“We should all exercise our gift to build community.” Jean Vanier
During college I took my junior year off to live in an intentional community through a volunteer program.
Along with living together and sharing a budget we also prayed together, broke bread together, and shared in each others struggles and strengths on a daily basis. We were five women who had never met learning what it meant to create community within our house and within the neighborhood in which we lived.
This experiment in communal living (or as I sometimes jokingly refer to it, ‘living in a commune) taught me the beauty of living life together. It also taught me that literally living in the same house with five, or rather any other roommates post-college, was not something I wanted to pursue. (I tried having roommates the first year after college and it didn’t end well. Cut to my happy life in midtown.)
I found an artsy one-bedroom apartment in midtown Kansas City and discovered a neighborhood in which I truly belonged. One of my close friends moved in a few blocks a way, I found an amazing progressive church, and other friendships naturally fell into place. I loved my midtown apartment. It was my safe oasis from any annoying drama I faced in my coverage of health and education in the suburbs.
Nothing, short of a marriage proposal, would be able to take me away from cozy, ridiculously low-priced home.
Well, on May 31, 2010, my boyfriend, now husband, hid a ring in a picnic basket and popped the question while we dinned on orange soda and pre-maid grocery store sandwiches. When it comes to romance that is how we role.
So, we bought a house in Lawrence, Kan., and I moved 40 miles west to the land of milk, honey, and national basketball championships.
My excitement for the wedding, my marriage and this new life Logan and I had started faded as depression started to sit in.
One thing I have noticed since my diagnosis with bipolar disorder is that major life changes are often a trigger for depression. Moments that should be the happiest of my life, wouldn’t be without the help of SSRIs.
As I tried to adapt to my new life in Lawrence, I realized that even months after the move I still didn’t feel at home.
Logan and I had recently started to attend Plymouth Congregational Church, conveniently located just a mile from our house. One Sunday, as I sat in the pew feeling, lost and lonely, the pastor preached a message about how God will protect us, sustain us, and lead us home.
When he got to that last line I could feel the tears welling in my eyes. God had led me home, this - this church, this town, this husband- this was my new community.
That same Sunday a woman lifted up a prayer for the mentally ill in our community. And even though I don’t like to think of myself as “ill” I knew in my heart that that prayer was for me.
Since that day, Logan and I have joined Plymouth as official members. And the void that existed in my heart for community has been filled. I feel truly blessed to attend a church where I can be open about my mental illness without the fear of stigma or judgement.
Everyone needs a safe place, where true community can thrive. I am lucky to have found mine.
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