I never connected the dots between emotional and spiritual health. In fact, I’d rejected the idea of a connection years earlier. Sitting in the medical waiting room in prison I overheard, “Have you read this Christian book about depression? It claims there’s a spiritual connection.”

“What? That’s offensive. Depression is not a sin!” someone else responded. I’d never read the book mentioned but secretly I was also offended at the idea. How could my own depression be anything but a medical condition? I’d read plenty of books about that.

I so firmly believed this that I didn’t at first realize God had healed me from it. I didn’t even think of such a thing happening as a possibility. I didn’t ask God to cure me and didn’t expect Him to do it on His own. Thankfully He cured me of depression anyway.

Something felt different in the spring of 2017. I’d been on my spiritual journey for over a year. I still took anti-depressants every morning. The first thing I noticed related to my cigarette addiction. I smoked for nearly 20 years before prison. During those years I attempted to quit many times. I remember joking, “I like quitting so much I do it 20 times a day.” Halfway through my prison sentence I was still addicted, even though smoking is not permitted in prison. I wasn’t actually smoking, but I was triggered and wished I was smoking. I dreamed about it, dreams so vivid I could feel the smoke enter my lungs as I inhaled deeply. This disappointed me. Smoking is expensive and I really did want to quit. What would it take to kick the habit?

Over the past year that had disappeared completely. I had no more dreams about it and never felt triggered. I marveled. I cannot remember exactly how I came to the idea that perhaps my depression was cured, but I do remember considering how I might test the idea. I took strong anti-depressants that had terrible withdrawal symptoms such as electric shock feelings in your head every time you blink or move your eyes, sweating, nausea, shaking, and insomnia, for starters. These symptoms could last for a week or more if one stopped cold turkey. Who wants to do that for no reason? Not me! So this was a very serious undertaking should I choose to do it.

I considered the risks but felt strongly I was better, so I stopped taking my meds. I figured I would restart them if I was mistaken. The next week was painful. I struggled through it. Once the medication wore off I waited for the shoe to drop. I knew well from experience that without medications I could not remain stable for longer than three months.

A month later I received my ‘invitation’ to seg. I suppose that was a distraction, and I made it through without relapse. By the end of the summer I was still doing well. I feared that any minute I would go off the rails. I did not.

My stability was tested further that fall. Living with my co-worker Sylvia would be that test. One afternoon I sat in the dayroom. I noticed my coworker Sylvia being pushed in her wheelchair by her roommate. Sylvia’s hands trembled as she struggled to recall where she was. Her eyes looked lost, searching the room for something familiar. ‘What day is it?’ she whispered; a question that had become all too common.

A fellow inmate, Sylvia was 68 years old and a former English professor at a Boston University. We first met in the mental health unit in 2011, where she’d resided for the past 8 years. She was now a helpful co-worker in the ABE English department. Sadly, dementia slowly claimed her brilliance and pain forced her into a wheelchair.

I appreciated her, although we couldn’t be more different politically or religiously. Sylvia was often my personal tutor as I drafted and polished essays for my college classes. I respected her immensely.

Sylvia, who rarely socialized, began talking to another inmate. I wondered why. The next day at work I asked her about it. “My roommate is being released soon,” Sylvia answered, “and I’m afraid of getting a bad roommate, so I thought I’d interview some women willing to be my roommate.” She looked at the floor and added, “I don’t want to be taken advantage of. I know I’m becoming forgetful and I need help every day.” I cringed remembering the woman she’d met with yesterday. She would not be good to Sylvia. A wolf in sheep’s clothing for sure. 

That night I prayed for a good roommate for Sylvia. Jesus answered immediately and powerfully, “What about you?” It was the clearest I’d ever heard Him speak. I immediately hated the idea. That’s also how I knew it wasn’t my own thought. My eyes flew open. I was horrified. 

I loved my private room and feared losing it forever. I looked around my single room, the only place where I felt any peace. I clenched my fists, picturing the crowded, noisy alternative. In a place of few comforts, I didn’t want to give any up. “What? No!” I answered.

“Yes, I want you to volunteer,” Jesus insisted. One thing I had learned over the past year, and it was that God gives me the ability to do what He wants me to do and the desire to do it. 

I answered, “Lord, I hate this idea, but if this is what You want me to do, please help me!”

