Linda is retiring next month and moving out of state. I'm happy for her, but sad for me. Over the past 11 years, this wise Christian woman walked me through family frustrations, work woes, bad breakups, and bouts of depression. She supported me, challenged me, frustrated me, and prayed with me.
And at the end of each time together, I wrote her a check. Because Linda is my counselor.
I started seeing Linda more than a decade ago to help me sort through a serious dating relationship. The guy was ready to talk marriage; I wasn't so sure. My head told me, Don't pass up this great guy, but my heart felt no peace about moving forward. After months of exhausting everyone around me with agonizing questions—"How did you know you wanted to marry your spouse?" and "Which should you follow: your head or your heart?"—one kind friend finally suggested I might find it helpful to meet with a Christian counselor.
I did. And my friend was right. Talking to Linda did help. I valued having an unbiased listener who wouldn't risk damaging a friendship if she said too much. Someone who'd spent years studying the art and science of relationships. Someone who shared my biblical value system but didn't flinch when I vented my anger at God for seeming so silent in the midst of my questioning.
Of course getting to that place of honesty, trust, and genuine help took time. First I had to come to grips with the idea that I needed help to sort out something other people handled just fine on their own. Driving to that first appointment, sitting on Linda's muted pastel couch, staring at this stranger who'd agreed to meet with me for 80 bucks an hour, I felt like a failure at relationships and life. Weren't counselors for crazy people?
So we talked about that concern. Linda assured me she didn't see many "crazy people." "Crazy people typically don't realize they're crazy. I see healthy people who want to get better." This assured me some, and we kept talking. Once a week at first. I drove to see her on my lunch hour, then dried my eyes and fixed my makeup on the return trip to work.
Eventually the guy and I broke up. Linda walked me through that, too. She was generous with her sympathy, Kleenex, and prayers. Then she told me we could stop meeting—since I'd originally seen her for help with the now–dead relationship—or we could keep meeting to talk about the other issues we broken people inevitably acquire along life's journey. I chose the latter. And I'm glad I did. Our intermittent appointments over the past 11 years have helped me identify my weaknesses, spurred me to initiate tough but healing conversations with family members, and inspired me to dream bigger and wider when my hope for marriage has still gone unmet. And when I started displaying symptoms years ago, she was the first to speak the word depression, proving instrumental in my diagnosis and treatment.
Oh sure, not all our appointments were revelatory or even helpful. Sometimes I drove back to work wondering if the previous hour was the best use of my time or money. Sometimes I thought Linda just didn't get it—or get me. In retrospect, those times kept me from leaning too heavily on Linda; they reminded me she's not my Savior, she's just one of his instruments in my life. I've experienced seasons of relative equilibrium and peace when I haven't seen Linda for years. But I find reassurance in knowing when the inevitable tough times return, I have an extra resource—besides my friends and family—who'll help me talk it all out.
Counseling has become more acceptable in the past couple decades. Getting help is less stigmatized. Still, I know firsthand the huge leap between thinking it's OK and seeking it out for yourself. Only after my friend suggested counseling—and confided that she and several mutual friends were also in counseling—was I willing to seek it out. Knowing someone I respected—and considered normal!—met with a counselor gave me the courage I needed to give it a try.
