THANK GOD FOR RITALIN

Photo from Unsplash.

Build a Sand Castle

I’m at a misty Pacific beach, holding a bucket, kneeling in the sand. I cup my hands to scoop, fingers digging a trench in the cold earth. I fill the bucket to the brim and pack the sand, tight. Water laps at my ankle - I turn. Smells like salt and seaweed. Look at that glittering ocean, it’s beautiful! Turn around again. 

Where was I? What’s this? 

I lift my hand. Empty bucket. 

Right… 

I kneel to scoop some more sand, but my hand hits grass. I look to the bucket. It’s on the other side of a meadow, hanging from a tree branch.

I’m in the woods now? 

Birds chirp in the distance. The bucket is filled, but the sand has dried, and the plastic seams in the sides have split; grains of sand stream from the container like it’s a tipped hourglass. 

I have to build the castle. 

Running to the bucket. Or I would, if my legs weren’t caught — I’m back in the sand, knee-deep, and the bucket is behind me. I twist my torso, pushing against the sand, but water is rushing in, the bucket is floating out there on a wave; my feet kick, I’m in the water, out to sea, no land, but my fingers wrap around the handle —

And I’m at a misty Pacific beach, holding a bucket, kneeling in the sand.

Build a Spiritual Life

How do you pray? You, personally I mean. How do you pray? Maybe the Daily Office is your rhythm. Perhaps you pass your fingers over the beads of a rosary and find God. Maybe you pray out loud, or in the silence of your heart.

It’s unfair of me to ask the question because I don’t have a great answer myself. 

Prayer, to me, has always been a bit like trying to build a sand castle in the world’s most frustrating dreamscape. I just can’t concentrate. It’s hard to hold a prayer in place long enough for it to become sturdy, like pouring sand into a bucket with holes in the bottom. 

Even in church, it goes like this:

Me, speaking: “Our Father, who art in heaven”
Me, thinking: I got this, yes, here for this prayer

“Hallowed be thy name”
Oh dang, Halloween is coming up, I should pick a costume

“Thy Kingdom come”
What was I last year? Man, 2020 was rough. When was the last time I reached out to that friend from college? Oh no, I forgot to switch the laundry

“...daily bread…”
[Static noise in my brain]

“Amen.”
Great, I missed the prayer again

I know that God loves me no matter what, I really do. But when I was baptized, I promised to continue in the prayers. I would be lying if I said I don’t feel guilt when an entire service passes and I was thinking about the new chicken chalupa supreme from Taco Bell. 

When this happens, I sometimes feel like a stranger in someone else’s worship service. I may know the words, but they aren’t my own. It isn’t limited to corporate worship, either. Reading more than a few lines of guided prayer is herculean, and silent prayer quickly turns into chicken chalupa time. Rosaries are great fidget spinners, if only I could remember anything to say. I’ve been struggling to find my home in a world of prayer that seems to involve, inevitably, paying attention.

But let’s revisit that baptismal covenant! I made those promises with a key caveat: I said “you bet I’ll continue in the prayers, with God’s help.” Thank the Lord it isn’t up to me alone.

So, ironically, I’ve been praying to God to help me pray. I imagine I’m one of God’s more haphazard clients, always arriving late or leaving mid-sentence, not a great listener. My documents folder is riddled with abandoned scripture reading plans. I’ll ghost the Holy Ghost for days at a time and return with a 3am “whats upppp” text. If a Bible study starts at 6:30 and I do make it, I’ll show up between 5-7 because I can’t remember, despite setting twelve reminders in my phone. Am I proud? No. Am I doing my best? It may not look like it, but yeah.

Build a Brain

I am endlessly frustrated that God made my brain with some chemicals out of whack. I would be so much better at this whole Christianity thing if I could show up! Don’t you know, God, that this anxiety you built in my body gives me panic attacks? You know how unhelpful a feature that is? Thank you, so much, for these opposable thumbs and whatnot, real innovation there. But could you take a look at whatever makes me stare at the bathroom wall for ten minutes instead of brushing my teeth?