Returning to class later the next day, we all settled in for the afternoon studies. Nyachoul, a very dark-skinned woman from Sudan, approached me with a question. I noticed Shefa also heading towards our tutor table. Shefa and Nyachoul were ESL (English as a Second Language) students. Originally from Ethiopia Shefa first learned English when she arrived in prison. English was her fourth language; she became fluent almost immediately and was very dedicated to all things American. She is brilliant.

Noticing Silvia was the only tutor available, Shefa made a beeline for her desk. Silvia, grading papers, didn’t notice. Silvia was also hard of hearing, and she often failed to wear her hearing aids. I suspected what was coming and struggled to keep a straight face. Settling herself at Sylvia’s desk, Shefa set down her work. I watched out of the corner of my eye as Shefa shouted, “I need help with question 3!!” Sylvia reeled back as if slapped, shocked at the noise.

“Quiet down!” Sylvia hissed, “women are studying!”

Giggles had begun and I struggled to keep a straight face as Shefa appeared surprised. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “Well you sometimes don’t wear your hearing aids, you know.” Sylvia appeared not to know, inspiring more giggles as I returned to my work.

The next day I spoke to Sylvia and volunteered to be her new roommate. Smiling with relief she appeared pleased. Sylvia’s care team was contacted and they seemed pleased with the idea, so shortly after I packed up my single room and claimed the upper bunk in Sylvia’s room.

Unfortunately, Sylvia did not remember being pleased about this arrangement the day before. She even doubted that had happened when I told her. Other things were difficult as well. My commitment to an orderly room as outlined in prison policy (instigated by my experience with Sgt Laabs), clashed sharply with Sylvia’s policy of sticking it to the man.

A prison cell is divided by policies into “common areas” and personal space. One’s bunk and closet were personal space. The rest of the room was a common area. This mattered when it came to failing a room inspection. If the offense was based on a personal area, only the person that area belonged to received discipline. If the offense was in a common area everyone in the room received a sanction. Sylvia’s slovenly lifestyle overflowed into the common areas.

At first I simply told her to stop it. She could never remember I’d said such. I moved to a different tactic. Anytime she left the room with items scattered in the common area I swept it all onto her bed. Despite her disability she started to change her behaviors for the better.

Sylvia was a challenge to care for in other ways. She lost track of time, forgot where she was, where she worked, when we ate. She’d stand up and try to leave the room in the middle of a count. And now, not only did we work together all day, we lived together the rest of the time. It was stressful. I began to feel sorry for myself. I struggled to find ways to cope. Then I dipped into my savings set aside for tithing and child support and used it to splurge on canteen. I did that for 2 months and gained 15 pounds.

Jesus made no comment but I began to feel guilty. Finally I confessed this to my son Tommy, who was the sole recipient of my child support checks. I apologized and decided to do two things, go to the gym, and pay every cent I had squandered back. The latter became more difficult because of the former.

In order to pay Tommy the money I felt I owed him, I determined to set aside 50% for child support. In two months time I would have paid it all back. I went right to the gym next and promptly hurt myself by trying too hard. Both ankles swelled up to double their normal size. I walked so slow everywhere due to the pain that even elderly inmates with walkers passed me on the way to dinner. My strictly enforced new savings plan meant I could not afford ibuprofen. Boy did I hurt! I limped everywhere and some of the women began joking that I had a ‘pimp walk.’ It took eight weeks to recover. At the end, I’d managed to pay Tommy back every cent, and I felt great about it. Jesus was giving me the ability to do really hard things, humbling things and succeed!

I took stock of how I was doing lately – making my bed every day, flossing my teeth and brushing every day, going to work every day, going to college and so much more. I was so grateful to Jesus! I was so far removed from the person who once slept for 6 months straight without taking a shower or brushing my teeth!

It has been more than 8 years since I stopped taking anti-depressants, and my depression never returned. I know that to be a miracle. Jesus cured me. My life didn’t get easier, in fact, it was often more difficult than ever. God’s Presence lifted me out of my circumstances. 

“For a righteous man falls seven times, and rises again, But the wicked stumble intime of disaster and collapse.” Proverbs 24:16 (AMP)

“Arise [from the depression and prostration in which circumstances have kept you—rise to a new life]! Shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you!” Isaiah 60:1