration. I thought that summery and summary are kin here in Michigan. Indeed, summers in Michigan are short. They so often feel like barely a synopsis of the season’s essential parts—the warmth, clear blue skies, sunshine, and all that makes summer so wonderful. What other states enjoy at full-throttle for four or five months, we barely get three, if that. I’ve mentioned before that Michigan is one of the states with the fewest number of sunny days. And setting aside for a moment the Upper Peninsula, where it’s entirely possible to have a foot of snow until the end of May, here in the Lower Peninsula, where I live, we’ve had snow dumped on us in the middle of May. Sure, it’s gone just as soon as it arrives. But it has happened. Back in 2016, we had an inch of snowfall on May 15. I remember because I was driving in it, and I recall questioning my geographical life choices.

But enough of my bemoaning about Michigan. As I said, when the door closed behind Jennifer, my SAD kicked in. I have to work hard to overcome those moments. That said, something else happened when I left home the following day.

Before leaving for the office, I sat down at the kitchen table and told Jennifer, “You know, I’m tired of this. I’m going to sit here and drink coffee until the sun comes up, and then, I’ll go.” I went on to explain that I’m thoroughly exhausted by leaving home and returning home in the darkness. This time, I was going to wait for the sun to rise before doing anything. I called out to our Google Home device, “Hey, Google, what time does the sun rise today?”

“The sun will rise today at 8:17 AM,” she answered.

It was 6:30 AM. Still, I insisted I wouldn’t leave until I saw the sun’s rays. Five minutes later, when I stood up to go anyway, Jennifer admitted to wishing she were a betting woman. She knew that sun or no sun, I’d change my mind and muscle through. And so, I grabbed my things, kissed her goodbye, and left.

That morning, I decided to shake things up a little and take a slightly different route, one that had me joining southbound US-23 just a little further north than usual. I’m glad I did because I saw something I wouldn’t have typically seen, and it was refreshingly recalibrating.

On the east side of the highway and just beyond the safety fencing, someone decorated a small evergreen tree with Christmas lights. Being on the highway’s right-of-way, I’m sure no one owns the tree. Not to mention, the tree is quite some distance from any of the area’s surrounding houses. With that, it’s a mystery how the little tree has electricity. Still, there it is, out in the middle of nowhere, all by itself beside the highway, piercing the perpetual Michigan darkness with its twinkling colors.

I had a thought when I saw it.

For as dark as things may seem sometimes, there’s Christmas right out in the middle of all the humdrum. There it is, a beaming reminder of the incarnation of God’s Son for my rescue. Because of His person and work, none of what’s filling the surrounding shadows of this world’s winter is forever, only the divine summer of Christ and my eternal future with Him.

At 70 miles per hour, I didn’t get to see the tree for very long. Within seconds, it was in my rearview mirror until, eventually, it was gone. In that sense, it was only a brief prompt, a summary glimpse of a summery illustration. But what it summarized in that moment was vast and powerful. Against a sunless landscape draped in the blistering chill of Sin, Christ’s arrival remains fixed. He came, and when He did, He turned back the rulers and authorities and the cosmic powers of this present darkness against which we wrestle (Ephesians 6:12). Defeating those dreadful specters, he gave “light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death” (Luke 1:79).

Passing this tree is now my usual route. Whether I’m coming or going in the dark, I want to see it. I like that it’s there, and I’m thankful to whoever is keeping it lit. It’s as if the tree, with its branches glistening cheerfully and waving in the highway winds, is saying to every passerby, “Rejoice! Christ was born for you!”

Vacation’s End

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Last week, more than one person asked me about my vacation. Some wondered aloud if it had been sufficiently refreshing, asking if I felt rejuvenated. In most instances, I gave the same answer. It was usually something like, “Vacation is always nice, of course, but the first week back in the office is like drinking from a firehose.” That is a less descriptive but congenial way of saying two things I’m really thinking.

The first of my two thoughts, if fully extrapolated, would probably sound like, “To understand what I mean by firehose, imagine you’re getting a cool drink from a water fountain when, suddenly, the water pressure explodes into your mouth with such force that it knocks you to the floor. Imagine further, after managing to get back to your feet, you lean into the Niagara-like stream, intent on reaching the valve to lessen the pressure, but you can only slip and slide backward, unable to make any progress.”

That’s what the first week back from vacation is like. Last week, I described the allure of “home.” It seems almost bi-polar to admit there’s a dread that palls the return, too. It rides in on the realization that summer’s pace is still only a fraction of the forthcoming autumn’s pace. In other words, it’s tough now, and in a few weeks, it’s only going to get worse.

My second thought is a newly realized but somewhat altered version of something I heard Jennifer say. The night we returned, I overheard from the closet Jennifer comforting Madeline in her post-vacation blues, saying, “I’ve never heard anyone say with glee after vacation, ‘Well, I feel fully rejuvenated and ready to get back to work.’” I realized she was right. I’ve never heard anyone say that, either. If I did, I don’t think I believed them. When I return from vacation, while I may feel partially rested, I do discover wondering thoughts like, ‘Why can’t life remain at this pace all the time?”

