Jeff, our pastor, took Brian and me into counseling, and we made the appropriate doctor and therapy appointments. Julie would watch Charlie whenever these (many) appointments occurred. And I stepped onto the road. No detours. No off-ramps. None of this felt miraculous.
Trudge. Talk to the therapist. Check in with the doctor. Agree to the medication. Talk to my husband. Get outside. Go to a mom's day out. Talk to a friend. Trudge on.
My miracle kept stretching toward the sun, kept growing. Our second son, Henry, was born. And the postpartum depression came back. Full-throttle. But yes, a miracle. I started the trudge again. The doctor visits. The search for a counselor. The visits with our pastors. The walks. The talking. The long road. I yelled at God. I cried to my husband. I allowed myself to find a space in my heart to sit, to rest, to grow. My church knocked loudly again on my door, took my babies, sent me to get help, and gave them back to me when I returned. And the boys thrived. The church brought me food: cherry Jell-o and chicken burritos and green bean casseroles. And blankets for the baby. And a soft, fawn-colored blanket for me. The church sat and held my hand on my front porch as I sobbed so loudly the lawn guy across the street looked over, concerned. And we sat and rocked on the porch swing, my sweet church and I, and she listened. Just listened.1