There’s a lot of theology out there around mental health, and I haven’t found any satisfying answers. I certainly do not believe that God gave me bad brain time out of punishment. Is God testing me? I don’t think so. I’m not broken, and the phrase “mental illness” makes me uncomfortable because it frames my neurodivergent differences in processing, part of the fabric of my being, as an entirely unwanted, alien sickness. However, I also struggle with the idea that it’s all worth it for some hidden gift because I so often feel like a stranger facing down neurotypical expectations. It’s complicated; I am who I am both because of my brain and in spite of it. I pray, when I pray, because of my brain and in spite of it. 

Build It Together

Prevenient grace is, to my non-theologian understanding, the idea that God’s grace comes to us before we come to know God, let alone act on it. In fact, it is through that very grace that people do good works. It all emanates from this mysterious, powerful core of faith in the background of creation. This is excellent news, if true, because if we’re measuring my good devotional prayer work alone to determine my salvation, things are not coming up Ellie. 

Faith leads to good works. I have a lot of faith — an irrational amount, probably. So where is the prayer? Earnestly, I’d like to put the work in! Here is where God has a laugh. Turns out, I’m not alone in this.

Did you know there are whole fields of medicine dedicated to mental healthcare? Wild. It took me so long in my prayer struggle to remember this. God, in a powerful display of grace, moved thousands of souls to dedicate their careers caring for brains. What a miraculous thing! Like all human projects, psychiatry is an imperfect beast, but it’s a glorious gift from God nonetheless.

Initially, I reached out to a psychiatrist for secular reasons. Thoughts like radio static, forgetfulness, panic attacks: issues so many of us share in common that make it difficult to navigate basic elements of life. She listened, held my situation with respect and dignity, and wrote a prescription.

Thank God for Ritalin.

Literally, I thank God for creating the minds and hands that made the medicine I take (it isn’t Ritalin, but is related). I have no clue where brain chemistry and the soul connect, if that’s even the right way to frame it. Frankly, I’m not interested. What I do know is this: the medicine I started to take for secular mental health reasons has brought me closer to God. 

I want to emphasize here that I can only speak for myself. We’re all on different paths, in health and faith, and I am not writing this article to urge you one way or the other regarding what is right for you. Rather, I’m offering my experience of mental healthcare as a testimony to God’s intervening love and grace.

This past Sunday, I said the Lord’s Prayer with the congregation, and I was there. Every line. No chicken chalupa supreme, no forgotten laundry. This has never happened to me before. I cried. Grace upon grace in such a small thing.

Is my medicine a wonder drug cure-all? Far from it! This was just a positive moment in the tapestry of brain quirks I still enjoy. At the risk of inappropriate symbolism, there is no magic bullet in medicine. Nor is there a magic bullet in prayer. Part of life, I’m learning, is stumbling our way through our bodies and faiths. Never fear, though, for we stumble through it all with God’s help. 

Many Christians argue against psychiatric intervention, calling instead for believers to turn to Christ alone for healing. I would argue that, just as those who serve in church act as Christ’s hands and feet in worship, so too do the nurses, doctors, and chemists that help so many of us. There’s no separating body and spirit, at least in this mortal coil. God made us stewards of creation, including our own selves. I asked for help in that stewardship, not just from God but from medicine, and received blessings.

I will never understand the spiritual mysteries of mental health. I’m still frustrated with God over the very existence of panic attacks. And, for all my struggles to pray well, I am confident that God doesn’t check a “was she thinking about chicken chalupas again?” box for a pass/fail prayer grade (if only because nothing divine could be so simple). I don’t know what God wants. I still process things differently and often feel like a stranger, which is glorious and difficult.

Regardless, this past Sunday, I prayed the Lord’s Prayer with the congregation. Miracle of miracles! Thank God, today, for Ritalin.

I’d like to conclude with a prayer of gratitude:

Son of God, you heal the sick, welcome the stranger, and teach us to pray. Lead us by your miracles to dedicate our lives in fulfillment of your will. Fill our hearts with generosity and patience, that we too might heal, welcome, and pray. All this we ask in your holy name. Amen.