Remote grief

The news came in rapid succession. My mom would lose her job in two months. My dad’s clinical depression, fairly well managed since his initial diagnosis in 2015, resurfaced with a vengeance. And then, on December 9, 2022, I received the final nail in the coffin: my brother had admitted himself to a mental hospital, only two days before the deadline for his bachelor’s thesis. The diagnosis: bipolar disorder, which can be treated but not cured and comes with a high risk of self-harm and suicide.

It felt like a joke, like some plotline from a movie. I had arrived in Japan nine months before and was doing full-time language study. I was not prepared for news like this, not that anybody ever is. But I couldn’t run away. Thus began my journey of learning how to deal with serious mental health problems in my family while serving as a missionary abroad. And like a psych textbook case study, I spent the following months and years cycling through the five stages of grief.

Depression

Depression hit me immediately. Luckily, another missionary family lived in the same building, and I sat in my friend’s arms, crying for I don’t know how long. Of all the emotions warring in my mind, one kept coming to the forefront again and again: powerlessness. I was thousands of kilometers away from my family. I couldn’t do anything. While logically I knew that I couldn’t do anything to change the situation even if I was there with them, the fact I couldn’t even give them a hug was crushing.

Bargaining

I didn’t think I would be faced with the decision to return home during my first term, let alone my first year. But as heartbreaking as it was, I decided to take a leave of absence, at least until things calmed down. It was my way of bargaining. I was convinced something would change, get better, if I went home. Surprisingly, the wrench in that plan came from my family. My dad, who is not a Christian, said, “We don’t want you to come. Your place is in Japan now. God has sent you there. Yes, I do think you still have an obligation towards your family. But it just looks different now. Call us. Talk things through with us. Pray for us. That is helpful, even if it may not feel like it.” So I stayed.

Anger

My anger has been chiefly directed inward in the form of guilt. Guilt—because I am far away and feel like I’m leaving my family to deal with this alone and because I feel relief about having some distance. Initially, there was guilt as I fell into the trap of self-importance and blamed myself; I viewed this as an attack of the enemy because I had the audacity to become a missionary. But yes, there is also anger at God occasionally, maybe not for letting all this happen but certainly for allowing a lot of it to go on for so long. My dad has now been struggling with this depressive episode for almost two years with little improvement even though he is working hard to get better.

Denial

While I never outright denied anything that was happening, I realized my denial was desperately trying to see possible upsides to this situation. My mom soon found a new job that she loves, better paid than the one she had before. After his six-week stay at the hospital, my brother started to work at a home for disabled people, a job he enjoys so much that he went back to school to become a certified health-care professional for people with disabilities; I’m praying he can go through with that. And as for my dad, whom I would describe as a Christian-leaning agnostic, I have never seen him so open towards spiritual topics, asking me to pray, not just for, but with him. I tried everything to make sense of what was happening, and to find a higher purpose in it.

A good support network

A big help has been all the support I’ve received in Japan. I’ve openly talked about the situation, and the number of people who have asked how I’m doing, sent encouraging messages, or just let me know they’re praying for us is overwhelming. I could talk with mission leadership about the process and was able to get counseling from OMF Japan’s on-the-field counselor. I could forward some of her advice to my mom, who, of course, has been bearing most of the load. I can’t even begin to imagine what going through that would have been like without a good support network.

Towards acceptance

Since getting the news, we’ve slowly come to realize this was not just a challenging episode after which we can return to normalcy. This is the new normal for our family. My brother has an incurable mental disorder that will stay with him and this family for the rest of our lives. As I am writing this, my dad is still struggling through therapy, meds, and the search for a new job, and even if he goes into remission, the last two years have already changed him. And while I’ve mostly gotten used to the new normal, all my initial feelings are still there.

As humans, and maybe especially as Christians, we often want to see the purpose of the trials and tribulations we go through. While looking at the bright side is helpful, at the end of the day, I have to admit that I don’t see the purpose in any of this. It’s always been easy for me to agree with Paul when he calls for us to “rejoice in our afflictions” as long as I wasn’t the afflicted one. I pray that, in the end, this experience will produce endurance, character, and hope. Maybe ten, twenty years down the line, I will see God’s wisdom in all this, maybe not. All I can do is to accept my human limitations and try to trust his plan and purpose, be thankful for the little rays of sunlight, and bring my family before him. Admitting I am powerless is painful, but it is also necessary to remember my humanity and leave the healing of souls, minds, and lives with the Lord.