I’ve confessed here before to self-diagnosing Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), which is a depression that sets in during certain seasons of the year. Autumn and winter are very hard on me. Shorter days mean leaving home and returning home in the darkness, with barely a hello from the sun along the way. I don’t enjoy those seasons. I endure them. If there’s something called Vacation Affective Disorder (VAD), I probably have it, too. In fact, the day before returning home from vacation is so powerfully threatening for me that I’ve noticed I don’t feel much like eating. I have to make myself do it. It’s a bizarre sensation. It’s also very real.

Relative to these burdens, I do have two things going for me. First, I don’t like to lose. This means that once I conceptualize SAD and VAD as the imposing specters they are, I begin laboring toward their defeat. It’s then I stop wondering if I can make it through and start thinking about how I’ll make it through and what it’ll be like on the other side. Second, I’m not a quitter. Whatever I start, I finish. I’ve always been that way, especially when facing adversity. In a strictly human sense, it’s probably one of the only reasons I’m still a pastor. The harder Satan (and certain people) push to drive me out, the more I find myself leaning into the attempts with a concrete-like unwillingness to budge. Of course, as I do this, I remain in constant prayer that the instinct is not pride-driven. It certainly has that potential. Looking backward with humble honesty, I can see times when I stood my ground for foolish reasons. Conversely, I can also see plenty of times when God weaponized these personality traits, ultimately using them for His glory and the good of His people.

I’m not a subscriber to the weird world of psychophysiology (sometimes called biopsychology), which is the field of study devoted to the interconnectedness of the mind and body. I don’t dig all that deeply into it because its two-fold perspective excludes the spiritual dimension. Still, I had a conversation this past week with someone I care about, and it got me thinking about the basic premise. Truly, there’s something to be said in a cursory sense about the mind/body connection. For example, I mentioned during the conversation General George Patton’s insistence that “to win any battle, you have to do one thing. You have to make the mind run the body. Never let the body tell the mind what to do.” His wartime record proved his words true. But regardless, the Bible speaks on occasion about the connection. Saint Paul writes in Colossians 3:2, “Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth.” In Romans 12:2, he writes, “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.”

In both texts, Paul pits the mind against what’s physical. It isn’t a Gnostic thing he’s doing. Instead, he’s simply acknowledging the importance of what Christians know by faith to be the better rudder for navigating what we experience with our physical senses. Digging deeper, that’s more or less epicentral to his words in 2 Corinthians 4:7-9, where he writes:

“But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.”

In other words, even as we see and experience the world churning around and against us, there’s something else we know: we are not inheritors of this world but of the world to come. And so, Paul continues:

“We know that the one who raised the Lord Jesus from the dead will also raise us with Jesus…. Therefore, we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So, we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal” (vv. 14, 16-18).

I mentioned before that psychophysiology does not calculate for the spirit. It certainly doesn’t account for the work of the Holy Spirit. The Bible doesn’t make that mistake. It makes sure we understand each facet of body, mind, and spirit relative to the Holy Spirit’s work to instill faith. Chapter 8 in Paul’s Epistle to the Romans is a great place to see this. It’s there Paul refers to believers as those “who walk not according to the flesh but according to the Spirit” (v. 4). In other words, the Holy Spirit empowers Christians to yield their fleshly bodies to God in faith. Paul describes the Christian mind in the same way, reminding the reader that “those who live according to the flesh set their minds on the things of the flesh, but those who live according to the Spirit set their minds on the things of the Spirit” (v. 5). Following some elaboration, he eventually brings the body and mind together with the spirit—all beneath the banner of the Holy Spirit’s work. He writes:

“You, however, are not in the flesh but in the Spirit if, in fact, the Spirit of God dwells in you. Anyone who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to him. But if Christ is in you, although the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness. If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit who dwells in you” (vv. 9-11).

The first few weeks after returning from vacation are hard on me. They’re an existential wrestling match between body and mind, presence and purpose. I’m guessing it’s the same for many of you. But there’s something else happening there, too. The Holy Spirit is at work. By His might, I can shift my perspective away from these things toward the Gospel of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection. It’s by this Gospel I am thoroughly sustained. This isn’t to say that the challenges suddenly disappear or that the frustration is magically lifted. But I do discover I have the bodily strength to endure and the mental clarity to sort through and eventually understand beyond the immediate discomforts.

So, even as the first week back may feel like drinking from a firehose, and life’s pace may continue to increase, I am reminded that my truest rejuvenation doesn’t come from a vacation. Only by the Holy Spirit at work through the Gospel am I renewed and sustained, not only for whatever this life might send my way but for the life to come. Such knowledge makes even the busiest seasons bearable and ultimately purposeful.

One more thing. While I may take vacations, God doesn’t. He’s ever-vigilant and always working, ready to give what we need the most. As a result, His life-sustaining Gospel remains here at Our Savior in Hartland, Michigan, season after season.