I was in my second pastorate, only 28 years old. Yet I had to leave the ministry because my wife was ill.We moved our belongings from the mid-west to New England, storing them in my in-law's garage.What had life come to?

Studies, travel, ministering--all for this? I walked the streets, trying to find a secular job. My training was in religion. What could I find other than that? Our little girl was clinging to me, wondering why we were in this strange place. Then I looked at my wife, understanding that in a short time she would be hospitalized. Brain surgery in Boston.

The doctor inserted a shunt from her brain to her heart, passing under the skin behind her ear. Her hair was shaved off in preparation for the surgery.

That year, we were both alone for Christmas in the "big city." Holidays would be quite strange that season, that was for certain.

Returning home after the operation, she still had head pain and odd sensations, like ice melting, dizziness, weakness throughout. Doubts surfaced. Nightmares set in.

"It is not like the doctor promised," she murmured one evening when we two were alone. Depression took over with a determined furry.

We would take rides into the country. Sometimes I would steal away alone with my Bible, taking refuge in a cemetery on the outskirts of town. Solitude.
Quiet. No people. No phones. No relatives.

Then I would list the things I should be thankful for: friends who prayed, a family who cared, a job, a house to live in, food, a healthy daughter, a concerned church, the lovely community, an empathetic pastor.

Yet the ache continued. I would ask God if I would ever return to the pastorate. Would my wife be well again?

We would go to church on Sunday mornings. But in about five minutes of so, often we would have to leave. She would nudge me and I knew that that was the signal.

Others perhaps did not understand, but the joyful hymns and happy faces were in such contrast with the discouragement which enveloped our lives that my wife could not take it. That which was meant for uplifting instead brought darker depression.

Trudging back to the house, I would not dare take more than a step at a time. It was too much to walk into the frightening future. Where would it all end?
Sometimes friends would stop by. They were usually young adults like ourselves.

Their laughter however would not connect. We would try. But it did not happen. After they would leave, it would seem heavier than before they arrived.

At night, I would lie there awake. The ceiling seemed so far away. Nighttime was extra thick.

"Where are you God?" I could not even cry. The tears did not want to share the depths of my confusion. I felt so terribly alone, alone, alone.

That was over thirty years ago.

Looking back, I realize now that in all that languishing, God had never left us--not at all.

Pondering those memories since returning to the pastorate, I realize how strong He was in carrying the two of us. When we thought Him to be the least caring, He was the most precious.

More than ever, His promise never to leave us nor forsake us has come to mean everything to me.
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