Find Your Crayola Marker

Regardless of how desperately I tried, there was no joy—zero joy amid my sorrow. Day after day, I stared at my bedroom ceiling as depression consumed everything within me. I was weak physically from a lack of nutrients and fluids. I was also weak spiritually since “You are a phony” played repeat in my mind.

You see, The Round Farmhouse Ministries had just launched a series called “Joy & Sorrow.” Numerous writers (including myself) shared experiences on this. We were telling people regardless of what life presents you; there is joy. Heck, I was convinced this was true!

Yet, here I was with sorrow and no joy. I felt wrong as if I lied in thinking the two could coexist. My current condition showed no signs of it, and no matter how hard I tried, I came up short in joy. Feeling like a sham only increased the weight of depression. A vicious cycle I knew I needed to break, but I wasn’t sure the path I needed to take to do so.

Until my family interceded on my behalf and determined the path needed. It wasn’t what I wanted; however, sometimes, our wants and needs are opposites, right? I hesitantly agreed to their plan, and within an hour, I was in the backseat of my sister’s car, my bonus mom shotgun, and headed to an inpatient facility out of state.

My soul ached with emptiness as I sat quietly, trying to endure the three-hour car ride. I felt nothing but deep agonizing pain. Pain that I couldn’t physically feel, put my finger on why or how it started, but despite the questions, it was vividly real.

I tried seeking joy by peering out the window during the ride. I hoped to find something, anything, to well up a want to smile inside. Regardless of attempts, nothing.
When we arrived, the typical admitting procedures took place. I said goodbyes to my family and was escorted to my room. I’m a registered nurse, but my knowledge of psychiatric nursing is limited, although I did a short clinical psych run in 2003. I was not too fond of it and hoped never to step foot on another psych unit again. And here I was, stepping foot on another psych unit, but this time, I was the one wearing an armband.

My room felt like a boujee jail cell. Small, frigid, everything bolted to the cold hard flooring and bright fluorescent lighting that made you squint every time they came on. As you can imagine, a warm and welcoming environment (thick sarcasm added).

Nothing felt warm. Nothing felt welcoming. Nothing felt like home. Until the nurse left, shut the door behind her, and I was alone with my thoughts and fears. Those felt familiar, for sure. Tears streamed down my face as I looked around the room, asking God, “Please help me see the joy in this.”

And there it was. Unexpected, yet, a beautiful reminder of home.

An orange Crayola marker.

It was lying on top of my menu I needed to fill out for the following day, which lay on a desk with no chair and bolted to the floor for safety purposes. I rolled out of the incredibly uncomfortable bed and grabbed it. As I held and examined it, memories flashed of my children at various ages sitting at the table holding this very marker, coloring me an award-winning scribbled masterpiece. A smile tried piercing through the sadness as tears streamed down my face.

My only reminder of home was this orange Crayola marker and my Bible that I wasn’t allowed to have until they cut the ribbon bookmark out (sigh). Once I got “approval” for my Bible, the marker became my highlighter as I studied all hours of the day. I even slept with my Bible and marker every night. As crazy as it sounds, those two items kept me sane in the scariest few days of my life.

Thankfully, my inpatient stay was short-lived as I used my medical knowledge to encourage my team to release me early. However, what wasn’t short-lived was the impact this orange marker had on me during my stay.

After returning home and settling into my new counseling routine and a daily Lexapro, I opened my Bible one morning, and there it was- the orange Crayola marker. I squeezed it as I remembered how I felt that night, seeing it for the first time in my cold and lonely room. My heart leaped as I reminisced.

“Could it have been?” I questioned.

My questioning urged me to google the meaning behind the color orange; to my surprise, it means “joy.” My face perched into my hands, still clinging onto the marker; I sobbed with this revelation.

There WAS joy in my sorrow. It was there all along.

There was no coincidence that night, in that room, with that color marker. No. My loving Father knew what I needed, and He hand-picked and hand-placed that color marker to renew my joy amid such sorrow.

I learned through the heartache, God can use anything, anyone, anytime to give us exactly what we need in our darkest hour. I believe it with all my heart. He used a simple marker and His beautiful Word to pull me through, allowing me to realize joy CAN be found in sorrow.

Friend, if you are in one of the darkest moments of your life and believing joy is a joke, I urge you to find your Crayola marker. It’s there. It may not be obvious, but whatever it is, it’s familiar. Cling to the familiarity while clinging to His Word. As living proof of this truth, joy CAN be found in sorrow. Sometimes we have to find it.

“When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought me joy.”
‭‭Psalms‬ ‭94‬:‭19‬ ‭NIV‬‬

Love you friends,
Erika