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During this dark time, I sought help, though sometimes it didn’t turn out as I had hoped. My sister-in-law, Kim, who I’m crazy about, invited me to her church for a Wednesday night service. She loves Jesus and had always been an encouragement to me. My parents were attending the same church at the time, and my mother also wanted me to come so the church elders could pray over me.

I still wasn’t driving yet, so our dear friend and nanny, Jennifer, came with me. Although I listened to the message preached that night, I was anxious to be prayed over. There was an irrepressible yearning for God to move, to do something—anything. But what I experienced was far from the grace and love His children are called to extend.

After the message, my mother went up and spoke to the senior pastor of the church while Jennifer and I waited. At first I thought it was peculiar that only the senior pastor’s wife made it over to where we were sitting. I assumed the elders present that evening would come, but they didn’t.

Once my mom, Jen, the senior pastor’s wife, and I were finally situated and only a few people remained in the sanctuary, we formed a small circle with chairs to the left of the altar. Without any sort of preparation or background as to why we were seeking prayer, the senior pastor’s wife started to expound (and take out of context) some verses in the New Testament book of 2 Timothy. As she talked about weak-willed women swayed by all kinds of evil, my body shrank into the chair and my chin hit my chest. Are you kidding me? I thought to myself. I’m drowning in grief and she’s talking about weak-willed women. Isn’t she even going to acknowledge our family’s loss? Does she not recognize the avalanche of grief I am under?

I don’t remember how long she went on, but my mother eventually and graciously interrupted her and said, “I don’t think you understand what’s going on here.” She didn’t.

I wanted to escape. The last thing I remember the pastor’s wife saying that night was that she thought I needed to put Jim before Hunter’s Hope. I could feel myself completely unravel as we made our way out of the church. I was in shock. I had gone there for prayer and encouragement, and I was leaving discouraged and heartbroken.

Before Jen and I drove away, my mom came up to me and said in between sobs, “I’m so sorry you came here tonight, Jill. I’m so sorry. I don’t understand what just happened in there, but I know God will use it. I just know it.”

And she was right. But it took time and forgiveness for me to realize it.

Weeks passed. I continued to descend deeper into dread and what I feared was madness. Finally, we sought medical intervention in addition to the intense prayers I was already receiving.

At first I was reluctant to go to our family practitioner. My fear, rooted in pride, kept me from seeking the appropriate help I needed. However, with the encouragement of my mother, I eventually gave in. It took three visits before I was comfortable enough to start taking the antidepressant medication my doctor graciously insisted I at least try. She was incredibly patient with me.

Though it seemed like forever before my medication started to work, eventually and thankfully it did, and I began to feel better. “Better” in that I was able to function. I didn’t stop crying or grieving. And I didn’t walk around like a zombie or anything weird. I just felt better. It’s hard to describe. (During one of my initial doctor visits my mother bluntly asked, “Is she going to walk around like a zombie if she goes on this medication?” I can laugh now when I think about how protective and bold my mother was.)

I’d never been on any sort of medication prior to this time, and even though I understood and accepted my desperate need for medical intervention, I was reluctant to tell anyone (except my mother and a close circle of friends) about the depth of what I was going through. Including Jim. I was afraid of what people would say and think. My faith had been hit