A poem written in November of 1990 by Peter Kuperis who was working in Kapoeta, a major town in southern Sudan that came under the control of the SPLA, or Sudanese People’s Liberation Army.
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In life and in death, Jesus hung out with those on the margins of society. In fact, in the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats, he says that He Himself is at the margins. As His hands and feet, are we listening to people at the margins?
Each week 65-90 women gather together for Bible study in a church that’s located close to the largest transitional shelter in the state of Massachusetts.
Depression is nearly impossible to describe. I was looking for a word or phrase that captured the heart of it, and I found it in an article by Dr. John Timmerman, “At the most unexpected moments it slips people its dark poison. One scarcely notices the initial sting.
This author's third (and first biological) son was born in December 1967. He was a lovable child like his two older brothers. In 1985, the year in which he turned eighteen, the Lord permitted this devastating brain illness (schizophrenia) to affect him almost all year in some way or other. In fact, the illness left none of them untouched.
All my life I had been searching. (By the way, I am 64 now.) I felt either really good or really down, and as I got older my down periods went on longer and longer.However, I went on with life, and I put on a good front. No one ever knew anything was ever wrong.
During the week of June 5, 2006, a door was closed somewhere inside my mind. My eyes acted like a video camera. From time to time I talked to the screen like I was part of the scenery, yet I knew I was not an actor of any consequence. I was way back behind the last row seats, just watching.
This morning I received a “Care Page” update from a friend whose young daughter is ill with cancer. I appreciate getting the Care Page updates so that I know how people are doing and how best to pray for them. This morning my 16-year-old son had a serious rage.
About a month and a half after our first daughter was born, I started down a long journey of postpartum depression. For a year I went undiagnosed, going to the doctor complaining of extreme tiredness, severe mood swings, and disinterest in daily activities.
This writer has been depressed three times, each lasting three to six months. Two sisters coped with post-partum depression. Dad sought counsel in the past year for depression. Now their son who is 22 years old is trying to cope with it. The son’s depression hurts the most.
Through no aspiration of my own, I’ve become a speaker, writer and advocate for mental illness victims, myself included. My all-American upbringing did little to prepare me for the silent enemy that would eventually claim my life, destroy my soul, shred my heart, and leaving me frail and vulnerable.